“Ah, oui ,” he said at last. “Le Vallois-Perret. Quatorze kilomet ’s.”

“What is that in American money?”

“Come on,” said the driver.

“Hotel Con-tin-en-tal,” I said.

I’ll tackle ’em afresh tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, September 12. Paris.

The préfet ’s secretary approved my picture and gave me a beautiful salmon-colored pass. It is good for five days, which is plenty, as I will come back on the train.