The object of my visit was well known; and, because I wished an authoritative statement to give to America, I had requested that the notes of my conversation with His Majesty should be officially approved.  This request was granted.  The manuscript of the interview that follows was submitted to His Majesty for approval.  It is published as it occurred, and nothing has been added to the record.

A general from the Ministry of War came to the Hotel des Arcades, in Dunkirk, and I was taken in a motor car to the Belgian Army headquarters some miles away.  As the general who conducted me had influenza, and I was trying to keep my nerves in good order, it was rather a silent drive.  The car, as are all military cars—­and there are no others—­was driven by a soldier-chauffeur by whose side sat the general’s orderly.  Through the narrow gate, with its drawbridge guarded by many sentries, we went out into the open country.

The road, considering the constant traffic of heavy transports and guns, was very fair.  It is under constant repair.  At first, during this severe winter, on account of rain and snow, accidents were frequent.  The road, on both sides, was deep in mud and prolific of catastrophe; and even now, with conditions much better, there are numerous accidents.  Cars all travel at frightful speed.  There are no restrictions, and it is nothing to see machines upset and abandoned in the low-lying fields that border the road.

Conditions, however, are better than they were.  Part of the conservation system has been the building of narrow ditches at right angles to the line of the road, to lead off the water.  Every ten feet or so there is a gutter filled with fagots.

I had been in the general’s car before.  The red-haired Fleming with the fierce moustache who drove it was a speed maniac, and passing the frequent sentries was only a matter of the password.  A signal to slow down, given by the watchful sentry, a hoarse whisper of the password as the car went by, and on again at full speed.  There was no bothering with papers.

On each side of the road were trenches, barbed-wire entanglements, earthen barriers, canals filled with barges.  And on the road were lines of transports and a file of Spahis on horseback, picturesque in their flowing burnouses, bearded and dark-skinned, riding their unclipped horses through the roads under the single rows of trees.  We rode on through a village where a pig had escaped from a slaughterhouse and was being pursued by soldiers—­and then, at last, army headquarters and the King of the Belgians.

There was little formality.  I was taken in charge by the King’s equerry, who tapped at a closed door.  I drew a long breath.

“Madame Rinehart!” said the equerry, and stood aside.

There was a small screen in front of the door.  I went round it.  Standing alone before the fire was Albert I, King of the Belgians.  I bowed; then we shook hands and he asked me to sit down.