I looked at the cook, and the cook looked at me.
“Herr Heine,” he said sadly, “there is only one thing to do. They will find you—they are certain to find you. This is a small ship.”
I drew myself up and straightened my shoulders. Pushing open the door I stepped out to the deck in the light of the dawn.
“I am the man you seek,” I said proudly.
I had to climb down the rope ladder on to a bobbing little motor-launch, to the well of which I was conducted. We were very near land and I supposed (and here I was right) that the land was Ireland, that down-trodden nation, the sport and mock of the misgoverning English.
The motor-launch ran into a little harbour and came up by the side of the jetty. A man in a long military overcoat was pacing up and down, but stopped when the boat reached the landing stage. I sprang on to the steps and mounted to the quay.
“Had a good time?” said the voice I hated more than all voices.
“Major Haynes,” I said with dignity, “I have not had a good time.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Anyway you have got the soot off your face, I am happy to see. You are looking quite white, Heine. Come and have breakfast.”
I accompanied him mutely to a little one-storeyed hotel which faced the landing stage.
“You had better go up and tidy yourself,” he said, “I have engaged a room for you.”
I bowed and followed the hall-porter, who was the only servant up at this hour of the morning. He opened the door and showed me into a room, and to my amazement I found all my trunks on the bed. One had been opened and my razors and shaving apparatus were neatly laid out. Over the rail of a chair hung my best suit, and my patent boots, nicely polished, stood neatly against the wall.
I shaved, washed, and changed, and in half an hour I presented myself in the dining-room where, to my surprise, a good breakfast was waiting, Major Haynes being already at the table engaged in reading what appeared to be a volume of poetry.
“Well, Heine,” he said, “your travels are nearly over, and I think that some explanation is due to you.”
I bowed again, though it was a difficult performance, since I was at that moment balancing a piece of fried egg upon my knife.
“Try the fork,” said Major Haynes.
Really this man’s inquisitive eyes saw everything.
“The fact is, Heine, we knew all about you before you arrived in England. We knew you were at the head of the organization, we knew your ways, your habits, your abnormal conceit—you don’t mind my speaking frankly, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said stiffly. “I am in your power.”
“And we knew that wherever the corpse was there would the vultures be gathered, or, to put it better, wherever was the magnet there would be the iron filings. If we kept you going and left you alone, we always knew where to look for your workers, who were ever so much more dangerous than you. We thought once or twice of taking you,” he said reflectively, “but I persuaded the power that it would pay in the long run to leave you alone. And it has paid,” he said, “all the satellites that revolve about you have been taken and destroyed. New suns will arise and attract new planets, and in course of time will be dealt with, but the period of danger has passed.”
“And now, I suppose,” said I miserably, “having no further use for me you are going to finish me off?”
“Exactly,” said Major Haynes, with great cheerfulness, “you shall go back to America, Heine, as an awful example to all spies. In that capacity you will still be useful to us. You will at least be able to tell them something of the difficulties that await a man who tried to get out of England even with a forged passport. Believe me, it is just as difficult to get in, unless we want you in.”
“You are going to let me go free?”
He nodded.
“The outward-bound Cremanic calls here by arrangement in two hours’ time. You will be taken out in a motor-launch and put on board. Your cabin is 143 and you will find it quite comfortable.”
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a flat case which he opened.
“Here is your passport,” he said.
I took the passport in my hand and read the description of myself, even my photograph was pasted on. I was described as “Heine.” “Occupation: German Spy.” “Reason for travel: By Special Deportation Order 64731. The British Government having no further need of his services.”
To my mind the cruellest thing was the photograph which showed me in that infernal clergyman’s garb. Underneath was written, “Religion: Church of England.”
I looked at Major Haynes.
“You have spared me no humiliation,” I said, and there were tears in my eyes, for remember what position I had held in the service.
“Oh, yes, I have,” said Major Haynes, “I might have taken a flashlight photograph of you as a sweep. You’ve no idea how funny you looked.”
Two hours later I stood upon the first-class passenger deck of the Cremanic watching with folded arms the land sinking slowly astern.
Farewell! False Albion! Thy doom is assured! The ever-victorious German U-boat——
I stopped suddenly and thought, then turning to a sailor I asked: “Is there any danger of being torpedoed?”
“They gets a ship sometimes, sir,” he said with callous indifference. “But when we sees ’em we shoots at ’em and that generally frightens ’em off. If every passenger keeps his eye skinned there ain’t much danger.”
I spent the rest of the voyage with my eyes skinned.
I have often remarked to good friends of mine that there is evidence of the fact that Providence has a special interest in my welfare. We Germans are naturally a devout and religious people, and I need only remind you that Luther, the Father of the Reformation, was a German, to bring home to you the fact that in the ground of the Fatherland, piety and solemn-view-taking flourish like the green bay tree. Charity, forbearance, lawfulness and lovingkindness are as the breath of good German nostrils, and he who disputes this statement is a liar and a rascal.
As for the editors of the English and Scottish press, by heavens! I would that I had my way on them. I would flog them till they all but died and brand them with hot irons “liar,” turning them loose to beg their way from door to door. Woe to ye, Scribes and Pharisees, if Heine ever sits in London as Administrator of the Hostile Press!
Such a thing is not unlikely.
When you received my last, did you not hourly expect to find me knocking at your door? I told you of Major Haynes, the so-called Intelligence Officer, and of how he put me on a ship sailing for America. But he little knew his Heine! He little realized that the modest and unassuming man who bade him a courteous farewell and walked with careless dignity to the waiting boat was turning over certain schemes in his head.
As I stood on the broad deck of the English steamer and shook my fist at Perfidious Ireland, I realized in a flash what my beloved Fatherland was losing by my departure from a land in which I had rendered Germany so many signal services. Oh, thou Bride of the Rhine! Thou Iron Child of Valour, I, Heine, the least of Thy Servants shed a tear of sorrow that thou hast endured the loss of one loyal heart, faithful and restless in his efforts against a World of Enemies! Prosper, beloved of the Gods! Let Victory be added unto Victory!
“Keep your eye skinned for submarines,” said a kindly meaning mariner, and these words brought me to the alert. My situation was serious. It could not be known in Berlin that I had sailed, and the stupid fools of U-boat commanders would be ignorant of my presence on the British ship.
At the thought a cold shiver of horror percolated through my spinal column.
What tragedy if such be the end of a splendid career. I skinned my eyes throughout the day and twice by my loud cries saved disaster, once from a floating mine shaped like a wooden barrel (such is the supreme cunning of our race) and once from a U-boat which constantly came up and dived.
