CHAPTER II.

THE MAN WHO DWELT ON A HILL

When I left London hurriedly, after the arrest of Alexander Koos, I must confess that my mind was greatly disturbed. I sat half the night in my sleeper, turning over all the circumstances leading up to the arrest of my good friend. We Germans are the most logical people in the world. We argue with precision from known facts, and we deduce from those facts such subtle conclusions as naturally flow.

We do not indulge in frivolous speculations--we Germans are a serious people with a passion for accurate data.

Thus I argued: (1) If a secret police force had been established it is a post-war creation. Otherwise our general staff would have known of its existence and have advised us. (2) Supposing a secret service had been initiated where would its agents be found? Naturally in the vicinity of the great arsenals and military camps. Under these circumstances it was not surprising that Koos, confining his investigations to Woolwich, had been brought into contact with a member of this new organisation. (3) It was humanly impossible that the operations of an improvised secret service could be extended in a few days to areas other than military and arsenal areas. Therefore, it behoved the investigator to avoid as far as possible arousing suspicion by pursuing his inquiries in the neighbourhood of arsenals and camps.

When I had reached this conclusion I was much comforted. I had no desire to take unnecessary risks. It seemed certain to me at that time, that the war would not last longer than three months. Koos had thought it would be over in two months, but I felt that he erred on the side of optimism. So that the period of risk was not a very prolonged one, and if I were wise and discreet and succeeded in impressing my subordinates with the necessity for similar discretion, there was no reason why we should not return to the Fatherland with a flawless record to receive those honours which the Supreme War Lord bestowed upon the faithful servants of our beloved Deutschland.

At eight o’clock in the morning I was taking my breakfast in the station-buffet at Edinburgh. Von Kahn was awaiting me, and over the meal, served by a sleepy waitress, I had an opportunity of retailing the events which had led to my hasty departure from London. Von Kahn stroked his moustache thoughtfully.

“Koos was an impetuous man,” he said, “I am not surprised that he has been detected. You must not forget, my dear Heine, that we Germans have only one thought, only one goal, the welfare of the Fatherland. Koos allowed his penchant for feminine society to overcome his judgment. That is a mistake which I should never make.”

I looked at our good von Kahn, with his big red face and his short, well-fed body, and I could not help thinking that it would be indeed a remarkable circumstance if he allowed himself to be lured to destruction in such a manner.

He joined the train and went on with me to Dundee. We had not gone far from the station before the train stopped and an attendant came in and pulled down all the blinds, removing, in spite of our protest, all our baggage, which he locked in an empty compartment.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.

“I am very sorry, sir,” said the man, “but those are my orders.”

For a moment I had a cold feeling inside me that I was suspected, but his next words reassured me.

“We do it to everybody, sir, before we cross the ---- Bridge.”

When he had gone I turned to von Kahn.

“This is an extraordinary thing,” I said. “I never suspected the English of taking such intelligent precautions.”

Von Kahn laughed.

“The English here are Scots,” he said, “and they are very cautious.”

I should have dearly liked to peep out when the rumble of the wheels told me we were passing the famous bridge, but in the corridor outside the carriage I discovered, to my amazement, a Scottish soldier with fixed bayonet, and for some reason or other his eyes never left us.

It was not until we were a very long way past the bridge that the attendant returned my bag and suit-case and pulled up the blind, and not until we reached Dundee that I discussed the matter at all with von Kahn.

“I have reason to believe,” he said, “that we have passed a portion of the British Fleet, and it will be my endeavour during the next few days to discover what units are at present in the region of Rosyth.”

He told me this in the cab on the way to our hotel and he also gave me a great deal of information about the East Coast defences which it had been his business to investigate.

“It is practically impossible to get near the important parts of the coast,” he said, “and I think you must give up all idea of establishing light-signal stations at X and Q.”

This was a sad disappointment to me, which I did not attempt to hide.

