So, that’s settled. The only way for any of us to get away from here will be just—to go. And I begin to. There is myself to get home, and my data. Three consignments have already gone over under special government auspices. But there have been anxious periods of waiting before a cable, “Stuff safe,” has reached me. I am going to sink or swim with the remainder of it. Wellington House arranges with the censor at Strand House. There the material is read and done up in packages, in each of which is enclosed a letter with the War Office Stamp: “Senior Aliens Officer. Port of Embarkation. Please allow the package in which this is enclosed to accompany bearer Mrs. M. P. Daggett as personal luggage. This package has been examined by the censorship.” All these data are now packed in a suitcase that stands in my hotel room awaiting my departure. When I was caught in the homeward rush of Americans from London in 1914, the steamship offices in Cockspur Street were jammed to the doors. To-day they are silent, empty, echoing places. In 1917 it is such a life and death matter to travel, that most people don’t. So grave is the danger that the Government refuses to permit passports at all for English women. But for me, this that I am facing is the risk of my trade in war-time. To-day I had a letter from my New York office: “The best thing for you to do is to get home as quick as you can. Wouldn’t it be safest by way of Spain? Any way of course is taking a chance and a big one. I wish to the Lord you were here, safe and sound. But there isn’t a darn thing any of us can do about getting you back. You have either got to take your life in your hands and take a chance coming back, or stay in London. And God knows when this war is going to end now!” It is “safest by way of Spain.” Ambassador Gerard getting home from Germany selected that route. But my passport, I remember, is black-marked, “No return to France.” And I shall have the British Foreign Office to explain to before I can reach my French friends who so cordially invited my return. There will be altogether some four steel lines to pass that way. I’d rather face the submarines. The Spanish boats are small, only about 4,000 tons, which would be like crossing the Atlantic in a bathtub. I’d rather be drowned than seasick. I think I shall make sure of comfort by a British boat. And then—the posters in the Strand begin to announce, “Seven ships sunk to-day.” Four Dutch boats trying for their home port, are submarined in English waters. The _Laconia_ goes down. The Anchor liner _California_ meets her fate. It’s real, I tell you, on this side where they’re daily bringing in the survivors. About nine hours in the open boats is the usual experience for the rescued. Do you see the deterring, dampening effect that this might have on one’s enthusiasm for departure? FACING LIFE OR DEATH?