Chapter Six

But she prospered exceedingly. From 1905, when she first developed the idea of becoming a civilized bayadère, her love affairs followed her like an unending procession. From her admirers she received such substantial homage that before long she was established in a sumptuous apartment near the Champs-Élysées, she had her private carriage and a collar of pearls. This may not exactly be the apogee of her existence (that was reserved for her German career), but it certainly represents the highest peak of her artistic life. A man who knew her well without having succumbed to her fatal charm, but who had many opportunities of studying her at this time, gives a description of Mata Hari which denies her claim to beauty.

“She was not,” he maintained, “really pretty. Her features lacked refinement. There was something bestial about the lips, cheeks, and jaw. Her brown skin always had the appearance of having been anointed with oil or was exuding perspiration. Her bust was flat and drooping and always concealed from view. Only her eyes and arms were 44absolute in their beauty. Those who said she had the most beautiful arms in the world did not exaggerate. And her eyes! Eyes that were magnetic and enigmatic, ever changing, yet ever of velvety softness, commanding and pleading, melancholy and mean, those terrible eyes in whose depths so many souls were drowned, actually merited the adoration awarded them.”

Paul Namur painted two portraits of her at this time, one in street costume, which seems to have disappeared, and the other a dance pose in the nude which shows her wearing an Indian diadem and a collar of emeralds and topaz. Mata made several sittings for them, and the artist had the opportunity to exercise his trained observation on her. His recollections are interesting.

“The most striking thing about her,” he says, “was the astonishing fact that this spoiled darling, upon whom destiny had showered gifts, grace, talent, fame, rarely lost the expression of inmost sadness. Frequently she would recline in an armchair, dreaming of secret things for perhaps an hour. I cannot recall that I ever saw Mata Hari smile.”

Another time he said:

“She was as superstitious as a Hindu. Once, 45while disrobing, a jade bracelet slipped from her wrist. She turned quite pale and cried:

“‘That will bring me bad luck. You will see. It is a presentiment of misfortune. Keep it, that horrid bracelet. I never want to see it again.’”

The Paris of her day was the most fertile ground for cultivating love as a subtle and very complicated science. She never practised the simpler arts of coquetry so familiar to the chic Parisienne, and it was this original development as a science rather than as an art which carried her to the position from which she could exercise such a malign influence when Paris became an entrenched camp. Unfortunately, Paris, which is the pleasure ground of the entire world as well as the capital of France, is as capricious in its loves as are most other things where pleasure is the main motive. There is nothing so completely satiating as the same delight repeated without variation. Mata’s position began to slip. She had imitators who roused her fury because she felt they were stealing her thunder. After a short disappearance from the stage to devote herself exclusively to a new and exigent adorer she writes to a friend:

I want to begin work afresh, to expose myself to all the cares to which glory (!) exposes us, but I want 46to have the credit for what I do. I no longer want to see others working on my ideas.

This becomes the theme of several of her existing letters. And then, there was a waning popularity when she appeared in public. The inevitable was taking place. Art was the chosen expression for advertising her ministry at the altar of love; she desired to have the reputation of an Isadora Duncan without that artist’s varied and extensive repertoire, her talent, and her broader conception of art. Isadora Duncan was primarily an artist living for her art, sacrificing herself to its demands. Mata Hari was first of all a courtesan; if she appealed to art it was only as a subterfuge. There were fits of unbridled rage when she was denied this right to which she pretended. The capricious Parisians began to tire of her public appearances, and with the decrease in their adulation she felt her position slipping from her. The press which had greeted her favourably grew lukewarm, and then chilling. The Paris audiences refused to regard her as anything but what she pretended to be, an artist, and Mata Hari had her moments of pride. She would be content with nothing but the position of a goddess whose character she was always ready to assume. She did not 47wish to be everything to any one man, but to be all things to all men.