“My dear von Kahn,” I said testily, “you are getting hypnotised by the English. You are giving them credit for gifts which are not theirs. You are imagining that these people, these Scotch for example, have the same keen national sense of suspicion as we Germans possess.”

We drove the rest of the journey to an hotel in silence. I registered here in the name by which I was known to the Chilian Legation.

I had never been in Dundee before and I hope I may never see the town again, for reasons which will be sufficiently obvious to all the good friends who read my narrative.

Dundee is a sad, grey town, so grim on the rainy morning I arrived, that I was filled with a strange sense of foreboding. It is a city of high chimney-stacks that stream smoke, and of clanging tramway cars.

I don’t know whether it was my imagination, or due to the shock of poor Koos’ arrest, but it also seemed that it was a town of graveyards, for whichever way I went I seemed always to return to one drear space of tombstones and sad trees.

My local agent here was a barber named Shmidt, and the first thing I did on my arrival at the hotel was to send for a barber! What was more natural than that a weary traveller should require shaving! Ah! do not smile, my friends! By such acts of forethought and detail was our great service built up and wonderfully established. Our good friend came with his little black-leather bag and was admitted to my room. The honest fellow was almost overcome by the sight of one whom he regarded as being a veritable link between himself and his Supreme War Lord.

“It is beautiful to be able to speak our noble German tongue again,” he said; “think of it, Herr Heine! Here I am week in and week out talking Scotch--not even English.”

He had much to tell me that I committed to memory. He even had had the good fortune to be called in professionally to an admiral who was passing through Dundee on the way to a certain town in the north.

“Naturally,” said Shmidt, “I was extremely tactful and suspicion-avoiding. But, Herr Heine, not even the high officers of State know discretion. Reticence is not!

“‘I wish you’d take me with you, Sir Jones,’ I said; he was well-born and had been created a Sir for war knowledge.

“‘Come along,’ said Sir Jones, ‘but I’m afraid you will not be comfortable when our fleet goes into action next week against Heligoland.’

“‘That is a strong fortress, Admiral,’ I said.

“‘We have been undermining it for a month,’ said Sir Jones.

“Herr Heine, I nearly fainted with excitement. Consider the position. Here was I, a faithful servant of the Fatherland, listening to one of the most important military secrets from an Excellency of the English Navy. I kept my blood cool and went on lathering without a tremble of hand.’

“‘That must have been terribly difficult, Sir Jones,’ I said.

“‘Not at all,’ said Sir Jones; ‘we have a new submarine on wheels that creeps along the bed of the ocean and fortunately there are beneath Heligoland several very large caves in which our divers can store explosives. I trust you will regard all I have told you as confidential!’”

By the time Shmidt had finished I was on my feet. I knew that there had been a secret vote or appropriation for the British Navy a year before. So this was the reason.

“Send Herr von Kahn to me, you will find him in Room 84,” I said; and long before my companion had arrived I was working at my codes.

“We must find a way to get this information to Germany,” I said.

“The way is simple,” said he; “the _Sven Gustavus_ is in harbour, waiting to clear for Bergen. She has wireless, and outside of the territorial waters she can get into touch with the Bremen wireless station.”

The message I sent was a long one, and I have since learnt that it created something like a sensation at the Admiralty. All the warships in the vicinity of Heligoland were ordered away, the Corps of Divers came from Cuxhaven and the foundations of the island were thoroughly explored, although the Admiralty Marine Survey Department was emphatic on the point that no caverns existed under the island.

As a matter of fact none were discovered, though a certain suspicious-looking hole was found in one of the rocks.[3]

I cannot believe that a High Officer of State who was also a Sir would condescend to a lie or be so frivolous as to invent such a story, and to this day I believe that my promptitude in notifying Berlin in all probability saved the Fatherland from an incalculable disaster. It was after I had sent this message away, together with certain data which I received from London, that I set about the business which had induced me to choose Dundee as the scene of my sojourn.

