THE LAST EXECUTIONS
Irving Guy Ries was a German-American who had been recruited by the
Germans in New York. He landed at Liverpool in the guise of a corn
merchant, though in private life he was actually a film operator. After
a few days spent at a hotel in the Strand he, too, visited Newcastle,
Glasgow, and Edinburgh, and went through the routine of calling upon
a number of produce merchants as an excuse for his journey, but, like
the other spies, he did no genuine business with them. He returned to
his hotel in London on 28th July after a fortnight spent in the north.
He was more careful than most of the other spies, for he preserved
copies of every business letter that he wrote. Unfortunately for him,
his employers had not kept him properly supplied with money, and by ill
chance the Censor intercepted a letter addressed to him from Holland
which contained the exact amount of the remittance usually made to
spies. Ries carried an American passport, and the first step taken was
to ask the American authorities to withdraw from him his passport in
order that it might be examined by experts. It proved to be forged,
and on 19th August late at night the police went to Ries’s hotel and
arrested him just as he was going to bed.
He was a grave and measured person who answered all my questions very
deliberately and thoughtfully. On one point he refused altogether to be
drawn. He would not tell his true name, but he explained that this was
only because if the name ever came to be published it would give pain
to his relations. About his movements he was frank enough. He explained
that he would have already left for Copenhagen if the Americans had
not required him to surrender his passport. Among his effects was
found a letter from Rotterdam, directing him to meet a certain person
in Copenhagen and report to him the result of his investigations in
England. He was asked to account for this, and he immediately dropped
all the pretence that he was in this country on genuine business. ‘I
am in your power,’ he said; ‘do what you like with me.’ There was
no doubt whatever that he was a spy, but his case differed from the
others in the fact that it could not be shown that he had ever sent
information to the enemy. In fact, it seemed clear that the Germans
were adopting new tactics, and that they intended in future to send
spies on flying visits to England, and get them to come and report the
result of their observations verbally. He was tried on 4th October, was
found guilty, and sentenced to death. He took his condemnation with
perfect philosophy. He spent all his time in reading, and he gave his
guards the impression that he was a man who had divested himself of all
earthly cares and felt himself to lie under the hand of Fate. If he
expected that the American Government would press for a reprieve and
would be successful he never showed it.
On 26th October he was removed to the Tower, and as soon as he knew
that a date was fixed for his execution he called for writing materials
and made a full confession, giving at the same time his true name.
This, of course, cannot be published in view of the considerations that
had made him conceal it when he was arrested. He was permitted to shake
hands with the firing-party, and he said, ‘You are only doing your
duty, as I have done mine.’
I have said that throughout the War there was no case of espionage by
any Englishman, but there was one curious exception. In November 1917,
it came to our knowledge that a young bluejacket who had deserted his
ship in Spain had gone straight to the German authorities in Madrid,
and given them such naval information as a bluejacket might be in
possession of. He had then given himself up as a deserter, and had been
discharged from the service. He had since obtained work in a munition
factory in the north of England near his home. He was arrested at
Barrow and sent to London, and so uneasy was the Labour situation at
the time that a strike was immediately threatened until the nature of
the charge was explained to the responsible leaders.
The young man did not attempt to deny the charge. He was the youngest
of a family who were all serving in the War in some form. His
explanation was that he went to the Germans in Spain in order to find
out their military secrets but, though there could be no doubt about
the facts, there was doubt about his mental condition, and as his
family made themselves responsible for his future good behaviour he was
discharged to their care.
Courtenay Henslop de Rysbach was a British subject, but his father was
an Austrian naturalised in this country. De Rysbach was a music-hall
artist, who, on the outbreak of war, had an engagement in Germany. He
was a comedian, one of those who can sing and juggle and play tricks on
bicycles. Like the other foreigners, he was swept into Ruhleben, and
when the Germans separated those who favoured Germany from the others
and accorded them better treatment he began to listen to suggestions
that he should undertake work for the enemy. He was removed to Berlin
to undergo a course of training. From Berlin he went to Zurich and to
Paris in the guise of a British subject who had been released from
internment on account of his health. He landed at Folkestone on 27th
June, and at once found himself free to move about the country without
restriction.