This excessive vanity was her downfall. Casting about for a locale where her artistic pretensions would be taken at their proper value and her true character recognized, she thought of her former reception in Berlin. What the French gave so niggardly would be yielded generously by the Germans, who adored her. Therefore, she accepted another engagement in Berlin in 1907.

“There are times when I almost believe in the caprices of fate,” she once wrote to an admirer. “But a moment’s thought convinces me that destiny is what we make it.”

If this is true, then it was in Berlin that Mata Hari shaped the destiny which conducted her to the rifle-range at Vincennes. Of her residence in Berlin little is known, partly because the German secret service (or that of any other nation) does not seek publicity for the work of its agents, and partly because association with men of very high social standing ensured a conspiracy of silence on her actions. We know very little of her life other than that she was speedily welcomed by the male aristocracy of the nation. She accompanied the Crown Prince to the army manœuvres in Silesia, appeared in Berlin night life as the companion of 48the young Duke of Brunswick, had other admirers of less exalted station, and, consciously or unconsciously, became a spy.

It is not possible to understand how a woman like Mata Hari could become a spy without having an elementary knowledge of the methods adopted by the German secret police in recruiting their agents, and without knowing why other women were persuaded to accept this highly dangerous employment. It is the practice of most countries to avoid using a woman for this work if a man is available; in England it is an almost invariable rule never to employ women, and the English have good reasons for their action. Of the most conspicuous spies of recent years who have paid the penalty for their labors, women like Marguerite Francillard, “Eva,” the old ogre Tichelly, Yvonne Schadeck, and Anne Garnier, all of them with the one exception of Tichelly (who had a warped sense of morality in general) were dragged into the business because they had fallen in love with men who were already in the secret service. Coudoyannis, the Greek, a very active and highly paid spy, found that a little friend was essential in his character as a man about town, but no sooner had he secured one than his chief writes to offer him the alternative of dismissing her or of luring 49her into the service. The idea of making use of their mistresses was part of the doctrine taught by certain instructors. Indeed, it is known that the notorious Frau Henrichsen (known to the French also as “Mlle. Doktor”), who was head of the Antwerp branch of the organization, was recruited in exactly the same way from the Berlin demi-monde. Marussia Destrelles, Mata Hari’s friend, certainly was enrolled by that means.

There is no more perplexing problem in Mata Hari’s life than this: why should she become a spy? There can be little doubt that it was not for love of money, for, contrary to popular belief, a spy’s salary is miserably inadequate to the potential danger incurred. Of the actual payment to spies we have abundant evidence. Even during the war it was no more than a mere pittance, certainly not enough to tempt anyone who had other resources. Captain Estève, recruited in Barcelona, was furnished with 300 francs (about $60) in addition to his railway fare and sent to seek information in France. Sydnet, who toured an American vaudeville circuit as a gymnast, received 500 pesetas (about $100) to blow up Les Invalides! Spies in England occasionally received as much as $2,000 at a time, but this was considered high remuneration and had to satisfy them for some 50time. Such wretched payment, then, could be no temptation to Mata Hari, who could earn much more in the safety of vaudeville contracts and who had no lack of enthusiastic admirers ready and willing to compete for her favours and to provide her with every conceivable luxury. Her extravagance was colossal; she was accustomed to throw money out of the window, as the French say, and the only time she is known to have demanded money from German official sources was when she was stranded in Madrid.

Major Massard, of the French staff, was of opinion that pride had caused Mata Hari to accept this dangerous employment. True, she loved to assert her power over men of influence, and we shall presently see that she had many opportunities to exercise this power over men in very high places. A high official in Spain who knew her well, and is among her stoutest defenders, thinks vanity could have seduced her if anything could have done so. She never was proof against her own vanity—happy the woman who is, and rare. Still another, and this man speaks with authority, since he watched her closely through several years as a counter-espionage agent, told the writer:

“She was probably inspired by a woman’s natural instinct to play with fire, a form of amusement 51which will endure so long as women are denied the means of letting off steam which men enjoy.” Then elaborating this opinion he went on: “Look at her life! It is one debauch after another and one debauch is much the same as another. There is nothing so completely satiating as a surfeit of unvarying pleasure, and the more intense it is the more quickly is satiety reached. All it does is to create a lust for fresh sensations, and once the palate has ceased to savour the delight of one form of pleasure, another must be found which will stimulate the jaded appetite. It requires a violent stimulant to gratify anyone who has drunk to the dregs from the cup of physical passion. Mata Hari found consolation in the thrills of dangerous intrigue when she began to lose interest in the older and more familiar pleasures. That is all.”

