The last peace Sunday London was to know in many weary months went by, a tense and anxious day.

Early on Monday the fifth letter from the young man of the Agony Column arrived, and when the girl from Texas read it she knew that under no circumstances could she leave London now.
It ran: DEAR LADY FROM HOME: I call you that because the word home has for me, this hot afternoon in London, about the sweetest sound word ever had.

I can see, when I close my eyes, Broadway at midday; Fifth Avenue, gay and colorful, even with all the best people away; Washington Square, cool under the trees, lovely and desirable despite the presence everywhere of alien neighbors from the district to the South.

I long for home with an ardent longing; never was London so cruel, so hopeless, so drab, in my eyes.

For, as I write this, a constable sits at my elbow, and he and I are shortly to start for Scotland Yard.