One day the Postal Censor detained two songs addressed to a man in
Zurich. One was called ‘The Ladder of Love’ and the other, ‘On the way
to Dublin Town.’ The songs were signed ‘Jack Cummings, Palace Theatre,
London.’ No such person existed, and for some time there was nothing
to indicate the sender. An examination of the songs with a suitable
developer brought up between the bars of music an account of what the
writer had seen in this country. De Rysbach was then appearing at a
local music-hall in Glasgow with a female trick cyclist. As soon as
his identity with Jack Cummings was established he was brought to
London and put through a detailed examination. It transpired that
after his arrival in this country he had attempted to obtain a post
in the Censorship, though employment in that department can scarcely
have been more remunerative than his earnings in the music-halls. He
told us that with a view of gaining his liberty he had promised to
serve the Germans, though he never intended to fulfil his promise. He
admitted that he had been supplied with a secret ink made up in the
form of an ointment, but declared that he had thrown it away while
crossing Lake Constance, and had kept only one tube as a souvenir.
Being a British subject he was tried at the Old Bailey before a judge
and jury. The jurymen were so far impressed with his story that they
disagreed. Probably he expected then that he would be released, but
he soon found that he was to undergo a new trial. In October 1915 he
was found guilty and sentenced to penal servitude for life, though his
guilt was really greater than that of several of the spies who had been
executed. His name was not made public at the time; only the fact that
a British subject had been found guilty of espionage was disclosed, and
the newspapers began to wonder why a British spy had been so leniently
treated. Soon after his sentence de Rysbach offered to give much fuller
information about the German espionage methods on condition that he was
released. His offer was not accepted.
De Rysbach was not the only Ruhleben prisoner of whom the Germans made
use. Among the British subjects interned were, of course, certain
Germans who had been naturalised in this country. Among these was a
German-Jew--we will call him Preiznitser--whose history is instructive.
He came over to England as a boy, and in furtherance of his ambition
he obtained naturalisation. He married an Englishwoman, and rose to be
manager of his company. In the course of business he was in Germany on
the outbreak of war. It is doubtful whether he had any real national
allegiance at all, but certain unguarded utterances had aroused the
suspicions of his fellow-prisoners, who made a clandestine examination
of his personal effects. Among these were discovered copies of articles
apparently furnished to German newspapers, abusing the allies, and
particularly the British. There was one paper, evidently the copy
of a letter, in which he suggested that he should act as a guide to
Zeppelins attacking England, on account of his intimate knowledge of
the English roads through motoring in the course of business.
A few days before this Preiznitser had disappeared from the prison,
and it soon became known among the prisoners that the Germans had
released him. Some of the British then made it their business to have
the copies of Preiznitser’s incriminating letters conveyed to me. After
some weeks, for some unexplained reason, the Germans put Preiznitser
back in Ruhleben, and it may well be understood that his reception
was neither flattering nor cordial. In fact, his life became such a
hell that he determined to escape. That was his story. How far it was
true, how far the Germans connived at his escaping it was impossible to
determine, but he did arrive in England and he did present himself at
my office, without knowing that I had in my possession copies of his
letters written from Ruhleben. It was there that he told the marvellous
story of his escape.
All went well until I produced his letters and read them to him. He was
abashed for a moment, but only for a moment. His explanation was that
his object in offering to guide Zeppelins to England was to be sent
over here in order to offer his services to the Air Ministry as a guide
for aeroplanes bombing Germany. I think that during the War I never
met a more loathsome type of international. He was ready to serve any
and every master if only it should be to the advantage of Lionel Max
Preiznitser. And we could do nothing more drastic than intern him until
the end of the War.
The spy who made the worst impression was Albert Meyer, a Jew, with a
very mean history. He was one of those young scoundrels who live upon
women, defraud their landladies, and cheat their employers. A letter
was stopped in the Censorship which proved on examination to be full of
secret writing. The name and address of the sender were false. There
was nothing to do but to sit down and wait. During the next few weeks
many more of these letters were stopped in the same handwriting,
but with different names and addresses. All that could be gathered
from them was that the writer was of foreign nationality, and that
he was living somewhere in London. After a long and patient search a
little Jew of uncertain nationality named Albert Meyer was arrested
in a lodging-house. He had been moving from one lodging-house to
another, promising the landladies that he would pay them as soon as his
remittances arrived from ‘his parents abroad.’ He was living the kind
of life which spies affect--dining one day in an expensive restaurant
and the next, when the money was exhausted, begging a meal from an
acquaintance. He could not even keep faith with his employers, for his
communications contained a mass of fictitious information. When he was
required to furnish a specimen of his handwriting, and the similarity
with the writing in the letters was pointed out to him, he explained it
by saying that it had been the malicious work of a so-called friend,
and the invisible ink found in his possession had been also planted on
him by this ‘friend.’ He was tried by court-martial on 5th November and
sentenced to death. His end was characteristic. He had behaved quietly
during the weeks that followed his sentence, but as soon as he knew his
fate and was taken from his cell to the place of execution he struck up
the tune of ‘Tipperary.’ On reaching the miniature rifle-range he burst
into a torrent of blasphemy, and he had to be placed forcibly in the
chair and strapped in. He tore the bandage from his eyes, and was still
struggling when he died.
