intellectual type who appeared to be awaiting him. From my seat in
the shadows of the higher room I watched with amusement the
increasingly puzzled expression on the face of the intellectual
German while the man with the reddish hair unfolded his tale. When
they parted my curiosity caused me to trail after the thin, dark
man. He went straight to the German Legation.

For two days I nervously paced up and down the sands at
Scheveningen looking out upon the North Sea and waiting for the
call. It came one short drizzly afternoon. The Germans, of
course, knew the whereabouts of the vessel on which I should embark
for England, though it is highly improbable that they knew the
sailing time, and they did not know when I should go on it.

I did everything possible to throw any possible spies off the trail
as I made my way in the dark to a lonely wharf on the Maas River
where I gave the password to a watchman who stepped out of a black
corner near the massive gates which opened to the pier.

I went aboard a little five hundred ton vessel with steam up, and
stood near two other men on the narrow deck, where I watched in
considerable awe the silent preparations to cast away.

A man stepped out of the cabin. "I presume, sir, that you are the
American journalist," he said. He explained that he was the
steward. From the bridge came the voice of the captain, "We can
give them only a few minutes more," he said.

Two minutes of silence, broken only by the gentle throbbing of the
engines. Then from the blackness near the street gate came the