"All with diplomatic passports," came his leonine voice, " kindly step forward."
And, after a number of important-appearing men had been passed through:
“Are there any more with diplomatic passports?"
The case was desperate. I called over the heads of the others:
'Sergeant! I have a journalistic passport."
“What?" he thundered back.
"A journalistic passport," I repeated, less hopefully, It meant nothing, and I knew it.
“Let that gentleman through!" he roared.
It was, I felt as I struggled forward, his intention to discipline my presumption with some sharp words and a command to take the rear of the line. His frown was ominous, his bristling moustaches unsympathetic.
Let's see your passport," he growled.
"What do you mean? I asked for diplomatic passports."
I handed him the much viséd document. He glanced it over. A more dangerous belligerency coloured his tone.
"You got an office in London?”
"No," I answered meekly. "I have a sort of an office in New York."