The stupid English said that the first was only a barrel and that the up-and-down-diving U-boat was a porpoise, but Heine’s eyes are sharp.
I did not attempt to make friends for the voyage, and rejected with scorn the suggestion of a frivolous American that I should play poker. Imagine playing poker in the midst of a great war! I asked him if he could play skat, but he knew nothing of that splendid and truly German game.
I can give a great deal of information about the methods that are employed to convoy ships through what is called the Danger Zone, and in due course I may write a report on the subject, or rather I should have written a report but for circumstances which I will reveal at a much later stage. Of how we zig-zagged about, first east and then west, then north and then south, of the balloons and aeroplanes and torpedo boats that watched us there seemed no end.
My German heart swelled with pride as I thought that all these precautions were forced by our incomparable U-boats.
I was sitting on the deck waiting for the sound of the dinner-bell, thinking out how superior the German race is to all its kind and how it must inevitably, sooner or later, conquer the world, when one of the ship’s officers passed by. I took off my hat to him and bowed and he gave me a little jerk of his head and passed on. Suddenly, however, he stopped.
“You want to keep your eyes skinned,” he said with that brutal gruffness which is so characteristic of the English.
“Sir,” I said with a little smile, “my eyes are so thoroughly skinned that I can hardly shut them at night.”
Instead of laughing at this little jest, he made a grunting, pig-like noise.
“There’s a U-boat somewhere about here,” he said, “the patrols have lost sight of it. I see you are prepared.”
I was wearing an unsinkable waistcoat, which I had purchased from the steward, the life-belt, which we are compelled to wear, but which I should have worn under any circumstances, a pair of thick waterproof boots, and my pockets were filled with brandy flask and sandwiches, in case of accident. We Germans are prepared for anything, as I have remarked before.
“Do you mean to say,” I said in alarm, “that there is a chance of—of unpleasant happenings?”
“A big chance,” he said, “fortunately we have got very few passengers, so I am not disguising the fact to many of them that we are in some danger.”
“But,” I protested indignantly, “what about the boasted patrol boats? Where are your many vaunted aeroplanes? Why are we not preceded by warships to take the shock, which, according to the lying statements in the daily papers, is the custom?”
“Probably they didn’t know you were coming on board,” he said with true British insolence, and passed on.
The dinner-bell rang, but I remained on deck. I would take no risks. Here I was, and here I would remain until the Danger Zone was passed, even if I had to sit up night after night. All the lights on the deck were extinguished. There was no sound but the steady thud of the screw and the roar of the water running past the hull of the steamer. The night was pitch black, such a night as filled my soul with strangely religious thoughts, and whilst my mind was thus occupied, I heard a shout from the bridge, an excited voice cried something, and I rushed to the side of the vessel and looked left and right, my skinned eyes searching the darkness.
Then something happened! I have never understood what it was. I was conscious of a brilliant flash of light, and a roar in my ear, such as a man feels who may occasionally take a bath and inadvertently put his head under the water. I felt myself leaping through space. I had only time to remember that I had all my money in my pockets, but that I had left several important documents in my cabin, before I received another shock. I was in the water. The life-belt supported me. There was no sign of the ship. I screamed for help with true German thoroughness. I was bobbing up and down like a cork, and I felt dazed and ill.
What had happened? Had the ship sunk? Was I alone on the ocean? I thought of my life. I thought of the Fatherland. I hoped the cursed submarine would sink and all its crew be drowned.
I do not know how long I was in the water. They told me it was not more than twenty minutes, but that twenty minutes was an eternity to me. The water was bitterly cold, my hands were numb, but I found my brandy flask and emptied its contents down my throat. I felt a little better after that, but, oh, joy, when suddenly I heard a voice in the darkness shout, almost in my ear it seemed:
“There’s somebody,” and the words were spoken in German.
Almost immediately something big and hard rubbed against me. I can describe it in no other way. A hand gripped my collar and dragged me on to what felt like the top of an egg, if you can imagine the egg laid over on its side.
“Help,” I said faintly. “I am a true German.”
“A German?” said a surprised voice, “Gott in Himmel! What are you doing here?”
I staggered to my feet, assisted by a strong German arm and addressed the presence which was dimly outlined against the starry skies. How godlike is a German officer! How loud and commanding is his voice! What splendid domination there is in his whole bearing.
“Get him below,” he said, “there go the searchlights. Is that you, Fritz?”
“Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”
“Well, what is she doing?”
“She has just sent an S.O.S. and wirelessed her position,” said the other, whom I could not see.
“Be ready to submerge. Come on, my friend.”
He gripped me by the arm. I was pushed down a steel ladder and found myself in the confined space of a German submarine. Instantly there was a loud clang as though the lid had closed on a box, a rush of warm air and——
“Hold tight!” said the voice of the commander.
His back was to me, but I could tell by his voice that he was a man of noble birth. The deck tilted under me and I had a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, and then the horror of the situation dawned upon me. We were going down to the depths of the sea. We would probably be chased by those infernal destroyers and trawlers, and aeroplanes.
It never struck me before what a brutal race the British were. Here were we, boxed up in a frail little vessel, the prey of a hundred bloodthirsty hawks. I felt faint at the thought, and casting aside all restraint, I walked up to the commander still standing by his directing instruments.
“Pardon, Excellency,” I said, and would have taken off my hat, only I remembered I had left the ship without one.
“Well?” he said, without moving round.
“Would it not be wise,” I suggested, “if you made for the nearest port and let me land? I feel I am only an encumbrance on your Excellency, and will be eating the food which I feel sure you need.”
“Go to the devil,” said this arrogant young man, whose name I learnt was von Gwinner.
Presently he had finished his work and walked back to me.
“Do you imagine that I would walk into the nets and risk certain destruction in order to save you a little discomfort? What is your name, swine?”
“Excellency,” I said, “I am known as Heine.”
I spoke, I think, with dignity, and I hope that the man was impressed.
“I am an officer of the Imperial Intelligence Staff.”
“How did you come to be on this ship?” he asked.
I explained to him that I was making my escape from England, carrying valuable documents, which were of the highest importance to the German Government. I felt if I said this he would regret his precipitate action in sinking the ship, and it flashed upon me as I was speaking that possibly I could find a way out of my exceedingly uncomfortable position.
“Did the ship sink?” I asked.
“No,” he said with a curse, “we probably damaged her bow, but she’s still afloat.”