The most curious and ineffective of the German spies during the War
was Alfred Hagn, a young Norwegian whom we arrested on 24th May 1917.
He was one of those young people who write novels, paint Futurist
pictures, compose startling poetry and prose for the magazines, and
fail to arrive anywhere. He had gone to America in the hope of selling
his pictures, and had returned penniless in 1916. We were afterwards
told that his parents, who were in quite humble circumstances, were
really to blame for his misfortunes. They had educated him above his
station, and filled him with the belief that he was destined to become
a great artist.
In the autumn of 1916, while he was trying to dispose of some of his
pictures in Norway, he met a German painter named Lavendel and a member
of the German Intelligence who called himself Harthern. To those men he
related to what straits he was reduced, and they suggested to him in
a joking manner that he should go to England as an agent. He rejected
this suggestion at the time, but later, on the assurance of Harthern
that, as a correspondent of a Norwegian newspaper, he was not at all
likely to be suspected, he consented. He approached the editor of a
daily paper, offering to act as special correspondent, and the low
price which he was prepared to accept for his articles, which were to
be contributed free of any claim for expenses, clinched the matter. He
arrived in England on 10th October, and for some weeks gave no ground
for suspicion. He wrote a few articles for his Norwegian newspaper, and
then returned to Norway. Here the German agents again got hold of him.
His money had run short, and there was nothing for it but to undertake
another trip. His second arrival was on 13th April 1917. He went to a
boarding-house in Tavistock Square. Here he appears to have excited
suspicion by his taciturnity. An Italian professor who was staying in
the same house came to the conclusion that a man who had evidently so
much on his mind must be a German spy. While at this boarding-house he
received a notice calling him to join the Colours, which had been sent
under the impression that he was a British subject. He called at the
recruiting office to explain that he was not liable.
It was to the Italian professor that the credit for unmasking Hagn’s
real employment was due. He was so convinced by his conduct in the
hotel that he called at the nearest police station to denounce him
as a German spy. There were many hundreds of such denunciations, but
they were all passed to the proper department. A careful examination
was made of the documents produced by Hagn when he received permission
to land in this country. Though there was nothing incriminating in
these there was some reason for suspecting that he might be using a
new secret ink. His room was visited, and on the table was noticed a
bottle labelled ‘Throat Gargle.’ A little of the liquid was abstracted
for analysis, and it proved to be an ink with which invisible writing
might be produced. On 24th May, therefore, Hagn was taken into custody.
He took his arrest quite calmly. In fact, he behaved as if he had
been expecting it. When a search was made of his effects the police
discovered pieces of cotton-wool bearing traces of ammonia, a drug
which had to be used with this ink. In examination it transpired that
he had written only two or three articles, for which he received £2
a piece, and that his expenses in England had come to much more than
this. He could not account for the source of his livelihood, but in
the end he broke down and admitted everything. He told us that his
mission was to obtain particulars of the alleged misuse of hospital
ships: probably he had not sent the Germans anything of importance.
It transpired that among other things he had made application for
permission to visit the Western Front on behalf of his newspaper.
He was brought to trial on 27th August 1917, when his counsel told the
whole of his unhappy story. He had been a spoilt child, whose every
whim had been indulged by his parents. All went well while his father
lived, but at his death the mother was left nearly destitute. She
brought her son back to Norway in the hope that he would be able to
support her, but what can a Futurist artist, whose pictures no one will
buy, do to support himself, much less a dependent? And, to crown his
troubles, Hagn was suffering from unrequited love. His death sentence
was afterwards commuted to imprisonment for life. He gave no trouble in
Maidstone Prison for two years, and then he went on hunger-strike--not
for the usual reason of forcing the hands of the authorities, but
because he had become convinced that such a wretch as he had no longer
the right to cumber the earth. It was a form of delusional insanity.
