The Superspy

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The Superspy

By Edgar Wallace

Author of “The Man Who Knew Everything,” Etc.

 

A Teuton superman takes us into his confidence here and shows us what fools the English are in comparison with the elect of earth—his people. Scientifically, he proves to us that there is no such word as “fail” in his Lexicon of Might, forgetting that the world is preparing for him a still more scientific Lexicon of Might-Have-Been.

 

SECRET-SERVICE work is a joke in peace time and it is paid at joke rates. People talk of the fabulous sums of money , which our government spends on this kind of work, and I have no doubt a very large sum was spent every year, but it had to go a long way. Even Herr Kressler, of the Bremen-American line, who gave me my monthly check used to nod and wink when he handed over my two hundred marks.

“Ah, my good Heine,” he would say stroking his stubbly beard, “they make a fool of me, the government, but I suppose I mustn’t ask who is your other paymaster?”

“Herr Kressler,” said I earnestly, “I assure you that this is the whole sum I receive from the government.”

“So?” he would say and shake his head. “Ah, you are close fellows, and I mustn’t ask questions.”

There was little to do save now and again to keep track of some of the bad men, the extreme socialists and the fellows who ran away from Germany to avoid military service. I often wished there was more because it would have been possible to have made a little on one’s expenses. Fortunately, two or three of the very big men in New York and Chicago knew the work I was doing, and credited me with a much larger income than I possessed.

The reputation of being well off is a very useful one, and in my case, it brought me all sorts of commissions and little tips which I could profitably exploit on Wall Street, and in one way or another I lived comfortably, had a nice apartment on Riverside Drive, played the races and enjoyed an occasional trip to Washington at the government’s expense.

I first knew that war was likely to break out in July. I think we Germans understood the European situation much better than the English, and certainly much better than the Americans, and we knew that the event at Serajevo—by the way, poor Klein of our service and an old colleague of mine was killed by the bomb which ended the life of the archduke, though nobody seems to have noticed the fact—would produce the war which Austria had been expecting or seeking an excuse to wage for two years.

If I remember aright the assassination was committed on the Sunday morning. The New York papers published the story on that day, and on the Monday afternoon I was summoned to Washington, and saw the secretary who was in charge of our department on the Tuesday evening after dinner.

All the big people, even his excellency, called me by my Christian name, for I was at college with many of the officials who are prominent in the world to-day and I served as volunteer in the engineers of the guard and afterward served a probation on the great general staff, survey department.

The secretary was very grave and told me that war was almost certain and that Austria was determined to settle with Serbia for good, but that it was feared that Russia would come in, and that the war could not be localized because if Russia made war Germany and France would also be involved.

Personally, I have never liked the French, and my French is not particularly good. I was hoping that he was going to tell us that England was concerned, and I asked him if this was not the case. To my disappointment he told me that England would certainly not fight, that she would remain neutral, and that strict orders had been issued that nothing was to be done which would in any way annoy the English.

“Their army,” he said, “is beneath contempt, but their navy is the most powerful in the world and its employment might have very serious consequences.”

It seemed very early to talk about war, with the newspapers still full of long descriptions of the Serajevo murder and the removal of the archduke’s body, and I remembered afterward with what astounding assurance our secretary had spoken.

I must confess I was disappointed because I had spent a very long time in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales establishing touch with good friends, who, I felt, would work with advantage for me in the event of war. I had prepared my way by founding the Chinese News Bureau, a little concern that had an office in Fleet Street, and was ostensibly engaged in collecting items of news concerning China and in distributing them to the London and provincial press and in forwarding a London letter to certain journals in Pekin, Tientsin and Shanghai.

Of course, the money was found by “the department,” and it was not a financial success, but it was a good start in case one ever had to operate in London, since I was registered as a naturalized Chilean and it was extremely unlikely that Chile would be at war with any European power.

I could not see what there was to do in New York, where the ground was so effectively covered. We had a police force of our own associated with the Bremen-American line. We had reservist organizations in every big town, and the military and naval and commercial investigation—I will not use the hateful word “espionage”—was in good hands and I looked like being at a loose end and subordinate to people who were my inferiors, if I remained in America.

On August 3, 1914, I received a message from Washington in the departmental code, telling me that war with England was inevitable, and that I was to sail on the first boat and take up my duties in London in full control of the British department.

