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 England in war time is open for my inspection. I am getting my data nicely when one day there develops the dilemma of getting away with it. I open the Times one morning to read a new law: "On and after Dec. 1," the newspaper announces, "no one may be permitted to take out of England any photograph or printed or written material other than letters." I have a trunkful. Clearly I can't get by any khaki line with that concealed about my person. Sir Gilbert walks twice, three times up and down the red room. "I'll see what I can do about it," he says. "I don't know. But I'll try." A few days later my data begins to go right through all the laws.

"First consignment," I cabled across the Atlantic, "coming on the St. Louis, if it doesn't strike a mine." I follow it with a registered letter to the editor: "I hope God and you will always be good to Gilbert Parker. And now if I don't get back" And I give him exact directions about the material on the way. For it is no idle imagining that I may not reach home.

I am facing France and the Channel crossing. Here in London it is so long since the Zeppelins have been heard from that we are almost lulled into a sense of security that they will not come again. If they do high government circles usually hear in advance. A friend whose cousin's brother-in-law is in the Admiralty will let me know as soon as he finds out. But now all of these neatly arranged life and death plans must go into the discard. For you see