Counsel was taken with the Norwegian Government, and on 13th September
1919 he was sent back to Norway on an undertaking that he would never
come to England again.
After Hagn’s conviction there was a lull. A good many suspects were
interned or deported during 1917, but it was not until September that
another real spy landed in England. José de Patrocinio, a Brazilian
half-caste, the son of a well-known negro journalist in Brazil who had
been largely concerned in the liberation of the slaves, arrived at
Gravesend from Flushing. He cut so unsatisfactory a figure while he was
being questioned that the port authorities felt sure that he was a spy.
He was taxed with it, and almost immediately he made a confession.
According to his story, he had gone to Paris in 1913 as a correspondent
for a newspaper, and while there he had been offered an appointment as
attaché to the Brazilian Consulate. In 1916, however, his appointment
came to an end, and he found himself in Amsterdam short of funds and
with a wife to support. He was actually considering how he could get
money enough for returning to Brazil when a German agent came into
touch with him. To this man he related all the squalid little details
of his struggle to accumulate sufficient money for his passage. The
next day a man named Loebel, afterwards known as a recruiter of spies,
began to talk about his approaching visit to Brazil. ‘How are you
going?’ he asked. ‘There are no Dutch boats.’ Patrocinio told him that
he would go first to the United States and thence to South America.
Loebel said that in his opinion it was a stupid plan. He might make
a great deal of money if he stayed in Europe. In the end Patrocinio
promised to be in the same café at a fixed hour the next day in order
to be introduced to a person who would put him in the way of making
this money.
The new-comer turned out to be a sallow, swarthy person with
ingratiating manners, who wore spectacles and perpetually rubbed
his hands. He gave his name as Levy, and declared himself to be a
Brazilian. Patrocinio thereupon addressed him in Portuguese, and was
immediately aware that whatever Levy’s nationality might be he was not
a Brazilian. Levy went on to say that he had been born at Rio Grande
do Sul, but on hearing that his Portuguese accent was not all that
it should be, he said, quite unabashed, ‘Oh, but I am a naturalised
Brazilian.’ Then Patrocinio pressed his questions, and said at last,
‘You see, you have never been to Brazil at all.’ Mr. Levy was not in
the least abashed. He laughed and said, ‘You are very clever. You are
just the kind of man I want.’ He then told him he was a Swiss, but
wanted a Brazilian passport with which to go to England, and would
pay a great deal of money for such a passport. In the subsequent
conversation about the use of fraudulent passports, Levy whispered to
him, ‘I can put you in the way of getting a thousand pounds,’ and then,
a little later, ‘How would you like to look after my affairs in England
and France?’
‘You see, I know nothing about your business.’
‘You are an intelligent man. If you want to earn a thousand pounds try
to find out where the next offensive in France will take place.’
According to Patrocinio, he decided at that moment to track down this
ingratiating and shameless person as a service for the Allies and for
Brazil. That was an oft-told tale. According to his story, he then
asked Levy how he could communicate such information even if he found
it out.
‘I will tell you everything. I am specially employed by the police in
Berlin. If you are faithful to us we can protect you both in France and
in England, and if you are willing to obtain this information we will
give you a secret ink in which you can write your messages in perfect
safety, and we can give you addresses which no one will suspect.’
Patrocinio asked for the ink.
‘Oh, I don’t carry that about with me. Come and see me again at
Loebel’s house and we will have another talk.’
Late in the evening he met the two men again, as arranged, and Levy
said, ‘You must not go unwillingly. There is plenty of time to draw
back if you are afraid.’ Patrocinio resented the suggestion of fear,
but said that he did not altogether like being branded as a spy. ‘But
a thousand pounds!’ whispered the tempter, and Patrocinio fell. As
a parting injunction, Levy said, ‘Remember if you betray us I can
have you assassinated either in London or in Paris.’ There were claws
beneath his velvet gloves!
