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 the army officer has assured us, even the flower on the lady's hat for a target.

My electric light winks once. Two minutes later it winks twice, and is gone, according to the martial law which puts out all lights in Paris from 11:30 at night until 8 o'clock in the morning. I grope my way to bed in the darkness and at 6 o'clock the next morning, I dress by candle light. I count carefully the "pieces de identitie" in the chamois safety bag that hangs over my left hip and place in my hand bag my passport and my French permis, both of which must be presented at the railway station before I can purchase a ticket. I look to make sure that the inside pocket of my purse still contains my business card with its pencilled request: "In case of death or disaster kindly notify the Pictorial Review, New York City." And as I pass the porter's desk at the hotel entrance I leave with the sleepy concierge one other last message: "If Mme. Daggett has not returned by midnight, will the hotel management kindly communicate with her friend Mme. Marie Perrin, 12 Rue Ordener?" All these are precautions that you take lest you be lost in the great European war.

The Gare l'Est is crowded always with throngs of soldiers arriving and departing for the front. It is necessary that our party assemble as early as seven o'clock to get in line at the ticket window for the eight o'clock train, for every traveller's credentials must be separately and carefully read and inspected. At Epernay, where we alight at 10:30, the station