Scotland had an importance in our scheme which many people have made the mistake of under-estimating. To appreciate that importance, let us examine the nature of the German Plan in the event of war. Britain’s strength and weakness lay in her great extent and in the homogeneous nature of her people. In this respect she resembled the Royal and Imperial Empire of Austria-Hungary, with its German, Magyar, Czec, Slav and Jugo-Slav, Italian, Serbian, and Roumanian subjects. Austria-Hungary, however, had this advantage, that whatever views might be held, whatever dissatisfaction and dissensions might exist amongst the peoples, the Empire was organised for control by a certain authority. Britain was not so organised. The English hated the Irish, the Welsh hated the English, the Scotch despised both, and the Irish hated everybody, including themselves. At the outbreak of war the north and south of Ireland were on the brink of civil war, a great strike was pending in Wales (of this more anon), and the Scottish industrial classes, particularly on the Clyde, were in a state of unrest.

Outside of the island kingdoms we had an Egypt ripe for rebellion, with the Khedive on our side, we had India seething with sedition, and South Africa organised for revolt under two of the most popular of the Boer Generals in De la Rey and De Wet. Our task was, of course, to drive the wedges of dissension still deeper, and largely my work was specialised in this direction, for now the routine of gathering naval and military information was so smoothly-running that there was nothing for me to do but to sort out the news which came to me and pass it along to the proper quarters.

And here I might explain that there were in reality two branches of Investigation. There was my own, which comprehended all the hackwork of espionage and propaganda, and there was the Higher Service with which I was seldom brought into contact. The Higher Service was unpaid but skilfully organised. Its members were practically unknown to one another, though most of them were known to me and watched by my agents. We Germans leave nothing to chance. In Scotland, living not a very long way from Dundee, was one whom for certain reasons I regarded as a good friend of ours and who was known locally as “Mr. Brown from Australia.”

He had a cottage in the loveliest part of the Highlands,[4] where he lived for three months in the year, spending his time in fishing one of the little rivers in the neighbourhood. Beyond that he was eccentric and had had a big flag-staff erected before his cottage on which he used to fly the Australian flag, little was known of him.

He had few visitors. His cottage was on an inhospitable spur of the hills, which was more often than not wreathed in the low-lying clouds or mists which seem to be a permanent feature of this country.

Now and again a member of the Mounted Constabulary would ride up and exchange a few words or even go inside for a glass of refreshment when he saw the flag flying, which was always a sign that Mr. Brown was in residence.

He had one servant, a Swiss youth, who was valet, groom and cook.

I have said about the Higher Service that I knew most of the members. Some of the names had been officially supplied to me, before my return to England to take up my work, by von Igel, who was practically in charge of all the commercial work in New York. Some of them I had already located on my previous visits to England; while some were so important, so well-born and so well-connected with Illustrious Excellencies, that not only were their names withheld from me but I was discouraged whenever I applied to Headquarters for information.

My local agents in Scotland had already marked down Mr. Brown, of Australia, and I had put through an inquiry about this gentleman, informing the _Kriegsministerium_ that he was evidently well educated, that he was a fluent German scholar, and that he belonged to a superior London club, much frequented by ministers and attachés. Obviously his name was not “Brown,” and the two surreptitious views I secured of him, one close at hand and one through powerful field-glasses, left no doubt in my mind that he was a son of the Fatherland. We Germans have an instinct one for the other, a sort of sixth sense due to our common kultur and to our higher human development.

Headquarters could tell us nothing, and I thought I detected a certain discouragement in the wording of the brief message which came through to me, and drew my own conclusions. There were certain peculiarities about Mr. Brown which strengthened my resolve, and von Kahn, who had paid two visits to Glen Macintyre, was even more emphatic.

“It is not my desire, as you well know, von Kahn,” said I, “to intrude myself into illustrious circles, but there is every reason, in view of the fate of poor Koos, why we should get in touch with every friend we can muster.”

There is only one other incident of my stay in Dundee to record, and that is a curious one. In my rôle as a Chilian importer, I carried a fairly large sum of money, and to emphasize my association with the South American Republic, and the international character of my business, it was my custom in every new town I visited to call either on a money-changer or the principal bank, and request an exchange of British money for my foreign notes.