The instructions Patrocinio received were that he was to obtain news of
the movements of troops and forward it written in secret ink between
the lines of an ordinary letter to six addresses, of which some were in
Switzerland and some in Denmark. At the end of six weeks he was to go
to Switzerland and write a letter to Frankfurt-on-Maine announcing his
arrival. He would be paid according to the value of his information,
and if he served faithfully he would receive further employment. Levy
then took Patrocinio into another room and gave him instructions in
the use of this new secret ink, which was contained in a soft linen
collar and two or three handkerchiefs. These had to be soaked in
water, and the water then became the ink. He gave a demonstration by
writing a message, but when Patrocinio asked how it was to be developed
the claws again peeped from the velvet gloves. Patrocinio went back
to his wife thoroughly frightened, and it was probably due to her
intervention that the confession was made. It appears that as the boat
conveying Patrocinio and his wife to England left the quay at Flushing
one of the passengers saw the little Brazilian lean over the side and
throw some collars into the sea. This seemed to him so remarkable a
proceeding that he kept the little man under observation. And, to make
Patrocinio’s fears even more acute, a lady, addressing his wife in
his hearing, asked whether she knew a Mr. René Levy, who was staying
in the hotel, and said he was a Brazilian. A few minutes later the
fellow-passenger who had noticed the incident of the collars came up to
him and asked him whether he had had any dealings with Germans while he
was in Holland. By this time Patrocinio’s nerves were so shaky that
he blurted out to this stranger a great deal of what he afterwards
confessed to us. On the whole, it seems doubtful whether Patrocinio
ever intended to act as a spy, though he had certainly promised the
Germans that he would become one. If he had really intended to unearth
the conspiracy and bring the information to England he would have lost
no time in making a full report, but being a timid person he very
foolishly told falsehood after falsehood until his story had become so
involved that the whole of it was suspected.
He was detained while a communication was made to the Brazilian
Government. It then appeared that his father was regarded as a sort of
national hero, and was known as the liberator of the slaves, and that
if anything happened to his son there would be an outburst of popular
feeling in Brazil. For this reason Patrocinio was sent back to Brazil
with the usual warning.
In February 1916 we had information that a young man of good family
named Adolfo Guerrero was on his way to England in the employment of
the Germans. The port authorities allowed him to land in order to
keep him under close observation. He told them that he was a Spanish
journalist representing a Madrid newspaper, _Libral_, and they made
the astonishing discovery that he could not speak a word of English.
How the Germans could have brought themselves to engage such a person
passed their comprehension. Guerrero had brought with him as far
as Paris a young woman, a professional dancer, who called herself
Raymonde Amondarain, with the ‘sub-titles’ of ‘Aurora de Bilbao’ and
‘La Sultana.’ Guerrero first set to work to pull the strings to obtain
permission for this young woman to come to London, and he found a
Spanish merchant in Fenchurch Street who was ready to write a letter
telling her that he had a clerical position in his office open to
her if she would come. It did not seem to strike either of them that
a young dancer with an extensive wardrobe was scarcely the kind of
person who would settle down to clerical work in a city office, but it
was good enough for the French Passport Office; and when Amondarain
announced at the port that she had come to join her future husband,
Senor Guerrero, she was detained, for it was found that she had given
false answers to the questions put to her for passport purposes.
On 18th February 1916 Guerrero was arrested and brought down for
examination. From his point of view, it was tragic that the lady was
lodged, all unknown to him, a few streets off. For a time he adhered to
his ridiculous story that he was to be a correspondent for the _Libral_
on payment of £2 an article. In sixteen days he had written two such
articles, and he was proposing to keep himself and Amondarain on the
earnings of his pen.
It was now necessary to ascertain who Guerrero really was. Officers
were sent out to Spain, and they found that part of the story was true.
He did belong to a noble family, but he had fallen into wild habits,
and had become an easy victim to the German agents then living in
Spain. The editor of the _Libral_ had never heard of him. It was not
until 13th July that he appeared at the Old Bailey, but before this it
had been decided not to include Amondarain in the charge, because her
strenuous advocacy of her intended husband and the inquiries we had
made about her antecedents seemed to make it clear that she was not
implicated in espionage. She was, however, kept in custody until the
issue of Guerrero’s trial, and then sent back to Spain. He was found
guilty and sentenced to death.
A few days after his trial he wrote to say that if his life was spared
he would give information that would break up the whole of the German
espionage system, but his confession proved to be a tissue of fiction.
He said that his name in the German Secret Service was Victor Gunantas,
that he was known as No. 154, which meant that he was the 154th spy who
had come from Spain to England. He was to visit mercantile ports and
report merchantmen who were about to sail to ensure their becoming a
prey to the submarines; he was to receive £50 a week and a commission
on all ships sunk as the result of his information. No man ever
deserved the extreme penalty more richly, but influences had been at
work in Spain and, in deference to the representations of the Spanish
Government, his life was spared. I am not sure that there have not been
moments during Guerrero’s imprisonment when he wished that his friends
had not been so insistent in his behalf.
