FACSIMILE OF NOTICE IN THE “DAILY CHRONICLE” AFTER THE ESCAPE
Poor Trefftz! So they had got him! I was clear in my mind as to what I was going to do, and the warrant gave me some valuable points. First, I had to get rid of my mackintosh. I therefore went to Blackfriars Station and left my overcoat in the cloakroom. As I handed the garment over, the clerk suddenly asked me: “What is your name, sir?” This question absolutely bowled me over, as I was quite unprepared for it. With shaking knees I asked: “Meinen?” (mine), answering in German as I naturally presumed that the man had guessed my identity.
“Oh, I see, Mr. Mine—M-i-n-e,” and he handed me a receipt in the name of Mr. Mine. It was a miracle that this official had not noticed my terror, and I felt particularly uncomfortable when I had to pass the two policemen who stood on guard at the station, and who scrutinized me sharply.
I had escaped in a dark blue suit which had been made in Shanghai and worn in quick succession by Messrs. Brown and Scott, by the millionaire MacGarvin and then by the locksmith, Ernst Suse, then again falling on better days when donned by a German naval officer, and now concluding its existence on the body of the dock labourer, George Mine. Under the coat I wore a blue sailor’s jersey which a naval prisoner had given to me at Donington Hall. In my pocket I carried a tattered old sports cap, a knife, a small looking-glass, a shaving-set, a bit of string and two rags which represented handkerchiefs. In addition, I was the proud possessor of a fortune of 120 shillings which I had partly saved and partly borrowed; but never, either then or later, did I possess papers or passports of any kind.
I now sought a quiet, solitary spot. My beautiful soft hat fell accidentally into the river from London Bridge; collar and tie followed suit from another spot; a beautiful gilt stud held my green shirt together. After that a mixture of vaseline, bootblack and coal dust turned my blond hair black and greasy; my hands soon looked as if they had never made acquaintance with water; and at last I wallowed in a coal heap until I had turned into a perfect prototype of the dock labourer on strike—George Mine.
In this guise it was quite impossible to suspect me of being an officer, and “smart and dapper” were the last words anyone could have possibly applied to me. I think that I played my part really well, and, after I had surmounted my inner repulsion against the filth of my surroundings, I felt safe for the first time. I was in a position to represent what I intended to be—a lazy, dirty bargee, or a hand from a sailing ship.