The clerk demurred and replied:
"You asked for James Stafford. Under those circumstances I cannot hand you this letter. It is against the postal law."
Not being in a position to raise a question I let it go at that, never for a moment thinking that my employers would be so culpably careless as to put any incriminating evidence in the mail. Events proved that that is just what they did. Moreover, I later came to know why that particular letter was addressed not to James but to A. Stafford. All my previous letters were addressed to me as Dr. A. K. Graves and were enclosed in the business envelope of the well-known chemical firm of Burroughs & Wellcome, Snowhills, London, E. C.--which paper had been fabricated for the purpose. Of course the letters were sent from the Continent to London and there reposted. The stationery of this chemical firm was fabricated so as to disarm any possible suspicion, for European post-offices are taught to be suspicious. It would be perfectly natural for me, a physician in Edinburgh, to receive a letter from a very well-known chemical concern.
When I left Edinburgh to find out about the fourteen-inch guns, I gave our people in London instructions to use plain envelopes and to address them to James Stafford, G. P. O., Glasgow. The first two letters were addressed correctly and plain envelopes were used. The third was not only misaddressed but was enclosed in one of the B. & W. envelopes--this as I later learned, for a reason.
No one having called for it, the letter was returned to the chemical company. At their office it was opened and found to contain a typewritten letter in the German language and five ten-pound notes on the Bank of England. The contents of the letter, was such as to lead the firm to call in the police.
On the evening of April 10, I had just put on my evening clothes and gone to the upstairs writing-room. I was awaiting a party of gentlemen who were coming to dine with me in the hotel. There came a "buttons" who announced:
"There's a gentleman downstairs to see you, Doctor."
A premonition stole over me. I knew that my guests would not have sent for me to come down but would have been announced. I realized that if I was going to be caught there was no avoiding it. Secret Service makes a man a fatalist. I took the precaution, however, to slip inside my dinner coat just under the arm, my little bag of chemicals, so often handy in an emergency. Then I went downstairs, one hand was thrust in my pocket, the other folded across my breast so that I could snatch the little bag of chemicals in an emergency.
I had hardly reached the last step of the grand stairway when four big plain-clothes men, pounced upon me. I had to do some swift thinking. I could have flung the chemicals in their faces and escaped, but I knew I could never get outside of the British Isles without being caught--outside of Glasgow for that matter. Such resistance would only incriminate matters still more, so I let my hand fall down to my side. More for the fun of it than anything else, I guess, I got on my horse and demanded to know what was the matter.
"You'll soon know," Inspector French declared.