The officer noted these details in his book.
“At what hotel will you stay in Aachen?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Is there a good one near the station?”
“The Kölner Hof is near the station. It is not large, but it is very good. It is starred by Baedeker.”
“Then I will go there,” said Stewart.
“Very good,” and the officer wrote, “Kölner Hof, Aachen,” after Stewart’s name, closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. “You understand, sir, that it is our duty to keep watch over all strangers, as much for their own protection as for any other reason.”
“Yes,” assented Stewart, “I understand. I have heard that there is some danger of war.”
“Of that I know nothing,” said the other coldly, and rose quickly to his feet. “I bid you good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” responded Stewart, and watched the upright figure until it disappeared.
Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he gazed out at the great cathedral, nebulous and dream-like in the darkness, and tried to picture to himself what such a war would mean as Bloem had spoken of. With men by the million dragged into the vast armies, who would harvest Europe’s grain, who would work in her factories, who would conduct her business? Above all, who would feed the women and children?