Some or all of these emotions—love of power, the lust of an insatiable vanity, the quest of new physical thrills—might have had their part in impelling Mata Hari to undertake the work, but the simple truth is that she was a spy before she knew it, and, once begun, it was impossible to withdraw. In accepting employment with Abteilung III, the German intelligence service, a spy had the most exacting task-master, for once the agent became restive or his reports ceased to be 52useful from inaccuracy or inadequacy, the disciplinary action was severe and inevitable.

The usual method was to send the delinquent some message in an indiscreet manner, so that it would fall into the enemy’s hands and so expose his activities to the authorities of the nation against whom he was working or against whom he refused to work. There are many known examples of this hateful practice; one, that of the beautiful Marussia Destrelles, a friend of Mata Hari’s, we shall give at some length in its proper place. A betterknown instance is that of Karl Graves, since it led to some discussion in the British House of Commons, although the replies then given to anxious patriots may not be taken too seriously, as will presently be seen.

Dr. Karl Graves had performed some prodigies of secret-service work for the authorities of the Wilhelmstrasse. His most sensational feat in this direction was at Port Arthur, where he secured the information of Japanese movements which would have been of incalculable value to the Russian authorities had he not sent it directly to Berlin. He was also active in the Balkans during the first Balkan War. But for some reason the officials of Abteilung III became displeased with him and he was sent to England (or Scotland, to be exact), 53where an undisguised communication of a confidential nature addressed to him through the mail led to his arrest. It was frank betrayal and the English authorities knew it. So did Graves. Nevertheless, he was tried and sentenced to a sharp term of imprisonment. To those sensitive moralists who desire to know that retribution always overtakes the sinner it may be interesting to say that Karl Graves never served this sentence. The British Intelligence secured the release of this highly embittered man and provided him with employment—as a spy against his former employers! The British had extraordinary success in utilizing former enemy agents of outstanding merit in this way.

It has been asserted by some of her admirers that Mata Hari only succumbed to a sudden temptation to undertake spying during the excitement of the war, when her employment as a vaudeville artist was restricted, but this can easily be disproved. To begin with, the system of numbering spies betrayed her pre-war enrollment. No spy is known, even to the higher officials, by name. They are invariably addressed and known by a number. Mata Hari was H21. The enlargement of the service during the war made necessary an alteration in the system of numbering, so that the headquarters of the spy and the nation against whom he was 54operating would be easily recognized by those who had to collate reports. Spies recruited during the war received a symbol composed of two letters and a number. The first letter was the initial of the town where their headquarters was situated, and the second letter was the initial of the name of the country in which they worked. Had Mata Hari been enrolled during the war she would have received the symbol AF, followed by a number, representing the initials of the words Antwerp and France (Andversen and Frankreich in German).

The second piece of material evidence of her earlier employment as a spy is the simple fact that the British authorities were well aware of her activities long before the outbreak of war. In fact, the French did not “discover” her. They only began to take her under surveillance when she was signalled to them by the British service. So well was she watched by the men from London that Mata Hari was under no illusion about their recognition of her labours. No sooner did she betray any interest in an English officer than he was warned of his danger or was transferred quickly to some spot remote from her wiles and baleful influence.