“Then,” said I eagerly, “why not run me up quite close to her. There are a number of ladders with which I have familiarized myself and I can very easily step from your deck to——”
“Don’t talk like a fool,” he said, “she is probably surrounded by destroyers and trawlers now. If I got near her I should probably have a depth charge on me and never know what struck me.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “A spy, eh?” he said. “Do you speak English?”
“Perfectly, sir,” I said.
“Thunder and lightning,” he said, “you are the very man I want.”
I cannot say that I was very pleased.
“You want me?” I faltered.
“You are the man I want. By heavens! It’s providential. Sit down on that locker.”
“May I smoke?” I asked.
“If you want me to kick you in the stomach,” he replied viciously; “smoking on a submarine, are you mad? Do you imagine you are on the Kiel Ferry?”
He was so angry that I changed the conversation. He then told me that this was one of the super-submarines which had been sent out from Kiel soon after the U-boat warfare had started, and that he had hitherto carried an intelligence officer whose task was to go ashore at unfrequented places, make his way to the nearest seaport and learn something about sailings.
“I have felt the loss of him,” he said.
“Have you lost him?” I asked with a quaking heart.
“Yes,” he said carelessly, “he was shot dead by a coastguard near Portland. He was an amiable man, and I quite missed him.”
“Indeed,” I said faintly, “is there any danger of that?”
“Oh, yes, you would have to take that risk! You tell me you haven’t incurred the suspicion of the authorities.”
Like a fool I had told him that in describing my departure from England.
“Very well. You couldn’t be better. I remember your name now.”
He unlocked a little steel box attached to the wall of the small cabin in which we were speaking, and took out a book which is familiar to me—a list of agents. He looked them down carefully. Presently he stopped.
“What is your code name?” he asked.
I told him, and he nodded.
“That’s right. If you had deceived me, I should have gone up to the surface, put you on deck and submerged again—leaving you without your lifebelt. As it is, I appoint you Intelligence Officer with pay at the rate of six marks a day.”
“Thank you,” I said, not without sarcasm, though this I did not make evident.
How can I describe my thoughts and feelings during that terrible night? Wild with anxiety as to my fate, the maddening knowledge that I was perhaps thousands of feet under the surface of the sea, and liable at any minute to strike a submerged rock or a sea-mine, facing the prospect of stealing ashore and perhaps being shot by coastguards either coming or going! All these things crowded one upon the other, and robbed me of sleep.
The interior of the submarine was thick and close. The sailors glanced at me disdainfully, and answered any questions which I put to them with bluff rudeness.
You cannot conceive, my dear friend, how restricted life is on board a German submarine. It is all whirling engines and projecting brackets that bump your head. These are noises most terrible to hear. The only man who talked to me was a good fellow, whose name I forget, who told me that only one German submarine in three ever gets back to port, and the stories he told me about nets and submarine mines, and how you can be seen from the surface by aeroplanes, and how sometimes the engines go wrong and it is impossible to rise, turned me almost grey.
It is very likely that I slept. My own impression is that I did not, but I am told that it was necessary to kick me because I was snoring. As I never snore this is palpably absurd. But apparently we did come to the surface in the night, but nobody told me this, or I would have gone on to the deck to get some fresh air. The sailor with whom I spoke informed me that if I had, the commander would probably have kicked me into the sea, and that members of the crew were not allowed to come up without special permission.
The agony of the following day beggars description. We were coming up to the surface and our periscope was showing, when suddenly the U-boat gave a violent jerk and I was almost flung off my feet. I thought we had struck a mine, and fell into the arms of the commander, half-fainting. I fell out again with true German alacrity, when I realized that it was not agreeable to him. He afterwards explained to me with a great deal of unnecessary insolence that he had come up close to a destroyer and had had to submerge in a hurry.
We were not fortunate that day, and the next time our periscope showed above water it was nearly carried away by shell-fire from a trawler less than a thousand yards away, and I sat and quaked as I heard the dull throb of the depth charges exploding in our vicinity.
That evening the commander beckoned me to the tiny box which he called a cabin.
“Do you know Devonshire?” he asked.
“Yes, Excellency,” I replied.
Of course, I did not know Devonshire, but it is very simple to buy a map and discover anything I want to know.
“Do you know Siddicombe Bay?”
“Not very well,” I replied.
“It is within easy walking distance of Torcombe Bay,” he said. “The coast is not well guarded there. I will land you under cover of the darkness and you will make your way to Quaytown. My information is that there is a convoy of ships there which are sailing either to-morrow or the next day. I want you to make inquiries. Here is the name of the public-house where sailors are to be found. As soon as you have secured information make your way back to the point where I shall land you, flash an electric torch once, and I will come and pick you up.”
He opened a case that he took from his desk and extracted two or three documents.
“Your name will be William Smith,” he said, “here is an English registration card. You live in Manchester, and you are looking for a ship. Here is your discharge book which you need not show unless you are questioned.”
He told me that these documents had been taken from a sailing ship which he had sunk, and that the owner of them had been killed by shell-fire.
At eight o’clock that night, we came slowly into the deep waters of Siddicombe Bay. It is, I believe, one of the beauty spots of Devonshire, a half-moon of green water surrounded by high red cliffs and sloping fields, chequered red and green. I did not see this by night, of course, and I am indebted to a local guide book for the description. A tiny collapsible boat was got out and opened, and into this I stepped.
“Remember,” said Commander von Gwinner, at parting, “you are to return at ten o’clock. If you are late you will be sorry, my friend.”
“Your Excellency,” I said quietly, “I am less influenced by your threats, though I recognize that being well-born you mean no harm, than by the knowledge that I am serving our beloved Fatherland, for whose success and victory I ever pray, and on whose behalf I am prepared to make the most monumental sacrifices.”
“You talk too much,” he said; “get into the boat.”
We landed at the beach without mishap. It was deserted, and I made my way along in the direction indicated by the local map, which I had studied with the commander, and presently found the zig-zag path that led to the top of the cliffs and to the little village of Siddicombe. Half an hour’s brisk walk brought me to Quaytown, a large, straggling town, which was in times of peace a pleasure resort, but which had been converted in war time to a port of call.
The main roads flank the little harbour which, as I could see, contained about six ships, and after inquiring from the policeman, I found my way to the public-house to which I had been directed.
It was nine o’clock when I arrived, so I had only half an hour to pursue my inquiries. The common bar was filled with a noisy crowd, mostly sailors and men of the R.N.V.R. I managed to get a drink, and cast my eyes round for a likely informant, and found one in a common sailor of the Naval Reserve, who gladly accepted my invitation to drink, but asked me to bring it to him, because the bar lady had refused to serve him with any more.
