We were thus informed by the officer whose wards we were.  He was a fussy, quick-tempered, withal kind-hearted little fellow, and kept dashing in and out of the room, really perplexed over housing accommodations for the night.  The spy-hunters had been successful in their work of rounding up their victims from all over the country and corralling them here until the place was filled to overflowing.  Our official in charge was puffed up with pride in the prosperity of his institution, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, petulantly belectured us on adding ourselves to his already numerous burdens.  This was highly humorous, yet we all feared to commit lese-majeste by expressing to him our collective and personal sorrow for so inconveniencing him, and our willingness to make amends for our thoughtlessness in getting arrested.

After more hesitation than I had hitherto observed, arrangements for the night were completed and we were ordered to draw out blankets from the pile in the corner.  The new arrivals and the old inmates maneuvered for the softest spots on the floor, which was soon covered over with bodies and their sprawling limbs, while a host of guards, fully armed, were posted at the door and along the hall.

“I would give my right arm or my leg if I could get a flashlight of this,” said Obels, the reporter, enthusiastically.  This elation made him reckless as he went about, probing the experiences of each victim.

“Great stuff!” “Great stuff!” he kept exclaiming.  “Won’t this open up some eyes in Chicago, eh!”

He couldn’t believe that the Providence which had led him to this Bonanza would now deny him the opportunity of getting out some of this wealth.

In the midst of these activities he was haled before the tribunal.  He returned, the spring out of his step and his zest for stories quite gone.  Javert had successively branded him an “Idiot” a “Liar” and a “Spy.”

The information that several of the inmates had been imprisoned for a month or more spurred my drooping spirits and put me into action.  I uncovered a pile of the office writing-paper and, with the aid of the Belgian who could speak English, I set to work preparing a letter to Ambassador Whitlock.  Whether Javert was apprised of the doings of his charges or not I do not know, but in the midst of my writing he glided into the room, and, pouncing upon my manuscript, gathered it to himself, saying, “I’ll take these.”  My Belgian friend protested that a superior officer had given me permission to do this.  Javert handed back the paper, smiled, and disappeared.  Knowing that every word would be closely scrutinized at the Staff Office, and that the least hint of anything derogatory to the German authorities would keep the letter in the building, I couched it in as pointed and telling terms as possible, having in mind the eyes of the Germans, quite as much as the Ambassador.

Brand Whitlock,
United States Ambassador,
Brussels.