over by the Government for the accommodation of the Cabinet Ministers and their staffs, while the ministers of State and the members of the diplomatic corps were quartered at the St. Antoine.  In fact, it used to be said in fun that if you got into difficulties with the police all you had to do was to get within the doors of the hotel, where you would be safe, for half of the ground floor was technically British soil, being occupied by the British Legation; a portion of the second floor was used by the Russian Legation; if you dashed into a certain bedroom you could claim Roumanian protection, and in another you were, theoretically, in Greece; while on the upper floor extra-territoriality was exercised by the Republic of China.  Every evening all the ministers and diplomats met in the big rose-and-ivory dining-room—­the white shirt-fronts of the men and the white shoulders of the women, with the uniforms of the Belgian officers and of the British, French and Russian military attaches, combining to form a wonderfully brilliant picture.  Looking on that scene, it was hard to believe that by ascending to the roof of the hotel you could see the glare of burning villages and hear the boom of German cannon.

As the siege progressed and the German lines were drawn tighter, the military regulations governing life in Antwerp increased in severity.  The local papers were not permitted to print any accounts of Belgian checks or reverses, and at one time the importation of English newspapers was suspended.  Sealed letters were not accepted by the post office for any foreign countries save England, Russia and France, and even these were held four days before being forwarded.  Telegrams were, of course, rigidly censored.  The telephone service was suspended save for governmental purposes.  At eight o’clock the trams stopped running.  Save for a few ramshackle vehicles, drawn by decrepit horses, the cabs had disappeared from the streets.  The city went spy-mad.  If a man ordered Sauerkraut and sausage for lunch he instantly fell under suspicion.  Scarcely a day passed without houses being raided and their occupants arrested on the charge of espionage.  It was reported and generally believed that those whose guilt was proved were promptly executed outside the ramparts, but of this I have my doubts.  The Belgians are too good-natured, too easy-going.  It is probable, of course, that some spies were executed, but certainly not many.

One never stirred out of doors in Antwerp without one’s papers, which had to be shown before one could gain admission to the post office, the telegraph bureau, the banks, the railway stations, or any other public buildings.  There were several varieties of “papers.”  There was the plain passport which, beyond establishing your nationality, was not worth the paper it was written on.  There was the permis de sejour, which was issued by the police to those who were able to prove that they had business which necessitated their remaining in the city.  And finally, there was the much-prized laisser-passer which was issued by the military government and usually bore the photograph of the person to whom it was given, which proved an open sesame wherever shown, and which, I might add, was exceedingly difficult to obtain.