“It’s a hell of a life,” he said, “what with the law and the price of beer. It’s a dog’s life.”
It was providential that I found him. He was a man with a grievance, and a man with a grievance is very voluble.
“Come,” I said cheerily, “things are not so bad as you think. We shall soon have these damned Germans beaten.”
“Don’t you make any mistake about it, my boy,” said the common sailor, whose name was Jones, “if we are beating the Germans, why are we keeping our ships in harbour? Look here, mate,” he said, speaking with the stupidity of a drunken person, “we’ve got six ships in this harbour. They’ve been lying here for a week. Why? Because there are two German submarines outside—or rather one,” he corrected himself. “We’ve looked for them German submarines everywhere. The balloon’s been out, the aeroplane’s been out, the trawlers and destroyers have been out, but they haven’t got ’em—at least they haven’t found one,” he corrected himself again. “What’s going to happen? To-morrow afternoon at three o’clock when the convoy goes out——”
“To-morrow at three,” I said carelessly, “that’s a curious time to leave.”
“Never mind if it is curious, or if it isn’t,” said the man rudely quarrelsome, “they know their own business better than you do, my lad.”
“Naturally,” I said hastily.
“Well,” he went on, “to-morrow afternoon they go out at three o’clock. What happens? Them submarines will get ’em—at least one of ’em will,” he said.
So I had my information. Trust Heine to make a discovery of this kind.
At three o’clock on the following afternoon! The excellent von Gwinner would be delighted. He would understand perhaps that he had a different type of man to deal with than what he expected. Possibly he would send my name into Headquarters for an Iron Cross—that possibility awakened a thrill of pleasurable anticipation.
“But come, my friend,” I said, “you take too pessimistic a view. Now I don’t believe that these six ships will be sunk.”
“Not all of ’em,” said the inebriated sailor gloomily, “but one of ’em will. Them submarines are too artful, or rather,” he said, “one of ’em is.”
His insistence upon the differentiation piqued my curiosity.
“Tell me, my friend, if it is not betraying any military secret, and speaking as sailor to sailor——”
“You ain’t no sailor,” said the drunken man commonly.
“Speaking as man to man,” I said in haste to get him off the subject, “why do you say first that there are two submarines and then you only refer to one of them.”
He was pulling at a short clay pipe, very dark and very stomach-revolting, and he pulled for a long time before he spoke.
“Because,” he said at last, “one of ’em’s done hisself in.”
“Sunk?” I said with the same carelessness.
What information to carry to Commander von Gwinner! What a back-slap he would give me, at the same time saying, “Good old boy, you have done very well indeed.” I declare to you at that moment that the thought of serving the Fatherland brought tears of joy to my eyes. I would collect all the information I could, for already the hands of the clock were ominously near half-past.
“In what manner has he done himself in? Sunk?” I asked again.
“Well, he ain’t sunk,” admitted the man, “but he soon will be. He was spotted about an hour ago going into Siddicombe Bay, and all the bloomin’ fleet is on its way there with nets and trawlers, and depth charges, and Gawd knows what!”
I held on to the wall for support.
“They’ll have him netted in by half-past ten,” said my friend.
I looked at the clock again. There was time for me to get back to Siddicombe, but the next words of my acquaintance arrested my attention.
“He’s bound to spot ’em comin’ and make a run for it, and they’re bound to ketch ’im,” he said with cruel relish.
I could get back in half an hour. The boat would be there waiting at ten o’clock. I could warn von Gwinner, and he would “make a run for it.”
What stupidity! What recklessness! Who are these people, these air-giving aristocrats, who risk the lives of the true democracy! What right have they, I thought, to fling men of my intelligence and genius into terrible and spine-shaking danger and perhaps to death?
The clock pointed to 9.30.
“Well, so long,” said my acquaintance, “is there anything I can do for you, matey?”
I swallowed my drink and looked at the clock again.
“Yes,” I said firmly, for with my usual quickness of thought I had made my decision. “Can you recommend me an hotel where I can get a good bed?”
Consider, dear friends, the embarrassing circumstances under which I found myself! Deported from England by a man whom I admit, is a person of considerable sagacity, though infinitely inferior to the Intelligence officers one finds attached to the German army, both in birth and natural inquisitiveness—a man who had it in his power to drag me straight away to the execution shed as a spy!
Contrary to all his orders and instructions I had come back! I, one humble German in a World of Enemies, had denied the law and majesty of England and had come back! It is true that I did not want to come back, but that does not alter the fact. We Germans are modest people, as I have remarked before. We do not ask for praise, we do not invite approval; we are satisfied, in the words of an English proverb, with the approval of a good conscience.
I do not want to boast of my own courage. That would be an un-German thing to do. I merely say that ninety-nine out of every hundred men who found themselves in my position, alone, with a false registration card, with no passport, with my disguise as a Chilian penetrated, with the doors of twenty prisons yawning to receive me, would have sunk down into their boots and suffered grievously from cold feet. But you, who know Heine, are well aware that he is not a man to be lightly scared.
I woke up that morning in Quaytown without fear, a penniless Ishmael, hunted by the law, the hand of every man against me. Yet I was cheerful. When I say I was penniless, I speak of course in a figurative sense. I had a few pounds in my belt. I had a few thousands in a certain New York bank and in various places in England there would be men who would help me.
I paid my bill at the little hotel where I had spent the night and caught the nine o’clock train for London. I got off the train at Bath and made my way to a certain large stationer’s which accepts advertisements for the leading London dailies. On payment of a little extra money those advertisements are telegraphed to London and appear on the following morning.
The advertisement I inserted was a very simple one. It ran:
“Clerk, over military age, expert book-keeper, with intimate knowledge of the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland, requires situation. Salary £200.”
An innocent advertisement, you may say. Yet, my friend, that was the S.O.S. of a political agent in distress. On the following morning when I saw that appear, with a certain box number, in the Daily Megaphone, I should know that I had to wait for two or three days for one of our industrious agents to answer that advertisement.
The words, “Argentine, Cuba, Batavia, Holland,” in that order meant, “I am in urgent need of money.” The “£200,” which followed was the amount I required. Had I advertised that my experience was in France, Egypt, China, every German agent in England would have known that special intelligence had been received from Germany and that they must gather at an agreed rendezvous to receive their orders.
Had I merely written that my experience was in London, Bombay and Buenos Aires, half the agents in England would have made preparations to depart from this country without delay.
