“I have read about them,” I replied very cheerfully. 

 “You do not believe?” 

 “Ça se peut.” 

 “And if they are so, which of course they are” (tone of profound conviction) “you do not detest the Germans?” 

 “Oh, in that case, of course anyone must detest them,” I averred with perfect politeness. 

 And my case was lost, forever lost. I breathed freely once more. All my nervousness was gone. The attempt of the three gentlemen sitting before me to endow my friend and myself with different fates had irrevocably failed. 

 At the conclusion of a short conference I was told by Monsieur: 

 “I am sorry for you, but due to your friend you will be detained a little while.” 

 I asked: “Several weeks?” 

 “Possibly,” said Monsieur. 

 This concluded the trial. 

 Monsieur le Ministre conducted me into room number 1 again. “Since I have taken your cigarettes and shall keep them for you, I will give you some tobacco. Do you prefer English or French?” 

 Because the French (paquet bleu) are stronger and because he expected me to say English, I said “French.” 

 With a sorrowful expression Noyon went to a sort of bookcase and took down a blue packet. I think I asked for matches, or else he had given back the few which he found on my person. 

 Noyon, t-d and the grand criminal (alias I) now descended solemnly to the F.I.A.T. The more and more mystified conducteur conveyed us a short distance to what was obviously a prison-yard. Monsieur le Ministre watched me descend my voluminous baggage. 

 This was carefully examined by Monsieur at the bureau, of the prison. Monsieur made me turn everything topsy-turvy and inside out. Monsieur expressed great surprise at a huge shell: where did I get it?—I said a French soldier gave it to me as a souvenir.—And several têtes d’obus?—also souvenirs, I assured him merrily. Did Monsieur suppose I was caught in the act of blowing up the French 

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