Accordingly I went into the Dundee branch of the Bank of Tayside and producing a small bundle of notes asked for their British equivalent. There were, I remember, twelve hundred _peses_ notes of Chili, a ten-condor note of Ecuador, a hundred-franc note of France and a hundred-franc note of the Bank of Switzerland.

The teller took the money, counted it and jotted the totals down until he came to the Swiss note. He looked at the note and then looked at me. Then he pushed the note back.

“We cannot change Swiss money,” he said.

I scented a mystery--possibly some hidden diplomatic trouble with our good Swiss neighbour.

“Why?” I asked. “The Swiss exchange is above parity.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the clerk decisively, “but we are not changing Swiss notes.”

He added some lame story about a large number of Swiss forgeries being in circulation, but I sought a deeper reason. There had been a frontier incident. Two or three English newspaper correspondents had been arrested at Bale and there had been certain hints in the Paris newspapers that a member of the Swiss General Staff had been conveying information to our own staff. Here was a matter on which I could very well consult “Mr. Brown,” if von Kahn’s inquiries satisfied me as to his bonâ fides.

I started off next morning, accompanied by von Kahn, who had left his family at an East Coast watering place, fully determined to over-ride the objections which Berlin had shown and to establish communication with “the hermit of the Glen,” as I had, with a little touch of true German sentimentality, described him.

We went across Scotland, changing at Stirling, and in the evening I came to the little town which was the nearest point on the railway to Mr. Brown’s residence.

Stirling was interesting. It was full of soldiers in their picturesque kilts.

“Ah, my fine fellows,” thought I pityingly, “how little you know of the humiliation in store for you!”

In six months’ time these proud regiments who were marching to the station with bands and banners would come creeping back, possibly under a German guard! Little did they think, these officers who sat chattering so frivolously on the station, that the unobtrusive man in knickerbockers and rough stockings, watching them so innocently, was a member of the dominant race and an officer of that great secret service which has no parallel in the world.

But to resume my narrative. The next morning, at six o’clock, I rose and knocked on the door of von Kahn’s room. He was up and dressed, and after a hasty breakfast we were soon flying through the morning sunlight to our destination.

Four miles out of the town we left the main road and pursued a narrow cart-track which led gradually up to the hills. The road crosses a saddle of one of these ridges, then drops steeply into a broad green valley, through which runs two rivers.

We stopped at the top of the hill and von Kahn pointed out the shooting-box which stood on the crest of the farther rise--a little white building.

“Our Mr. Brown is at home,” he said and pointed to the flag, a yellow flag with a red lion in the centre, the same being the secret standard of Scotland, which is always flown in defiance of the English, whose banner is the Union Jack.

We had discussed our plans thoroughly the night before because, obviously, nothing could be left to the last, and it would have been extremely dangerous to have talked in the presence of the chauffeur of our hired car.

I have always made it a point to have no dealings with anybody outside our own service, and I had arranged with von Kahn to undertake all negotiations with this stranger. I said good-bye to my friend and wished him good luck, and I watched him as he descended a steep footpath and walked along the little road that led to the farther hill.

I sent the chauffeur back to the main road, telling him to rejoin me at noon, and profitably spent the time of waiting by exploring ground and coding a message on the Swiss incident, for transmission to Germany. Through my glasses I could watch from time to time the progress of my comrade. I saw him climb the hill and stand before the door of the cottage, and presently a man came out. They talked together for about ten minutes and then they both disappeared into the interior.

It was not until half-past ten that von Kahn made his appearance again. I saw him shake hands with his host and wave his hand cheerily, and three-quarters of an hour later he rejoined me on the crest of the hill.

“Well?” I asked.

There was no need to ask von Kahn. His eyes were gleaming with triumph.

“I can only say,” said he, “that our Mr. Brown is a remarkable man.”

“In what way?”