I arrived in London by night. That was the object of my getting off at Bath, or rather partly the object, because I had a certain person, a minor agent, to interview. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was not to be found, and it was not until the train came in and I was preparing to step into my carriage that he made his appearance, rather out of breath, for he had run all the way from the apartment-house he kept.
“I found your note,” he said. “Are you alone in this carriage?”
I looked round. There were no other passengers.
“Then,” said he, “I will take the liberty, Herr Heine, of coming to London with you. I have much to tell you. We thought you had left England.”
Briefly I explained to him, as the train moved on, the reason I had returned. I told him how I was carrying important despatches for America, and how the ship was sunk by a submarine, and of how I had reached the submarine and had ordered the captain to take me to the nearest port.
“He landed me at night,” I said, “but I fear the unfortunate man suffered sadly as a result of his politeness.”
He nodded.
“There was one of our heroic U-boats destroyed this morning in Siddicombe Bay,” he said. “I got news through one of our men at Quaytown. That wasn’t your U-boat, Herr Heine?”
“No, no,” I said hastily, “certainly not. I have never been to Siddicombe in my life. I cannot tell you everything, my friend, there are some secrets which cannot be revealed.”
He bowed respectfully.
He then went on to tell his news.
“I don’t know whether you have been in touch with Headquarters lately,” he said, “but we have received information that a new society has been formed in England called ‘The Sons of Irish Freedom.’ They are planning a new rebellion, and we have been ordered to give them every assistance.”
I nodded.
“This information is not new to me,” I said.
It is not the German way to allow underlings to believe that they are better informed than their superiors.
“But pray go on,” I resumed, “tell me all you know.”
As a matter of fact, he had very little to tell except that the Sons of Irish Freedom were a numerous body, that they held meetings behind closed doors, that they had special passwords, grips and penalties, and that all agents had been instructed to get into touch with their local branch, not only to offer whatever assistance they could to the movement, but also to call upon the brethren of the order for whatever help they required. I made a note of this. It might be of great use to me.
“What is the password?” I asked.
The foolish fellow smiled feebly.
“Alas, Herr Heine, I did not bring it with me, and I cannot recall the word!”
“Stupid owl!” I thundered, “is it thus you neglect your work? Is the Fatherland and its welfare of such small importance that you commit such an act of carelessness?”
He was very apologetic and agitated, and I forgave him. You understand, of course, that he was not a man of great intelligence. He was a German who had married an Englishwoman and the English had not interned him for some mad reason—you know what the English are!
I reached Paddington just before midnight, and took a cab to an apartment in Bayswater, where a friend of mine had once stayed, but where I was unknown to the landlord. I had previously telegraphed to him from Bath to say that I was coming, and I found him sitting up for me, a tall, gaunt-looking man, with long black hair and a straggling black beard. He showed me up to my room and left me for the night.
My apartments were on the first floor, and consisted of a sitting and bedroom, and I was up betimes in the morning, busy with the writing material I had bought at Bath, reorganizing the service from which I had been so rudely torn.
I dare not, naturally, go to my old offices, and it was not safe to trust the post to communicate with my agents in London. But Heine is no ordinary man, and there are many more ways of choking a cat than by feeding it with butter-milk, as the old saying goes.
It was whilst I was at work that there occurred the incident which was to so considerably affect my plans, and I would say to those supercilious critics who are so ready to condemn from the critical arm-chair the active workings of the executive officer (so easy it is, my dear critics, to sneer and carp at hard-working and conscientious men performing the holiest services for the Fatherland!) that in pursuit of a design even as infallible a man as Heine may fall into an error or be guilty of a false side-step.
It is the intention, the dominant underlying spirit of patriotism which counts. I was turning over my papers when I came upon an advertisement booklet which had been packed in a small parcel of biscuits and chocolate, which I had purchased at a grocer’s in Bath. I suppose when I was eating my frugal meal in the train I had mechanically put the booklet into my pocket and had piled it on the table with the rest of my papers—it is my methodical custom to clear my pockets every morning and examine the contents, in which ways I have very often saved most important memoranda from destruction.
It was one of those gaudy advertisements of crude colours, such as the English printers produce, advertising somebody’s whisky. But what attracted my justifiable wrath was the design. It was a map of the world, decorated as is the arrogant British custom, with patches of red to represent her downtrodden colonies, whilst in the centre of the map was a picture of a bottle. Over the design were the words, “The whisky that has made the British Empire famous.”
Such frivolity! Such lowness! I looked with proud disdain upon this shameless picture.
“British Empire!” I cried, and to make the well-deserved castigation more apposite, I spoke in English. “The world’s curse! Be sure we shall destroy thee, limb by limb, thou devastating and conscienceless robber of the world!” and saying this I slashed the picture with my pen.
As I did so a voice said behind me:
“Well done, you never spoke a truer word.”
I turned with a start, cursing my folly that I had spoken my thoughts aloud. The tall, gaunt man was standing behind me. He had entered noiselessly and had closed the door.
“Give me your hand, brother,” he said, and at that moment there came to me all that my friend from Bath had told me the night previous. I gripped his hand, and as I did so, I felt his thumb touch one of my knuckles in a peculiar way. It was the grip, and instantly with true German agility of mind, I responded.
“You are one of us?” he said eagerly.
I hesitated a second. If I admitted that I was a member I should betray myself.
“No, I am not yet,” I said boldly, “but I hope to be one of you.”
“You shall, you shall,” he said, “the lodge meets to-morrow night.”
He picked up the advertisement with a sneering smile, and tore it in two.
“You think I am a fanatic,” he said, “but I have seen so much of the ruin and desolation——”
“Say no more,” I said, “I understand.”
I would have spoken about Ireland then and there, but I was not quite sure of my ground. New Irish societies rise every week, and each has a different and generally more violent programme than the last. It would not do for me to show any lukewarmness.
“Believe me,” I said earnestly, “nothing will give me greater pleasure than to be enrolled in your noble society which is to free the world from the oppressor of centuries.”
He shook my hand, and I could see the emotion which my words had evoked glistening in his eyes.
“You realize,” he said, “that you must pledge yourself——”
“Believe me,” I responded instantly, “I will take the oath without a tremor. Your great enemy shall be my great enemy.”
We shook hands again and parted. When he had gone, I congratulated myself. What good fortune had brought me here? Yet stay, was it not rather my own acumen? Had I not specially chosen this boarding-house a year ago for one of my agents? I forget what consideration had induced me, but there the fact remained, it had been my choice.