I was overjoyed with the news and I know that men like Stohwasser, Wesser and other men of my department looked at me with envy. They did not think they had an easy task because the American secret service is a very competent one, but they thought I was a lucky pig—as indeed I was—to be operating in a country containing a population of forty millions, most of whom, as one of their writers said, were fools.

The English are, of course, a very thick-headed people, as I have reason to know. They are childish and unsuspecting, and you have only to ask for valuable information to get it. The Scotch or Scots are shrewder in business, but very simple people, practically ignorant as are the English of European politics, and very naïve in all matters affecting the state.

Moreover, as I had discovered on several of my visits, the Scots are not particularly well disposed to their southern neighbors, and I have heard many insulting references made by them against the others. It is quite a common thing to hear the expressions of scorn, “A close-fisted Scot” or “A pudding-headed Englishman,” while in Wales neither the Scots nor the English are popular.

Ireland, of course, was in a constant condition of rebellion, and I looked forward with great pleasure to witnessing and inflaming the little domestic quarrels which I knew would arise as soon as war broke out.

I landed at Liverpool on August 11th. My passports were in order and I immediately went forward to London. There was no trace of any excitement. I saw a lot of soldiers on their way to their depots, and arriving in London I immediately received the reports of our innumerable agents.

With what pride did I contemplate the splendid smoothness of our system!

When the emperor pressed the button marked “mobilize” he brought, in addition to his soldiers, a thousand gallant hearts and brilliant minds in a score of countries all eager and happy to work for the aggrandizement of our beloved fatherland.

Six of us met at a fashionable restaurant near Trafalgar Square. There was Emil Stein, who called himself Robinson, Karl Besser—I need not give all their aliases—Heine von Betzl, Fritz von Kahn and Alexander Koos.

Stein had arrived from Holland the night before and Fritz von Kahn had come down from Glasgow where he had been acting as a hotel porter. These men were, as I say, known to me and to one another, but there were thousands of unknowns who had their secret instructions which were only to be opened in case of war, with whom we had to get in touch.

I briefly explained the procedure and the method by which our agents would be identified. Every German agent would prove his bona fides by producing three used postage stamps of Nicaragua. It is a simple method of identification, for there is nothing treasonable or suspicious in a man carrying about in his pocketbook a ten, twenty or a fifty-centime stamp of a neutral country.

I sent Emil Stein away to Portsmouth and instructed him to make contact with sailors of the fleet, especially with officers. Besser was dispatched to a west-coast shipping center to report on all the boats which left and entered. I sent Kahn and his family on a motor-car tour to the east coast with instructions to find out what new coast defenses were being instituted.

“You must exercise the greatest care,” I said, “even though these English are very stupid, they may easily blunder into a discovery. Make the briefest notes of all you see and hear and only use the number three code in cases of urgent necssity.”

We finished our dinner and we drank to “The Day” and sang under our breath “Deutschland über alles” and separated, Koos coming with me.

Koos was a staff officer of the imperial service, and though he was not noble he was held in the greatest respect. He was a fine, handsome fellow, very popular with the girls and typically British in appearance. His English was as good as mine, and that is saying a great deal.

I sent him to Woolwich because in his character as an American inventor—he had spent four years in the States—he was admirably fitted to pick up such facts as were of the greatest interest to the government.

I did not see Koos for a few days, and in the meantime I was very busy arranging with my couriers who were to carry the result of our discoveries through a neutral country to Germany. The system I adopted was a very simple one. My notes, written in India ink were separately photographed by means of a Kodak camera. When I had finished the twelve exposures I opened the camera in a dark room, carefully rerolled the spool and sealed it so that it had the appearance of being an unexposed pellicle. I argued that while the English military authorities would confiscate photographs which had obviously been taken, they might pass films which were apparently unused.

I had arranged to meet Koos on the night of August 17th, and made my way to the rendezvous, engaging a table for two. I had hardly seated myself when to my surprise Koos came in accompanied by a very pretty English girl. He walked past me, merely giving me the slightest side glance, and seated himself at the next table. I was amused. I knew the weakness of our good Koos for the ladies, but I knew also that he was an excellent investigator and that he was probably combining business with pleasure. In this I was right. The meal finished—and the innocent laughter of the girl made me smile again—and Koos walked out with the girl on his arm.

As he passed my table he dropped a slip of paper which I covered with my napkin. When I was sure I was not observed I read the note:

 

Making excellent progress. Meet me at a quarter to eleven outside Piccadilly tube.