Before proceeding to describe how Mata Hari became entangled in the toils of secret intrigues 55let us pause in her story long enough to see how the German authorities secured their recruits in times of peace. Mention has been made of a Greek, Constantine Coudoyannis, who was known in the London and Paris demi-monde as Count Costa de Smyrnos. Before his self-elevation to the nobility Count Costa was a pedlar who tramped through France, Belgium, and Germany as far as the Prussian capital. When the Count reviewed his past he surveyed as fine a standing crop of wild oats as the limited means of a pedlar would permit him to cultivate. Visiting the Prussian capital, he decided to take a day off from peddling in order to view the haut-monde, and was enjoying a casual stroll down the Unter den Linden when, in his own parlance, he was “pinched” by the police for some inexplicable reason. His elastic conscience was under no strain, for his last delinquency could not have attracted the attention of the awe-inspiring police of the capital. To the pedlar’s amazement he was not conducted to a police station, but to an imposing apartment in the official quarter. There, to his consternation, he was confronted with a very minute account of his petty larcenies and rascalities committed in various other countries.

The dignified police official who interviewed him on the subject was a worthy man who was 56roused to a pitch of fury by the mere recital of these misdemeanours; he stormed and thundered at the terrified pedlar in the name of outraged law and order, informing him that the French and Belgian authorities (this was before the war) demanded his extradition in order to provide condign punishment for his long list of misdeeds. Having succeeded in reducing the pedlar to a state of terror at the prospect of spending his near future in a foreign prison, the burly uniformed officer began to coo as mildly as a dove. He informed the scared pedlar that the might of the German Empire might be enlisted to aid an accomplished linguist in return for certain services to be rendered at the expense of the two countries which sought to punish him. He was to become a German secret agent: the pedlar’s pack was to be abandoned and Constantine would become a man of means and leisure. The unhappy Greek left that house on the highroad to a self-chosen patent of nobility and, later, a firing-squad. As a pedlar he was gifted. He spoke several languages fluently and had a spy’s sacred respect for papers that were absolutely correct, in order that embarrassing questions might be avoided. It was his affection for papers of identity which had enabled the German police to track him over half of Europe, through 57most of his life’s history, and to concoct the story against him which induced the terrified man to undertake work that eventually led to his death.

In considering the course of Mata Hari’s life in Berlin and the reasons which induced her to engage in the most desperate sport in the world, one should have in mind the declaration of von Kroon, one of the heads of German espionage in Spain, who, with admirable but tactless candour, said that they made use of Mata Hari because she was the only woman they knew who had the ability to cultivate intimacy and to secure the confidence of certain highly placed officials whose weakness made them excellent prospects for an intelligent secret agent. This is probably true. The methods they adopted in Mata Hari’s case will remain for all time the secret of the Berlin authorities, but their effects may be noted. The situation was this: Of ordinary spies they had an abundance and could recruit as many more as they required, but in the selection of the higher type of spies, those who could move with freedom among men in the highest official circles, their choice was severely restricted. Mata Hari’s well-known reputation as a courtesan showed that she had the means of entry to these circles; she was, therefore, admirably designed for the work. All that remained 58was to lure her into it. Her profession was to become her surest defence against suspicion at a later time; now it was the easiest means of attack.

Mata Hari told her judges frankly how she came to make the acquaintance of Herr von Jagow, the chief of the Berlin police.

“I met him at the music-hall where I was playing,” she said. “In Germany the police have the right to censor the costumes worn by the artistes and some one had thought that I was insufficiently clad. So the chief of police came to inspect my costume.”

Now anyone who had experience of the German police during the heyday of the Empire will recall the position of dominating authority held by that official who commanded the police in the capital. He was an official of such unapproachable dignity and importance that the inspection of a dancer’s costume would positively have been the duty of his fourth or fifth assistant unless, of course, there was an excellent reason why the chief himself should undertake the task. In this case the dancer had a place in their wide schemes which made her the suitable subject for a personal visit.

She proved a willing victim. In a short time she was recognized as an intimate friend of the police chief, so intimate that he had made himself responsible 59for providing her with an imposing apartment in Berlin. But the very nature of the gift betrays its significance. Again let us pause to glance at the German methods; it will furnish a clearer understanding of Mata Hari’s mission.