I spent the rest of the morning writing. My first act, of course, was to send a letter to Major Haynes. I must be on the safe side, and if I were ever detected, in court it would count in my favour that I had technically surrendered myself to him the moment I had reappeared in England. My letter, a copy of which I have, may be given since it is, I think I may say in all modesty, a fine example of what I might term an alibi letter.
It began thus:
“Sir Haynes (though I knew he was not noble, I thought it might tickle the fellow’s vanity to address him in terms of lordliness). Here am I like a naughty penny, turning up again under your nose! But quite unwillingly! You have doubtless learnt that the gallant ocean-liner upon which you placed me is no more! She was sunk by a German U-boat! Though I swam about looking for survivors, desiring to rescue as many poor Englishmen as possible from the wicked and mistaken policy of dirty old von Turnips” (may heaven forgive me for this jest at the expense of that great patriot), I was not successful. I swam about in the water for ten hours and was picked up by a passing steamer! We arrived in London this morning and I am now in a terrible dilemma. I dare not give you my address, for I am in fear of arrest! Guarantee to me by your power-compelling word that I shall not be punished. If you will insert an advertisement in the Daily Megaphone, like this:
‘From H. to H. All well.
‘See me at my office’
I will immediately report myself. In the meantime, dear Sir Haynes, thanking you for your past favours, and hoping by a constant attention to your wishes to merit the continuance of your patronage.
“I am,
“Yours faithfully,
“Heine.”
I calculated that it would take two days for this to reach him, another day before the advertisement appeared, and I then had a fourth day before I replied in person—and in four days much service could be rendered to the Fatherland.
I was determined to get as much out of this secret society as I possibly could. All that afternoon I formulated my plans. Through a call office I got into touch with Kriessler, who was one of our subsidiary agents in London, and had rendered me and the Fatherland great services.
We met by appointment that night at the Marble Arch, and almost the first question he asked me was whether I had got into touch with the Sons of Irish Freedom? When I told him I had, he was astonished.
“You don’t lose much time, Herr Heine,” he said admiringly.
“That is very true, Kriessler,” I said gravely, “and I appreciate your compliment.”
Kriessler was in a position to pass through any information collected in England. I, of course, had been the supreme medium, but I dare not exercise any of the old machinery of transmission. It was very dangerous. It might be, and probably was, very dangerous for Kriessler, but for the sacred cause of Germany we must take risks, so I let Kriessler take them.
I arranged for him to send to my house on the following morning for a brief report which I told him must be sent to Headquarters with the least delay.
“You see, my dear Kriessler,” I said, at parting, “I know all there is to be known about this secret society. But I am anxious to check my knowledge. You will please tell me all you have heard, and if I do not interrupt you to point out your mistakes, you will understand that it is not desirable that the subordinate officials should know as much as their superiors.”
“I quite understand that, Herr Heine,” said Kriessler, “but I do not pretend to know a great deal about the Sons of Irish Freedom. One knows that they have meetings and passwords. I also know that the police are actively searching for their lodges, but so far without success. I am told they are very desperate and dangerous men, and I believe that there is only one lot in London. They hate England——”
“That I know,” I smiled.
I went home and wrote a very full report on the constitution and working of the Sons of Irish Freedom. Blame me not, dear friend, for my innocent deceit, for I had never heard of the Sons of Irish Freedom till I arrived at Bath, nor think harshly of me that I wrote with elaborate detail to Potsdam upon their ritual and objectives.
That same night I sent off my letter to Major Haynes, and finished my report on the secret society, which was given to the messenger whom Kriessler sent soon after breakfast. I took my meals alone in my sitting-room and my strange, gaunt friend, whose name was Clarkson, only saw me once and did no more than to smile mysteriously and say:
“At eight o’clock to-night.”
I nodded gravely. I did not expect to hear any more about the matter, being well aware that my host would not care to discuss so weighty a secret, and I was surprised in the afternoon to receive a visit from Mr. Clarkson, who was accompanied by a short, stout man, who was also very pale and wore powerful spectacles.
“This, sir,” said he, “is my friend, Mr. Moore, who will act as your sponsor to-night.” He turned to Mr. Moore. “This gentleman,” said he, “will become one of us.”
Mr. Moore bowed.
“You realize, of course,” he said, a little pompously, I thought, “that you must absolutely surrender your allegiance to the World’s Terror, and that from this night forward you may count upon the moral support of a band of brothers, and that you will give yourself heart and soul to our sublime task.”
“Have no fear,” I said, seizing his hand too, and wringing it, “until the tyrant is crushed I will be a loyal comrade.”
“Good,” said Mr. Moore, and after a few commonplaces about the weather, they departed.
At seven o’clock that night I dressed myself with care, soberly and unostentatiously. What cared I for the oaths or for these fanatical conspirators, with their absurd secrecy, their passwords, their grips and the like!
Mr. Clarkson knocked at my door at a quarter to eight and we sallied forth together. I suggested taking a taxi-cab, but he would not hear of it, and we went by bus to Camden Town.
It was just as we were turning into Baynam Street that we noticed a little crowd gathered about something which lay on the sidewalk. We would have passed on, but Mr. Clarkson, overhearing something that was said by a member of the group, pushed his way through the little knot of people and I followed.
A man lay prone on the sidewalk.
“What is it?” I asked curiously.
Mr. Clarkson made no reply till we were clear of the crowd.
“One of our people,” he said bitterly, “fallen to the enemy.”
“Fallen?” I said.
Mr. Clarkson nodded.
“It happens now and again,” he said, “we are fighting a cunning and ruthless foe, my friend.”
“But are you leaving him there?”
“For the moment,” said Mr. Clarkson. “I will ask one of the brethren to make inquiries as to how it happened, and if it is possible to give any assistance to our unfortunate comrade, it will be given.”
This was news indeed. So this mighty British government was not above striking an assassin blow to rid itself of its enemies.
From Baynam Street leads a smaller thoroughfare, near the Camden Road end of which is a small hall. The night was dark, the painted street-lamps cast tiny pools of dim light upon the pavement as we stole furtively through the door of the hall, and passed through a small anteroom to a smaller room beyond.
In this room there was another door, and toward this Mr. Clarkson walked.
“You will wait here,” he said in a whisper.
He knocked in a peculiar manner on the door, and a sliding panel opened. He whispered something, the door was unlocked, and after he had slipped into the room, closed again.
I waited about three minutes before the door opened, and Mr. Clarkson came out accompanied by Mr. Moore, both of whom wore on their breasts sashes of red.