 

I met him at the appointed time and we strolled into Jermyn Street.

“What do you think of her?” was Koos’ first question.

“Very pretty, my friend,” said I, “you have excellent taste.”

He chuckled.

“I have also "excellent luck, my dear Heine”—even well-born people call me by my Christian name, as I have before remarked, though I do not boast of this because my father’s mother was a Von Kuhl-Hozeldorf and I am in a sense related to the best Wurtemberg nobility. “That lady,” went on Koos, “is the daughter of the chief gun constructor at Woolwich.”

He looked at me to note the effect of his words, and I must confess I was startled.

“Splendid, my dear fellow!” said I warmly. “How did you come to meet her?”

“A little act of gallantry,” he said airily; “a lady walking on Blackheath twists her ankle, what more natural than that I should offer her assistance to the nearest seat? Quite a babbling little person—typically English,” he added dryly.

I laughed again.

“I could have done very well without her assistance, of course,” he went on; “as a matter of fact I had met one or two very excellent Englishmen who, with their usual penchant for boastfulness, were able to supply me with particulars of a new gun lathe of which they are very proud. In fact, I have got the rough drawings, but the little lady——

He raised his eyes to the heavens and chuckled joyfully.

“My dear friend,” he said impressively, “she is a mine of information. An only daughter, and a little spoiled, I am afraid; she knows secrets of construction of which even the techincal experts of the government are ignorant. Can you imagine a German talking over military secrets with his daughter?”

“The English are a little mad, as I have remarked before,” said I.

I then closely questioned Koos as to the activity of the police. It was naturally to be expected that Woolwich would be well guarded and that strangers would arouse suspicion.

“There is no English secret police,” said my friend cheerfully, “there is a special department at Scotland Yard whose footsteps you can hear a mile away, but a Secret service as it is understood in Germany or even in America does not exist except in the fervid imagination of romantical novelists.”

“I only asked you,” I said hastily, “for fear that this girl should be watched.”

“You can dismiss that possibility from your mind,” smiled Koos.

By this time we had reached the end of Jermyn Street and had turned down St. James Street toward the palace, and our conversation was naturally interrupted, for we had to speak in English and there was rather a crowd of people. It was not until we had reached the mall, comparatively deserted, that Koos continued his story.

“You need not worry. The girl is romantic—an idealist.”

“And you are the ideal, you dog!” said I.

He twisted his mustache, by no means ill-pleased at the accusation.

“Some men have that power of attraction,” he said modestly. “I am rather sorry for the little thing.”

“What have you learned from her?” I asked.

Koos did not reply for a moment, then he said:

“So far, very little. I am naturally anxious not to alarm her or arouse her suspicions. She is willing to talk and she has access to her father’s study, and from what I gather, she practically keeps all the keys of the house. At present I am educating her to the necessity for preserving secrecy about our friendship, and to do her justice she is just as anxious that our clandestine meetings should not come to the ears of her father as I am.”

We walked along in silence.

“This may be a very big thing,” I said.

“Bigger than you imagine,” replied Alexander, “there is certain to be an exchange of confidential views about artillery between the Allies, and though we have nothing to learn from the English, it is possible that the French may send orders to Woolwich for armament. In that case, our little friend may be a mine of information. I am working with my eyes a few months ahead,” he said, “and for that reason I am allowing our friendship to develop slowly.”

I did not see Koos again for a week except that I caught a glimpse of him in the Café Riche with his fair companion. He did not see me, however, and as it was desirable that I should not intrude I made no attempt to make my presence apparent.

At the end of the week we met by appointment which we arranged through the agony column of a certain London newspaper.

I was feeling very cheerful, for Stein, Besser and Kahn had sent in most excellent reports, and it only needed Alexander’s encouraging news to complete my sum of happiness.

“You remember the gun lathe I spoke to you about?” he said. “My friend—you may regard the blue prints as in your hands.”

“How has this come about?”

“I just mentioned the fact to my little girl that I was interested in inventions and that I had just put a new lathe upon the market in America and she was quite excited about it. She asked me if I had heard about the lathe at Woolwich, and I said that I had heard rumors that there was such a lathe. She was quite overjoyed at the opportunity of giving me information, and asked me whether in the event of her showing me the prints I would keep the fact a great secret, because,” he laughed softly, “she did not think her father would like the print to leave his office!”