Mata Hari played a part in the compilation of one of the most amazing Who’s Who ever revealed to the eyes of the public. It was not intended for publication, far from it, but a clever agent employed by the British got possession of the only known copy from under the nose of the German secret service and the London authorities permitted the publication of extracts as a solemn warning against the cultivation of friendships with foreigners who might not scruple to abuse confidences. This book was the accumulation of all the gossip, scandal, sins, personal weaknesses, delinquencies, and domestic infelicities of influential people, collected by spies, amateur and professional, which Germany employed against England. The preparation of the book lasted over many years, but it seems never to have served the purpose for which it was intended. It was the intention of the Berlin authorities to use this knowledge of a man’s hidden past in order to blackmail the victim into furnishing aid or information not otherwise obtainable. The numerous agents who 60collected the information for the volume must have been singularly credulous, for most of the biographies were pure fiction and would not have been of the slightest value in a time of need. The extracts published so distorted the truth that they were received with derision.

These, however, applied to well-known people whose lives were more or less public property. Some of the matter included was not quite so ridiculous, especially in the lives of the younger and less known officials who had occasion to visit Berlin and fall into the acquaintance of Mata Hari and her kind. The method of obtaining this information is interesting. The luxurious apartment furnished for her occupation in the exclusive neighbourhood of the Wilhelmstrasse was an expensive residence even for one of Mata Hari’s reputation. This famous “Green House” was one of Stieber’s legacies to the German police. It had played its part in Bismarckian days in entangling many unwilling victims in the web of the Iron Chancellor’s policies. The cost of its maintenance came from the funds allocated for secret service, and the servants were all, or nearly all, police agents. Skilfully engineered introductions to the right people enabled Mata Hari to entertain the victims of the police curiosity, and since their chief 61was a man of magnanimous parts he permitted these same victims to share the favours of his mistress. Having introduced the victim into her web, Mata Hari would stage one of those sensual orgies for which she was famous, and the police agents were granted unlimited opportunity to secure substantial blackmail evidence to be filed away pending the time when it would be required for their schemes. French, Italian, and Russian officers were treated by this Delilah with fine impartiality. It is remarked that Mata Hari had little luck with the English.

This is not altogether evidence of the sobriety or chastity of the English officials, because they had the somewhat unfair advantage over the lady of having one of their agents employed in the house. For many years, whenever Mata Hari tried to approach an English agent she was rudely repulsed, yet it never seems to have dawned upon her employers that there might be an excellent reason why she should invariably fail with the men of this nation.

Nor were all her activities restricted to Berlin. One of the tragedies of the war was that of a jolly Dutchman called Hoegnagel, who was recommended by Mata Hari as a suitable recruit for the German service when they desired one. Hoegnagel 62was known to Mata from the time of her residence in The Hague; he was the type which interested her. He was the perfect example of henpecked husband whose pockets were cleaned out every night by a thrifty Dutch housewife, a practice which prevented him largely from indulging in the pleasures of the city which were his dearest joy. This weakness of his for pleasure with the handicap of an inquisitive and thrifty wife standing like a mounted policeman watching over his efforts to amuse himself had been reported to the German consul in The Hague by Mata Hari. While he remained in this city, Hoegnagel was no use to the German authorities, but when he announced to his friends in the Marine Club that he was compelled to make an extended visit to Paris on legitimate business, the unhappy man’s possibilities immediately presented themselves to the watchful consul, who offered him the amazing opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of the French capital without the careful Vrouw Hoegnagel being any the wiser or poorer.

The Germans have frequently been reproached for their lack of ability to read psychology. They stumbled here when it seemed that they had judged remarkably well. Hoegnagel accepted the consul’s offer after a little hesitation. He was a neutral and 63did not readily agree to serve a belligerent country against another which had not merited his hatred. But the temptation was too strong. He did want to have a good time in Paris without his wife knowing about it. Where the psychology went astray was that the Germans had completely overlooked the effect of the astounding phenomenon of a Dutchman dispensing money with a liberality foreign to his race and habits. It immediately aroused the suspicion of the French police, who were not long in uncovering his activities.

