us that the Stationery Department could do everything. A second visit to that Department resulted in our invading the War Office again with the name of an official who, when we found him, protested that he knew no more of the posters than we did, and it was on the advice of a policeman outside in Whitehall that we rode round to the big recruiting depot in Old Scotland Yard, walked past the crowd waiting to enlist and the officers who were shepherding it, as if we belonged there, and, once inside, were directed to a large basement room in which we discovered what we were seeking. I had to answer a good many questions, Kilmer standing by in discreet silence, and, in the end, with a little diplomacy, we possessed ourselves of samples of almost every variety of poster and window-card and carried them out between us, a bulky armful apiece, to the taxi.
We piled them in, and then Kilmer paused to look round for a minute at the long queue of young men who were waiting to offer themselves for enlistment—a long
