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 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