“You must be careful of this girl,” I said, “she may be detected.”

“There is no danger, my dear fellow,” said Alexander, “she is the shrewdest little woman in the world. I am getting quite to like her, if one can like these abominable people. She is such a child!”

I told him to keep in communication with me and sent him off feeling what the English call in “good form.” I dispatched a courier by the morning train to the Continent, giving details of the British expeditionary force. Only two brigades were in France—and that after three weeks of preparation! In Germany, every man was mobilized and at his corps or army head quarters weeks ago—every regiment had moved up to its order-of-battle position. Two brigades! It would be amusing if it were not pathetic!

Besser came to me soon after lunch in a very excited state.

“The whole of the English expeditionary force of three divisions is in France,” he said, “and what is more, is in line.”

I smiled at him.

“My poor dear fellow, who has been pulling your foot?” I asked.

“It is confidentially communicated to the press and will be public to-morrow,” he said.

“Lies,” said I calmly, “you are too credulous. The English are the most stupid liars in the world.”

I was not so calm that night when I ran down in my car to Gorselton where our very good friend, the Baron von Hertz-Missenger, had a nice little estate.

“Heine,” he said after he had taken me to his study and shut the door, “I have received a radio through my wireless from the Kriegsministerium[1] to the effect that the whole of the British expeditionary force has landed and is in line.”

“Impossible, Herr Baron,” I said, but he shook his head.

“It is a fact—our intelligence in Belgium is infallible. Now, I do not want to interfere with you, for I am but a humble volunteer in this great work, but I advise you to give a little more attention to the army. We may have underrated the military assistance which Britain can offer.”

“The English army, Herr Baron,” said I firmly, “is almost as insignificant a factor as—as well the American army, which only exists on paper! Nevertheless, I will take your advice.”

It was necessary to humor the good baron who, although a naturalized British “subject”—which of course means absolutely nothing—is nobly born, and is indeed a member of the Hesse-Hohenlohe princely descended family.

We talked a little-while about the British. I told the Herr Baron what I had said about the British secret service and he quite agreed.

“I have been in this country for twelve years and I have met everybody of importance,” he said, “and I can assure you there is no secret intelligence department such as we Germans have brought to such perfect efficiency. As you know, I am a racing man and I meet with all sorts of people, good and bad, and I can indorse all that you say.”

I went back to town and dispatched another courier, for as yet the Torpington Varnish Factory—about which I may tell you later—had not been equipped with radio.

That night I again saw Alexander. It was at supper at the Fritz, and he looked a fine figure of a man. I felt proud of the country which could produce such a type. Where, I ask you, among the paunchy English and the scraggy Scotch, with their hairy knees and their sheep-shank legs, could you find a counterpart of that beau sabeur? Cower, treacherous Albion! Shiver in your kilt, hateful Scotland! It is not generally known that the royal and high-born Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria is rightful king of Scotland. Tremble, wild Wales and unreliable Ireland when you come in arms against a land which can produce such men as Alexander Koos!

I never saw a girl look more radiantly happy than did the young woman who was sitting vis-à-vis my friend. There was a light in her eye and a color in her cheeks which were eloquent of her joy.

I saw Alexander afterward. He came secretly to my rooms.

“Have you brought the blue print?” I asked.

He shook his head smilingly.

“To-morrow, my friend, not only the blue print of the lathe, not only the new gun mounting model, but the lady herself will come to me. I want your permission to leave the day after to-morrow for home. I cannot afford to wait for what the future may bring.”

“Can you smuggle the plans past the English police?” I asked, a little relieved that he had volunteered to act as courier on so dangerous a mission.

“Nothing easier.”

“And the girl—have you her passport?”

He nodded.

“How far shall you take her?”

“To Rotterdam,” he said promptly.

In a way, I was sorry. Yes, I am sentimental, I fear, and “sentiment does not live in an agent’s pocket,” as the saying goes. I wish it could have been done without—I shrugged my shoulders and steeled my soul with the thought that she was English and that it was all for the fatherland.

“You must come to the Café Riche to night and witness our going,” said Alexander; “you will observe that she will carry a leather case such as schoolgirls use for their books and exercises. In that case, my friend, will be enough material to keep our friends in Berlin busy for a month.”

I took leave of him, giving him certain instructions as to the course he was to take after reporting at headquarters, and spent the rest of the night coding a message for our Alexander to carry with him.

