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 us. I shall not have to sit all night on my trunk.

A small green light within the hooded entrance, picks the Ritz Hotel out of the Piccadilly blackness. Inside, after the gloom through which we have come, I gasp with relief. It is as if one discovers suddenly in a place that has seemed a graveyard, Why, people still live here! Right then at the hotel register, the voice of Scotland Yard speaks for the War Office. And before the Ritz can be permitted to give me refuge from the night, I must answer. The "registration blank" presented for me to fill in, demands certain definite information: "(1) Surname. (2) Christian names. (3) Nationality. (4) Birthplace. (5) Year of birth. (6) Sex. (7) Full residential address: Full business address. (8) Trade or occupation. (9) Served in what army, navy or police force. (10) Full address where arrived from. (11) Date of signing. (12) Signature." And a little below, "(13) Full address of destination. (14) Date of departure. (15) Signature." A last line in conspicuous italics admonishes: "Penalty for failing to give this information correctly 100 pounds or six months imprisonment." Well, of course a threat like that will make even a woman tell her age as many times as she is asked. But I do it rebelliously against the Kaiser and all his Prussians. For the "registration blank" was made in Germany. I remember it before the war, at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin.

I must sign now on the dotted line before I can even go to bed. I arrange my clothing carefully on