Mr. Moore, scarcely raising his voice above a whisper, asked me a number of questions. They were couched in a curious semi-legal, semi-philosophical vein, and I confess I did not understand very much, nor did I trouble to pay a great deal of attention to what was being said. I knew by their intonation when I had to say “Yes,” and when I had to say “No.” When I had finished Mr. Clarkson looked anxiously at his friend.
“I think that is satisfactory, Brother Moore?”
“Eminently satisfactory, Brother Clarkson,” said the other.
He rapped soberly at the door and again the panel slid back and a voice challenged him.
“Who knocks?”
“Two brethren with a candidate for initiation,” said Mr. Moore.
The panel closed and presently it opened again.
“Who vouches for this candidate?” said the voice.
“I,” said Mr. Clarkson.
“I,” said Mr. Moore.
The door was opened and we passed through, not without a fluttering of heart on my part.
Between my two sponsors I advanced into the hall. At one end of the room on a raised dais sat three men bearing the strange regalia of their order. To left and right at single tables were two other officers, also wearing decorations. I passed from one to the other. Each addressed me in solemn language on the duty of man to man, and presently I came to the raised dais and had to endure yet a further long rigmarole, at the end of which the president confided the password, which was “Fight the Fight,” the grip, and the signal knock.
I was led to a seat in the body of the hall, congratulated heartily by Mr. Moore and Mr. Clarkson, and settled myself down to listen to the deliberations of this strange body. They were men of all ages, of all conditions of life, stern, determined-looking men I thought, capable of committing any desperate deed, the kind of men who might be most useful. There were young and old amongst them, but all bore the same sour disappointed expression, which I had noticed both in Mr. Moore and Mr. Clarkson.
A brother rose and had begun to address the chair when the door was flung open excitedly and a tall, pale-faced man rushed in. As he did so, I heard the shrill sound of police whistles.
“A raid, a raid!” he cried.
Instantly the hall was in commotion. I felt myself grow pale and grasped Mr. Moore, who was next to me, by the arm.
“Is there any way out of this?” I asked.
“You had better stay here,” he said.
“Stay here and be caught!”
That was not Heine’s way. I dashed through the door into the street. There was no sign of policemen, but I heard shrill whistles blowing. I ran up into Baynam Street straight into the arms of a policeman!
“Hello,” he said, “you had better take cover. There’s an air raid on.”
“An air raid!” I gasped. “An air raid!”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t one. A mate of mine just told me it’s a false alarm, and very likely he’s right. There’s rather too much wind for a raid to-night.”
I could have leant against him. I was so confounded and confused I could collect my thoughts only in fragments, and the first memory of that evening which strangely enough came to me was the memory of that stricken form on the pavement.
“Tell me, sir,” I said, “did you see a man lying on the ground round the corner?”
It was, I admit, a foolish question to ask, but the memory of that rigid victim had obsessed me.
“Oh, him,” said the constable, “yes! He was drunk.”
“Drunk?” I said in amazement.
“Yes,” said the policeman, “a man named Geary. He used to be a member of that lodge down the road there.” He pointed to the building from whence I had come.
“What lodge is that?” I asked.
“The Sons of Temperance,” he said, “I thought I saw you come out of there. Ain’t you a member? Rum blokes, they are,” he went on with a little chuckle, “always talking about drink as the Enemy and the Terror and the Oppressor of the World. I wish somebody would oppress me with a pint.”
I pressed a shilling into his hard, corrupt fist, and walked back to Bayswater.
It has frequently been observed by impartial and neutral observers, as, for example, the learned Professor Heinrich von Stosselkopf, of Zurich, the Italian Professor Emil Zonnernheimer, of Verona, and Captain Albert von Zohm, the brilliant writer of Sweden (you will observe that I have an excellent memory for names, as indeed all true Germans have) that Germany holds all the qualities of world-sufficient kultur save one, namely the inability to tolerate frivolity.
This does not mean that we Germans have no sense of humour. How we laugh at the English and their stupid jokes! How puerile is the American so-called fun spirit! Give a German a true joke, however, and he will “ha, ha!” with the best of them. The story of the little boy who climbed up the church steeple and fell upon some iron railings and was prosecuted by the unimaginative policeman for damaging church property, is one which roused a tempest of laughter from one end of the Fatherland to the other.
Who in the world has not roared with delight at that true German story of the lady who went to a doctor of music and showed him the corn of her knee?
The German spirit is the true spirit of humour. Therefore, I reject with scorn the suggestion which has been made by some who have seen these notes, that I am trying to be funny or comical. The errors into which a man may fall are many, but as I have said before, it is the spirit in which one makes the attempt to serve one’s country which counts, and it is not the performance, whether it be successful or otherwise, which should count to a man’s credit.
I have never asked of my beloved Fatherland for any honour. I have been content to serve humbly and obscurely. I know that the records of my work have been wilfully suppressed by jealous superiors, otherwise to-day there would be blazing on my bosom the Order of the Red Eagle. Yes, I repeat, the Order of the Red Eagle has been stolen by the lies and the misrepresentations of those who have belittled the monumental nature of my labours in England, Scotland, Wales and the Isle of Wight.
There are moments when I grow cold with rage at the thought of this base treason—but enough of this!
I pass to the strangest adventure of my experience, and I tell this story because not only does it reveal the amazing unscrupulousness of the British government, but I think it will also show the marvellous adaptability of a German agent. I do not suggest that all agents would have acted as I did, but then I do not think there are a great number of German agents who are possessed of my extraordinary capacities.
It will be remembered that after my deportation from England, by a certain Major Haynes, of whom more anon, I was submarined and landed again on these inhospitable shores, and by reason of the sentence of deportation, which had been illegally passed upon me without a trial, I was compelled to lie, as they say in England, doggo.
With most of my friends I dare not communicate, and though I had written to Major Haynes announcing that I was in England, and asking him to give me an opportunity of calling upon him, giving, of course, no address, I did not hear from him immediately. I had, however, inserted an advertisement in the Daily Megaphone, stating that I was a clerk with experience in the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland, saying that I was willing to work for £200 a year, the combination of those words meaning that I was an agent in distress and that I was requiring £200. I had no doubt in my mind that the call would be responded to. I was officially penniless. I had some money of my own, but why should I spend that when there was so much money to be had for the asking?
I called at the office of the newspaper and received a big batch of letters in response to my advertisement. I took them back to my new lodgings, for I had left the old apartments, owing to the fact that the proprietor was a fanatical teetotaler, and in the privacy of my own room I took the letters from my pocket and turned them over rapidly, looking for one which would have an inky finger-mark on the back flap.