“He speaks German, he reads German, and he is German,” said von Kahn emphatically, “he has a library of all the German classics. I discovered that when he was out of the room. His flag-post obviously supports a wireless aerial in the night-time, and although he is bland and uncommunicative, I have no doubt whatever about his character. He is one of the Higher Service.”

I nodded.

“Did he give you any hint----?” I began.

“Not a word,” said von Kahn emphatically; “he speaks splendid English, is well acquainted with Australia, and pretends that he is a wealthy pleasure-seeker with no other interest than fishing and shooting.”

“I hope you were tactful,” I said suddenly.

Von Kahn smiled.

“My dear Heine,” he said, “you need have no apprehension. I whistled a certain little tune you know, and he finished it without hesitation. He is not only in the Higher Service, but he stands very high in the Higher Service.”

To make absolutely sure, we returned that night, and in company with von Kahn I crossed the valley and climbed the hill.

I was half-way up the hill when I heard a familiar sound. If you can imagine the rattling of dried peas in a tin canister shaken at irregular intervals, you know the sound that wireless makes, and that a wireless message was being tapped from the cottage on the hill there was no doubt. More than this, the unknown Mr. Brown had taken elaborate precautions to avoid detection. We climbed the hill a little higher and suddenly my foot caught an obstruction. I flashed my electric lamp down and saw that I had snapped a tiny wire.

Instantly the “clickety-click” of the wireless ceased. There was a stealthy footstep at the top of the hill and I guessed that the aerial was being taken down and that it would be stowed and hidden, together with the instruments, long before any intruder could reach the cottage.

“Go up now,” I whispered to Kahn; “go quickly and reveal yourself.”

I handed him the message I had coded and which I had brought with me.

“Give him your official number, show him your credentials, and ask the illustrious gentleman to send this message through.”

Kahn took the message without a word and began the ascent. I watched him, not moving from my position and presently I heard him challenged sharply.

“It is I,” said von Kahn’s voice and, like the bold fellow that he was, he spoke in German.

Some one replied in the same language. There was a brief exchange of question and answer, and the three--the Swiss valet was evidently present--disappeared into the cottage, and a few minutes later I saw the red glow of a light from the windows.

I was sorely tempted to creep up and listen. After all, there was no reason why von Kahn alone should have an opportunity of meeting this well-born gentleman who might be in a position to speak a favourable word in the highest quarters regarding myself. Then, again, I was not sure that von Kahn would fulfil his mission to my satisfaction.

We Germans trust nobody. Probably that is one of the reasons of our phenomenal success in dealing with people of less kultural eminence than ourselves.

I determined to risk it, and keeping as much in the shadow as possible, and feeling gingerly for other wire signals, I made my way to the little platform upon which the cottage stood. We had specially put on rubber-soled shoes for the night’s work, and I moved noiselessly. The door was closed, but there was no difficulty in discovering the room to which von Kahn had been taken. I crept nearer to the window.

The two men were talking and laughing and, thank heaven! their speech was German.

“But how do I know,” I heard Mr. Brown say, “that you are not a member of the British Secret Service?”

“For the matter of that,” said von Kahn jovially, “how am I to know that your Excellency is not also of that phantom body?”

And they both laughed together.

I heard the clink of a bottle on a glass and two hearty “Prosits,” and then Mr. Brown spoke again.

“Now what can I do for you? I suppose you know that you ought not to have come anywhere near me? How did you find me out? Was it the ever-to-be-condemned tune I whistled?”

Von Kahn chuckled.

“I have known about you for a long time,” he said, “and as I am in need of help I thought I would take the bull by the horns and seek this interview.”

“Are you alone?” asked Mr. Brown.

“Quite alone,” said von Kahn promptly.

“I mean, were you alone in making the discovery?”

“Quite alone,” said von Kahn again.

“Then you are a remarkably shrewd fellow,” laughed Brown.

