“Why are you going to America?”

I could have spent an entire week replying to that, but even minutes were precious.

“Because it’s where I live,” proved satisfactory.

He apologized again for having to propound the queries, which shows he must be new on the job. The rest of them don’t care whether you like it or not. I signed six or seven pledges, gave over the bulk of my borrowed fortune, and set out again with my ticket for the Rue Jacques Johnson. I got there just in time, for they close early on Saturday. Other days the poor devils have to work right through from ten to four.

The officer also wanted to know why I was going to America. And he asked me at what hotel I would stop in London. I told him I’d never been there and knew nothing about the hotels.

“You must make a choice,” he said. “We have to know your address.”