I snatched a few hours’ sleep between telephone calls, and rising at noon I read the morning papers—full of lies as are all British papers, though the Americans are worse—and went through the picture post cards which my kind friends, Von Kahn and Von Wetzl had sent to me. If you had seen those post cards with their long “holiday messages” I wonder if you would have taken a magnifying glass to search for minute pin pricks under certain letters and words? I did, because I was a chief of a bureau unequaled in the world for ingenuity and prescience.

The hour at which Alexander was to meet the girl was eight o’clock in the evening. His table, already booked, was number forty-seven, which is near the window facing Piccadilly. I telephoned through to the café and booked number forty-six, for I was anxious to witness the comedy.

All was now moving like clockwork—and let me say that the smoothness of the arrangements was due largely to the very thorough and painstaking organization work which I had carried out in the piping days of peace. We Germans have a passion for detail and for thoroughness and for this reason—apart from the inherent qualities of simplicity and honesty, and apart from the superiority of our kultur and our lofty idealism—we have been unconquerable throughout the ages.

For example, we had foreseen the necessity in organizing our intelligence department, to employ not Germans, but subjects of neutral states wherever possible. People who talk of “German spies” or “the uninterned German peril” cannot realize that from the moment war broke out, all Germans known as-such, were under the observation of the police and not only the police but their own neighbors. It would be impossible, as I had foreseen, for such men to offer assistance to our great and splendid cause, because the least suspicious movement on their parts would result in their arrest. I have a considerable respect for the Scotland Yard routine—investigation. No, my sirs, you do us no justice when you talk of “German spies.” Search not for the “Hun” as in the bitterness of your impotent rage you call us, but for the——

I think I have said that much of my time was taken up by answering telephone calls.

You must remember that I was in London as the representative of a Chinese News Bureau. I was also an agent for a firm of importers in Shanghai. It was, therefore, only natural that I should be called up all hours of the day and night with offers of goods.

“I can let you have a hundred and twenty bales of Manchester goods at one hundred and twenty-five.”

Now one hundred and twenty and one hundred and twenty-five added together make two hundred and forty-five, and turning to my “simple code” to paragraph two hundred and forty-five I find the following:

 

Second Battalion of the Graniteshire Regiment entrained to-day for embarkation.

 

The minor agents carried this code—containing fourteen hundred simple sentences to cover all naval or military movements—in a small volume. The code is printed on one side of very thin paper leaves, and the leaves are as porous and absorbent as blotting paper.

One blot of ink dropped upon a sheet will obliterate a dozen—a fact which our tireless agents have discovered.

Clipped in the center of the book, as a pencil is clipped in an ordinary pocketbook, is a tiny tube of the thinnest glass containing a quantity of black dye stuff. The agent fearing detection has only to press the cover of the book sharply and the contents of the book is reduced to black sodden pulp.

Need I say that this ingenious invention was German in its origin?[2]

My days were, therefore, very full. There came reports from all quarters and some the most unlikely. How, you may ask, did our agents make these discoveries?

There are many ways by which information is conveyed. The relations of soldiers are always willing to talk about their men and will tell you, if they know, when they are leaving, the ships they are leaving by, and will sometimes give you other important facts, but particularly about ports and dates of embarkation their information is useful.

Also officers will occasionally talk at lunch and dinner and will tell their womenfolk military secrets which a waiter can mentally note and convey to the proper quarters. Our best agents, however, were barbers, tailors, chiropodists and dentists. English people will always discuss matters with a barber or with the man who is fitting them with their clothes, and as almost every tailor was making military uniforms and a very large number of the tailors in London were either German or Austrian, I had quite a wealth of news.

Tailors are useful because they work to time. Clothes have to be delivered by a certain date, and generally the man who has the suit made will tell the fitter the date he expects to leave England.

Other useful investigators are Turkish-bath attendants and dentists. A man in a dentist’s chair is always nervous and will try to make friends with the surgeon who is operating on him. Of all agents, the waiter is in reality the least useful because writers have been pointing out for so many years the fact that most waiters were German, although the truth is that most restaurant waiters are Italian, and it is among the bedroom waiters that you find a preponderance of my fellow countrymen.