I can tell you it made my blood boil to hear this swine-hound taking all the credit for this discovery. Little he knew that I was standing outside the window listening to his immodest perfidy! Could he not have said, “No, Excellency; the credit is due entirely to my respected chief, whose name I am forbidden to mention. I am merely an instrument in a superior hand?” Oh, no! In his vanity and deceit he must take full kudos to himself. Would he go any farther? Almost as I framed this question he spoke.

“I would ask your Excellency,” he said, “if you ever refer to this meeting to the illustrious Chief of Naval Intelligence that you will give him a testimonial.”

I could hardly restrain myself. For one second it was in my mind to rap sharply at the window and denounce this underling. But, fortunately, I restrained myself, though I was boiling with rage. We Germans have a keen sense of justice and are inherently, almost transparently, honest, and nothing so distresses us, so angers us, as duplicity and ingratitude.

“But surely,” said Mr. Brown’s voice, “you did not come alone to-night.”

I waited.

Just as I had been anxious for von Kahn to give me full credit, so was I now as anxious to hear him deny my presence. I do not know what it was that brought this revulsion of feeling, whether it was something in the tone of Mr. Brown or some instinctive flash of knowledge that all was not well, but I sweated as I stood waiting for the answer which seemed an eternity in coming, though in reality it was only a second or so.

“No, I assure you, Herr Brown,” said von Kahn, “I came alone.”

“That makes matters simple,” said Brown’s voice, and as he spoke the light went out. I heard von Kahn shout, but his voice was instantly muffled.

There was a struggle, a thud that seemed to shake the little building, a groan, and then silence.

I had my automatic pistol in my hand in a second.

Should I go to his rescue and take the risk of capture or should I leave him to his fate? It was a terrible decision I was called upon to make. We Germans do not shrink from our responsibilities, nor are we governed by the foolish sentimentality which dictates the actions of the commoner tribes. I made my way down the hill with great rapidity. You may say that I was leaving a comrade to his fate, but I answer that when one cog of a wheel breaks off do the other cogs disintegrate themselves in sympathy. We were part of a great machine, von Kahn and I, and my action, if it needed such justification, was justified by the events which followed.

I was within fifty yards of the narrow road which winds along the base of the hill when I thought I heard a sound before me and I stopped, flattened myself on the ground between two bushes, and listened. There was no doubt that I had reason for my suspicions. I heard, not one stealthy footfall, but a dozen, and, peering up, I saw against the artificial sky-line which I had created by lowering myself to the earth, half a dozen shadowy figures. The nearest was ten yards away and my heart came to my throat when I saw a gleam of light upon the tunic of a policeman.

They were police, undoubtedly, and they were making their way up the hill in such a manner as led me to believe that the hill itself was practically surrounded. I watched, holding my breath. The first of the figures passed not two yards away, the second on my right less than a yard. I waited until they were well up the hill before I moved, and then I wriggled forward with the utmost caution, for I thought it was possible that they had left a guard on the road. This view proved to be correct as I had not got far before I saw a man pacing the roadway.

Fortunately his beat was long and I was able to gain the road and cross it.

I found myself in a field of cabbages. Here again luck was with me, for running along two sides of the field was a deep ditch. Into this I sank and with great labour reached the opposite hill, on the top of which, hidden in a small copse, were the two motor bicycles which had brought us on our night adventure.

Here again German forethought saved me from what might have been destruction. Von Kahn had suggested we should have the chauffeur and the car we had in the morning, but as I pointed out, this would have aroused suspicion, and so instead we had hired two motor bicycles, not from the town in which we were staying, but one five miles farther along the line from whence we had set forth upon our quest.

Near by the copse, as I had seen earlier in the day, was a disused quarry overgrown with vegetation. Swiftly I wheeled Kahn’s bicycle to the edge and flung it over. It would remain undiscovered for at least a few days, and possibly for ever, unless a search was made.

To leap upon the other motor cycle and to go flying down the road was the work of a few minutes. I confess I was agitated and nervous. Who was this mysterious man who lived at the top of the hill? How did he know we were coming that night and was so sure of the hour that he could surround his house with policemen to trap us? Why had he assaulted my friend when he and his servant could have overcome him or have held him at the point of a revolver until the police arrived?

