I searched my pockets and produced a used-up check book on a Chicago bank. The ogre read every little stub and I felt flattered by his absorbed interest. When he had spent some five minutes on the last one, which recorded a certain painful transaction between me and a man-eating garage, he returned my book and said: “You don’t satisfy me at all. You will have to stay here.”
“Suppose,” said I, “that the American consul vouches for me.”
“That will make no difference. You do not seem to realize that we are at war.”
“Not with America.”
“I don’t know your nationality.”
“I thought,” said I, “that my passport hinted at it.”
“You will have to stay in Bordeaux,” was his pertinent reply.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, and arose again.
“Sit down,” said he, “and wait a minute.”
He was out of the room five years.