“That was before that cursed Kaiser Wilhelm came up,” Watson interrupted. “I had a plan—I might have made a rush for liberty at any rate!”
“But surely you would have been marked down at Boston,” Mr. Sabin said.
“The only friend I have in the world,” the other said slowly, “is the manager of the Government’s Secret Cable Office at Berlin. He was on my side. It would have given me a chance, but now”—he looked out of the window—“it is hopeless!”
Mr. Sabin resumed his chair and lit a fresh cigarette. He had thought the matter out and began to see light.
“It is rather an awkward fix,” he said, “but ‘hopeless’ is a word which I do not understand. As regards our present dilemma I think that I see an excellent way out of it.”
A momentary ray of hope flashed across the man’s face. Then he shook his head.
“It is not possible,” he murmured.
Mr. Sabin smiled quietly.
“My friend,” he said, “I perceive that you are a pessimist! You will find yourself in a very short time a free man with the best of your life before you. Take my advice. Whatever career you embark in do so in a more sanguine spirit. Difficulties to the man who faces them boldly lose half their strength. But to proceed. You are one of those who are called ‘Doomschen.’ That means, I believe, that you have committed a crime punishable by death,—that you are on parole only so long as you remain in the service of the Secret Police of your country. That is so, is it not?”
The man assented grimly. Mr. Sabin continued—