My position was a precarious one. Von Kahn had been seen with me in Dundee and obviously my business was to make myself scarce. It was half past eleven that night when I rode up to the cycle dealer’s in X----, and knocked at the door. The town was asleep and the street deserted, but the man had been expecting our return and was waiting up.

He looked surprised at my muddy appearance and more surprised at the absence of my companion. I apologized to him, and told him that my friend had been called away to London and had ridden down to a station on the main line. I think he was most surprised when I offered to buy the cycle I was using and also to buy that of von Kahn. I told him that I had taken a liking to the machine and that von Kahn had similarly expressed a wish to retain his. The price he fixed was a fairly moderate one--we had already paid a large deposit--and I concluded the bargain there and then.

I was anxious, of course, to finish this business of the motor-cycles in order that I should not set on foot independent inquiries as to their whereabouts, inquiries which would certainly have identified me with von Kahn.

Taking on a supply of petrol and trimming my lamp, I set out for Dundee, arriving at my hotel a little after four o’clock in the morning. After some difficulty I aroused the night porter, a sleepy old man whose name, I remembered, was Angus, and went to my room, packed my small valise and, awaiting my opportunity, stole out of the hotel, strapped my bag to the carrier of the bicycle, and rode through the drear, menacing streets of Dundee for the last time.

Twenty miles out of Dundee all trace of the mysterious person who had disappeared from his hotel leaving a £5 note to cover his bill and a polite request that his letters should be forwarded to the Majestic Hotel, London, vanished. A cool young Englishman joined an early morning train to Edinburgh at an intermediate station, and certainly that cool, young Englishman in his grey tweeds and his eye-glass bore no resemblance to the muddy cyclist in soiled overalls who had crossed the river at Perth and had excited the attention of a certain mounted constable.

That cool young Englishman, perfect in every detail, might have been seen leaving the Central Station at Glasgow that same afternoon not only accompanied by his valise but by a large portmanteau which he had taken from the cloak-room at the station and which with characteristic German foresight he had caused to be forwarded to Glasgow on the night he left London for Dundee.

I had communicated with London by telephone. Nothing had been heard of von Kahn, but the whole of my service in England was now on the _qui vive_. Posser, one of my assistants, was on his way to Glasgow to confer with me, and half a dozen agents in that town were busy investigating the mystery of the man on the hill.

I was sitting at dinner that night in one of the fashionable restaurants of Glasgow, a restaurant approached through a magnificent marble vestibule, searching the latest edition of the papers, hoping for two lines which would give me a clue to von Kahn’s fate, when a staring headline met my eye and I gasped.

“Swiss Forgers: Sensational Arrests at Glen Macintyre.

“The Sheriff’s Court at Stirling was crowded to-day when Emil Zimmwald, alias Brown, a Swiss, Louis Swart, Swiss, and Heinrich Kahn, also described as a Swiss, were remanded on a charge of forging Swiss bank notes. Inspector Macguire, of the Stirling Constabulary, stated that the prisoner Zimmwald, who called himself Brown, rented a cottage at Glen Macintyre, Swart posing as his valet. The two men were well-known international forgers, and had been engaged in printing a very large number of Swiss bank notes. The attention of the police had first been attracted to the house owing to the noise of working of the small printing machine which the prisoners used for their nefarious purpose. On raiding the premises the prisoner Kahn was discovered in a dazed condition. There had evidently been a quarrel and Kahn had been struck. The prisoner Zimmwald made a rambling statement to the effect that Kahn was a detective who had been sent to arrest him, but this highly improbable story will be investigated by the sheriff at a later sitting. The man Kahn resolutely refuses to make any statement at all.”

My poor von Kahn! Thou shalt go down in Scottish history as a confederate of forgers and shall spend many years in that grim penitentiary at Perth, pleading guilty to a crime abhorrent to thee, lest the confession of thy true crime lead thee to a firing party in the chilly dawn!