I found and opened the envelope, and discovered, as I had expected, four bank-notes for £50 without any reference to the sender. I would have thrown the remaining letters upon the fire, had there been one, but fortunately time was hanging on my hands, I had arranged to meet Kriessler, the only man in London with whom I could safely communicate, and I had two or three hours to fill in before that appointment. So what was more natural than that I should open these offers of a situation and read them through? Thoroughness is the characteristic of our race. We despise no material, however unpromising. Germany was built up upon by-products, and her wealth extracted from the dust-bins of Europe.
They were letters of a conventional type asking me for recommendations or inviting me to make calls upon the writers. It was the fourth letter which interested me most of all. I read it through carefully, put it aside, skimmed through the remainder of the letters and then returned to this extraordinary missive.
The paper was heavy and rich. There was on the top left-hand corner a coat of arms embossed in gold and blue. The address was 182, Berkeley Square, which is one of the most fashionable residential squares in London. This address, however, had been scratched out and there had been substituted “Stoney Cottage, Hebleigh-on-Avon.” The letter was marked “Private and very Confidential,” and ran:
“If the advertiser is a person of discretion, and is willing to act as confidential secretary to a high government personage, and has a knowledge of world politics, a permanent position with a salary of £500 per annum can be offered to him for the duration of the war.”
I pondered this letter for some considerable time and before I went out to my appointment with Kriessler, my mind was made up and I had written offering my services, informing the writer that I had acted in a similar capacity to a certain Legation which I was not at liberty to name in Holland; that I was the soul of discretion, that I had no friends in England, and that I was not liable for military service. I added that I should be glad if the advertiser could arrange a meeting in town and that in the circumstances I should like it to be as secret as possible, because I was already doing confidential work for a government department and they might not like to lose me.
The next morning came a telegram in reply.
“Meet me to-night at ten o’clock at the corner of Berkeley Street. I shall be wearing a tall hat and light gloves.”
Ten o’clock that night found me at the rendezvous and punctually to the minute a taxi-cab drew up and a gentleman alighted answering to the description contained in the telegram. I walked up to him taking off my hat.
“You are the advertiser?” he said sharply.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
He looked at me thoughtfully. The light was very dim but I met his gaze without faltering.
“Do you speak French?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Walk along with me,” he said, taking my arm.
The cabman evidently knew his client and did not expostulate at his departure. Had I been the fare he would have covered me with vile abuse and would have told me that he had no petrol. Such is the unscrupulousness of London cabmen!
We walked down Berkeley Street and turned into the deserted Berkeley Square. He stopped in front of a gloomy house.
“I live here,” he said, “but I am at present staying in the country.”
His voice was sharp. He spoke brusquely and without politeness, and I realized in a flash that he was noble-born. He asked me several questions, more or less irrelevant, and then suddenly he turned about and walked back in the direction of the cab.
“I think you will do,” he said, “you will leave to-morrow evening for Hebleigh. I will meet you at the station and drive you to my cottage. I keep no servants in the house when I am at Hebleigh.”
This seemed strange, but I was afterwards to discover that the cottage had been specially built for my new employer, with vacuum cleaners, gas and electric stoves, a perfect system of central heating, water on every floor and a bathroom attached to every bedroom.
What a comfortable place, thought I, what luxury and how providential for me! Here I could lie quiet for weeks and never be discovered, with nothing to break the monotony of life but an occasional bath.
I had brought down a small hand-bag containing my worldly belongings, and I was ushered into a small bedroom simply but expensively furnished by my host. It was in that room, the first room in which the lights were all switched on, that I had my first good view of him. He was a man of about fifty-five, rather thin, very grey, with a pale, æsthetic face and long, nervous hands. It may seem curious to you that I had not asked him his name, but if you imagine I neglected that precaution you do not know your Heine. I had asked him but he had not responded.
“A woman comes every day to make the beds and to prepare our principal meal,” he said. “You will not see her because she does her work whilst I am in my study, and the meals are served on a lift which comes straight from the kitchen.”
To his study he led the way. It was a large room, one wall of which was covered by a bookshelf filled with large and imposing volumes. A handsome table filled the middle of the room. There were two comfortable arm-chairs and a writing-table. Under the window, across which a heavy curtain was drawn, was a smaller table, and to this my unknown employer pointed.
“That will be yours,” he said. “Your duty will be to translate despatches which I shall write, into such languages as I shall tell you. Do you speak German?”
I kept a straight face.
“Perfectly,” I replied.
He nodded approvingly.
“You wonder probably,” he said, as he seated himself at the table and looked at me strangely over the tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses fixed on his nose, “why I require discretion, why I chose you without knowing anything about you or without any kind of reference? I chose you in the first place,” he went on, without waiting for me to explain that I could produce references, “because in the first place, I think you are a foreigner. Am I right?”
“In a sense——” I began.
“Very well,” he went on. “Oh, by the way,” he looked at me sharply, “have you ever heard of Bilbury’s Tablets?”
I had indeed heard of Bilbury’s Tablets, the advertisements of which covered the hoardings of England and formed the most attractive reading matter in the stupid British newspapers. I therefore answered in the affirmative.
“Do you know the man Bilbury?” he asked, still looking at me keenly.
I was at first tempted to say that I did, but on second consideration I thought it best to tell the truth.
“No, sir. I have never met him.”
“Good,” he said, nodding again.
He leant back in his chair.
“Bilbury,” he said—“and this, you will understand, is confidential—is one of the biggest and most dangerous forces working in this country against England. I have reason to believe that, under one name or other, he is supplying most of the German agents with their money. I am satisfied also that his advertisements are code messages to the enemy government—you see, I trust you.”
I nodded, a little bewildered, for I had never known of Bilbury, though I had heard that there were in England certain persons of whose identity I was ignorant, who were working with the Fatherland.
“I tell you of Bilbury,” he went on, “because in part he explains a great deal of the secrecy both of my habitation and my movements. He also explains why I have chosen, as you might think haphazard, a confidential secretary. You are under no circumstances to communicate with any of Bilbury’s agents, and you are at all times to be prepared to counter the machinations of this extraordinary man.”
There were two or three letters on the table, and one of these he picked up, slit it open and took out what appeared to me to be a perfectly blank sheet of paper. He held it up to the light and frowned, replacing it upon his desk.
“Your presence here is already known evidently,” he said, “but I don’t think we need bother very much about that. Now,” he went on more briskly, “you are entitled to know who I am. Do you know Lord Catherton?”
“I have seen Lord Catherton,” I replied.