Incidentally, this man Hoegnagel has a special interest for American readers. Once his so-called journalistic activities were found to be directed toward informing the German authorities in Holland of the situation in Paris, a counter-espionage agent was deftly introduced into his little circle of intimate acquaintances. The agent talked confidentially of the influential people whom he knew and impressed Hoegnagel as a well-informed man. To him the Dutchman appealed for authentic information on a matter which was gravely exercising the Germans. Would America take an active part in the war? Would American soldiers be sent across the Atlantic to fight? The agent was doubtful, but, being anxious to help his friend, the pair went off to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where 64Hoegnagel was informed that President Wilson had informed his French friend, President Poincaré, that no American troops were to be expected in Europe, that the country was against such action.

The unhappy Hoegnagel was shot at Vincennes in January, 1918. When he was awakened on the last morning of his life he said:

“It is true, then? You are really going to shoot me? I have been a good father to my family and what has happened is only an unfortunate incident of travel.”

“An unfortunate incident!” Is life itself not an unfortunate incident unduly prolonged? Even into the placid lives of jolly Dutchmen the evil genius of Mata Hari brought disaster and grief. Yet another of her victims was the officer of the Russian Guard, Michaelovitch, who was a former student of the Dresden Polytechnic and who succumbed to this blackmail of the Berlin police through the instrumentality of Mata Hari. Later, he was shot for selling photographs of airplanes in the Hanriot plant to a Spaniard called Estrada, an agent of Major von Bulow, who controlled an espionage service from the chancellery in Berne.

Not all her entertainments were for the relatively innocuous purpose of collecting blackmailing evidence, which, by the way, proved so ineffective. 65There were other occasions when men, entrusted with highly confidential missions, were received by Mata Hari and during the course of the entertainment she contrived to extract from their lips not only wine-scented kisses, but secrets which sent them into obscure German fortresses, from which they departed in complete ignorance of their betrayer. One of the cleverest officers of the French army staff, visiting Germany on an unofficial secret mission, was among the Red Dancer’s victims. During a night of foolish indiscretion he confided his secret to her. The Berlin secret police had suspected the object of his visit and had deliberately turned him over to their invaluable tool, who successfully executed the work entrusted to her. The unhappy officer went insane during his imprisonment when he realized the extent of his folly.

The great majority of the highly-coloured adventures attributed to Mata Hari in this house of secret panels, revolving mirrors, and tapped telephone wires have no semblance of truth, but one incident is worth recalling, since it illustrates the extraordinary workings of these secret police. For obvious reasons names are withheld.

The incident happened during the negotiations between France and Russia before the war. At that time the combined secret police of those countries 66maintained a headquarters in Germany, which, in addition to gathering information, had to protect the couriers bearing important messages and documents. On this occasion a Russian courier bearing the draft of a secret treaty was announced to pass through Berlin on his way to Paris, via Brussels, and the agents were warned to give him every protection, since it was imperative that the treaty should not prematurely be divulged.

On arrival in Berlin the courier went directly to the Embassy and deposited his diplomatic pouch in a special safe in the Embassy. Now, it was known to the Russian officials that this safe had a leak in it somewhere through which information of its contents filtered. The secret watchers, therefore, had a double problem to face which perplexed them. Either their government, knowing how insecure the hiding-place was, wished, for their own purpose, to allow the German authorities to know what was in the pouch, or it was the duty of the watchers to guard the safe rigorously in order to prevent the individual who made illicit use of it from inspecting the highly confidential document deposited in it. Either line of argument led away from the courier, who retained the draft treaty in his possession, secreted on his person.

