To those who, like myself, have moved in the Continental underworld of
spies and spying, the name of "Sant of the Secret Service" is synonymous
with all that is ingenious, resourceful, and daring. In the
Intelligence Departments of London, Paris, Rome, and New York, the name
of "Sant of the Secret Service" is to-day one to conjure with.
Cheerful, optimistic, and the most modest of men, Gerry Sant has seldom
spoken of his own adventures. The son of a certain nobleman who must
here remain nameless, and hence the scion of a noble house, he has
graduated through all stages of the dark and devious ways of espionage.
Our first meeting was ten years ago, in the tribune at the Battle of
Flowers at San Remo, where, to be exact, we were fellow-members of the
committee, and it is because of our old friendship, and the fact that we
have been fellow-spies up and down Europe, that he has permitted me to
write down these intensely absorbing memoirs of exciting and unrecorded
adventures in defeating the Hun.
William Le Queux.
_Devonshire Club, London, 1918_.