It was a curious fact that among the papers found upon him was a letter
telling him to call on a certain number in Stockwell Road, Brixton, the
address of the spy, de Rysbach, who had been arrested in 1915.
Early in 1916 we learned that, besides the perennial question of
movement of troops, the Germans were anxious to locate our munition
factories. But they were even more anxious to know about our national
morale, probably because their own was beginning to give them cause
for anxiety. We learned that a certain Dutch Jew who passed under the
name of Leopold Vieyra was being sent to England specially to report
upon these points, and that the Germans had given him a sum of money
calculated at the rate of 50s. a day for the expenses of his trip. He
was allowed to land, and very careful observation was kept upon him.
It was found that he was communicating with a person in Holland whom
he addressed as Blom, that he had once dealt in films under the name
of Leo Pickard, and that he had been getting his living in buying
and selling films, both in England and in Holland. In July 1916 he
mentioned in a letter to Blom that he was about to return to Holland,
and in one of Blom’s letters occurred the passage, ‘If you cannot do
anything in London try the provinces.’ It was arranged that a call
should be made at Blom’s address, and it was found that no one lived
there except a Mrs. Dikker, who admitted that her maiden name was
Sophia Blom. Further inquiries showed that this address was an ordinary
post-box for letters addressed to the German Secret Service. In August
Vieyra was arrested, his house was searched, and in it was found the
usual outfit for secret writing. His explanation of his connection with
Blom broke down under interrogation. He was tried by court-martial on
11th November, found guilty, and sentenced to death, but the sentence
was afterwards commuted to one of penal servitude for life.
The most absurd person employed by the Germans was Joseph Marks. I was
watching the work of the port officers at Tilbury one summer afternoon
when one of my inspectors whispered to me that in the next room was
a person over whom they would be glad to have my help. He said that
his very first question had reduced the man to a pitiable condition
of fright, and that when he was told that within a few minutes he
would have an opportunity of making his explanations to me in person
he collapsed, murmuring, ‘Then Basil Thomson knew I was coming or he
wouldn’t be here.’
Adopting a manner suitable to the occasion, I sat down at a table and
sent for Marks, and there stumbled into the room a positive mountain
of flesh, over six feet in height, and proportionately broad and deep:
he must have weighed at least sixteen stone. At the moment the whole
mass was trembling like a jelly. The passport he produced was Dutch,
but almost at my first question he broke down and said: ‘If you will
have patience with me I will tell you the whole story. When I saw one
of your men on board the steamer watching me I knew I was in a trap,
and if you hadn’t been here to meet me I should have gone straight to
your office to-morrow morning.’ (His guilty conscience had converted an
ordinary fellow-passenger into a police agent.)
According to his story, he belonged to an important commercial
family in Aix-la-Chapelle, where he had three times been accused by
the Germans of being an agent for the French. They told him that he
could clear himself from suspicion only by proceeding to England to
obtain naval information for them. He preferred to take his chance of
escaping discovery in England to being shot as a French spy by his own
people. He attended a spy school, where they furnished him with an
album of postage stamps--a method of conveying information that was
new to us. He was to send to Switzerland stamps indicating particular
classes of warships. Thus, ten Uruguay stamps taken in conjunction
with an Edinburgh postmark would mean that ten battleships were lying
in the Firth of Forth, and so on. Whether he ever intended to carry
out his instructions is uncertain: usually so well-fed a person has
no stomach for adventure, but he was put on his trial for having come
to this country after being in communication with an enemy agent, and
was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude. In a convict prison he
was safe for the duration of the War, and when he was repatriated in
October 1919 he was profuse in his gratitude. Probably no one has ever
gone to prison with a lighter heart. I imagine that any philatelist
who may in future produce his album for the inspection of Mr. Joseph
Marks will be startled by the effect he will produce.
The bottom rung of the ladder of infamy was touched by a young Fleming
whom I examined in 1917. He had been employed by the Belgians to pilot
young Belgians over the Dutch frontier. He proposed to a Frenchman
that they should sell the secret to the Germans and divide the money.
He said that eight men were to cross that night: for a few gulden he
would have sacrificed the lives of eight of his fellow-countrymen who
had trusted him. With great presence of mind, the Frenchman gave him
to understand that he himself was a German agent, and that he would
arrange the whole business, and further, that if he would make a trip
with him to England at once he would earn a much larger sum. So great
was the Fleming’s cupidity that he embarked and was received on landing
by Special Branch policemen.