Another department of my work which kept me busy was the money-lending department. I had initiated a system of inquiry into the financial affairs of officers and I was able to keep track of all officers who were in financial difficulties. This department had been a very great disappointment to us, for in spite of the fact that we had the power to ruin hundreds of careers we have never been able to employ that power profitably.

The British officer is absolutely unscrupulous and has no sense of honor. Often our agents have offered to release them from their liabilities in return for some trifling service, and these people have preferred to live under the odium of owing people money to securing an honorable release from their debts by some simple little obliging act such as giving us particulars of their brother officers’ losses at cards, and the like.

And that is what is called English honor!

Is it not more dishonorable to owe money you cannot pay than to whisper a few little secrets about men who probably are as dishonorable as themselves? However, to return to Alexander and his inamorata.

Promptly at eight o’clock, I took my place at the table and ordered an excellent dinner—my waiter was of course a good German—and a bottle of Rhenish wine. A few minutes after I had given my order Alexander and the girl arrived. She was dressed in a long traveling coat of tussore silk and carried—as I was careful to note—a shiny brown leather portfolio. This she placed carefully on her lap when she sat down and raised her veil.

She looked a little pale, but smiled readily enough at Alexander’s jests.

I watched her as she slowly peeled off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy. Doubtless her conscience was pricking her.

Is it the thought of thy home, little maid, from whence thou hast fled never to return? Is it the anguished picture of thy heart broken and ruined father bemoaning his daughter and his honor? Have no fear, little one, thy treason shall enrich the chosen of the German God, the World Encirclers, foreordained and destined to Imperial Grandeur!

So I thought, watching her and listening.

“Are you sure that everything will be all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Please trust me,” smiled Alexander.

Oh, the deceiving rogue—how I admired his sang-froid!

“You are ready to go—you have packed?” she asked.

“As ready as you, my dear Elsie. Come—let me question you,” he bantered, “have you all those wonderful plans which are going to make our fortunes after we are married?”

So he had promised that—what would the gracious Frau Koos-Mettlebeim have said to this perfidy on the part of her husband?

“I have all the plans,” she began, but he hushed her with a warning glance.

I watched the dinner proceed, but heard very little more. All the time she seemed to be plying him with anxious questions to which he returned reassuring answers.

They had reached the sweets when she began to fumble at her pocket. I guessed, rightly, that she was seeking a handkerchief and, wrongly, that she was crying.

Her search was fruitless and she beckoned the waiter.

“I left a little bag in the ladies’ room—it has my handkerchief, will you ask the attendant to send the bag?”

The waiter departed and presently returned with two men in the livery of the hotel.

I was sitting side by side and could see the faces both of the girl and Alexander, and I noticed the amusement in his face that two attendants must come to carry one small bag.

Then I heard the girl speak.

“Put your hands, palms upward, on the table,” she said.

I was still looking at Alexander’s face.

First amazement, and then anger showed—then I saw his face go gray and into his eyes crept the fear of death.

The girl was holding an automatic pistol and the barrel was pointing at Alexander’s breast. She half turned her head to the attendants.

“Here is your man, sergeant,” she said, briskly, “Alexander Koos, alias Ralph Burton-Smith. I charge him with espionage.”

They snapped the steel handcuffs upon Alexander’s wrists and led him out, the girl following.

I rose unsteadily and followed.

In the vestibule was quite a small crowd which had gathered at the first rumor of so remarkable a sensation. Here, for the first time, Alexander spoke, and it was curious how in his agitation his perfect English became broken and hoarse.

“Who are you? You have a mistake maken, my frient!”

“I am an officer of the British intelligence department,” said the girl.

“Himmel! Secret service!” gasped Alexander, “I thought it was not!”

I saw them take him away and stole home.

They had trapped him. The girl with the sprained ankle had been waiting for him that day on Blackheath. She had led him on by talking of the plans she could get until he had told her of the rough plans he already had. While, as he thought, he was tightening the net about her, she was drawing the meshes tighter about him. Phew! It makes me hot to think of it!

Was there a secret service in England after all?

For myself, my tracks were too well covered—for Alexander I could do nothing. He would not betray me. I was sure of that. Yet, to be perfectly certain, I left the next night for Dundee, and I was in Dundee when the news came that Alexander had been shot in the Tower of London.

——

  1. The Prussian ministry of war.
  2. As a matter of fact, it was invented by the American secret service.—Ed.

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1924.


The author died in 1932, so this work is also in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80 years or less. This work may also be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.