As it was desired to allow this officer to proceed 67without attracting attention to his movements, he had been instructed to travel leisurely, and it was his intention to spend a few days in Berlin, where he had many acquaintances among the officers of the garrison. He made directly for the Adlon Hotel, a noted hostelry for officers of all nations who chanced to be in the Prussian capital. His German acquaintances were glad to have the opportunity of entertaining their rare visitor, and he was assured that they would make his visit memorable. Mata Hari was sent for to make up the party, and they proceeded to enjoy what the capital had to offer in the way of amusement.

At Mata Hari’s suggestion they all adjourned to her apartment, where she promised to furnish entertainment such as no cabaret could supply, and which, being private, would allow them to act with greater freedom and incur less subsequent gossip. Before the time for dinner had arrived the courier had sent to the railroad station for his baggage and had it brought to Mata Hari’s apartment. He was assigned as valet one of the police agents who brought his baggage from the station. As soon as the courier went to his room to dress for dinner the valet begged for a pen to enter some details on a baggage receipt which he produced. 68The courier hesitated for a moment but after some little difficulty in withdrawing it from his pocket lent the fountain pen he carried to the man. As the servant was writing at the dressing-table he saw in the mirror that the courier kept him covered with a pistol concealed under his jacket. The courier at this stage was fully awake to his danger.

Now, the valet returned a pen, not the pen he had borrowed from the Russian, but the movement was made so innocently that the latter merely glanced at the pen to be sure it was his before restoring it to his pocket. Without question he also pocketed the receipt. When he awakened next morning his room was in wild disorder, but since he felt as if a hive of bees and the combined bands of the Guards Division had taken up residence inside his head, the condition of his discarded clothing was not surprising. He only retained vague recollections of the earlier stages of the previous night’s debauch, while its termination was a complete blank. The one thing which most concerned him was the safety of his fountain pen. It was still intact. But the unwise guest had a sudden access of virtue and the recollection of his duty which determined him to leave Berlin without delay. Meanwhile, the wildly perplexed German secret police 69were frantically scouring the city for the draft of the secret treaty which they had been informed by friends in St. Petersburg was carried by this courier. They had photographs of all his other papers, but none bore the slightest resemblance to the missing document.

The still blissful Russian was kept under constant surveillance as far as Aix-la-Chapelle, where the German agents finally gave up their job in the belief that this man was not the messenger they sought. Once across the Belgian border, the courier heaved a sigh of relief; the hunt must be reduced to one or two men now; but, he reflected, if that night of unconsciousness had exposed him to the utmost risk without his secret being betrayed, these few men who continued to watch him could be circumvented by his more discreet behaviour. He avoided all the pitfalls of the delightful Belgian capital and spent the time in bourgeoise simplicity. On the second night he was returning from the Théâtre de la Monnaie when the valet who had attended him in Berlin suddenly stepped out of the darkness with his hand extended.

“Monsieur, it has been a long chase, but at last I have succeeded in overtaking you. When I borrowed your pen the other night I had the misfortune 70to confuse it with my own, and I now beg you to make an exchange which will restore the pens to their rightful owners.”

He offered a fountain pen of identically the same make as that which the courier drew from his pocket. The language the horrified man used was appropriate to the occasion.

“It is useless to argue, monsieur. This is your pen. If you will take the trouble to examine the bottom you will find your draft treaty intact and I can give you the positive assurance that its terms are unknown to the German authorities.”

“But ... but you are, then, one of their secret police?” stammered the astonished Russian.

“I was, monsieur, until this morning. I have resigned without taking the trouble to send my resignation through the usual channels. Probably it will not be necessary now.”

Careful examination of the pen proved it to be the original containing the treaty, written on thin rice paper and cunningly concealed in the tube. If the terms of the treaty were unknown to the German officials they must have been acceptable to still another power, for no protest ever came from the nation whose secret agent had protected the draft during the Russian’s drunken sleep and who had been able to photograph it for the benefit of 71his own employers while making a pretence of searching for it for the Berlin authorities.

It is not often that any country succeeds in placing its agents in the secret police of another, but they had been able to do so in this case.

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