For among all outcasts so vitally necessary to autocracy and militarism, the spy is the most pitiable: in time of peace no authority admits employing him; in time of war, his fate, if taken, is as certain as that his own Government will disown him. Eternally repudiated, whether of respectable or disreputable antecedents, honest or otherwise, patriotic or mercenary, the world has only one opinion to express concerning spies, although it often cackles over their adventures and snivels over their fate.
Perhaps Halkett was musing on these things, for presently he took his pipe from his mouth and said:
"To my knowledge, we British never employ spies in America. Your Government, I know, never employs them anywhere in time of peace. All other Governments do. Europe swarms with them. If I were in Germany today, I'd be considered a spy. They'd follow me about and lock me up on the first excuse—or without any excuse at all. And if we chanced to be at war with Germany, and I were caught, they'd certainly shoot me because I have recovered stolen property."
"They'd execute you because you are not in uniform?"
"Certainly. I'd not stand a ghost of a chance. So I shall be rather glad that I'm in France when war comes."
"You are so certain it is coming?"
"Absolutely, my dear fellow. Probably it will be declared tomorrow."
"I cannot believe it, Halkett."
"I can scarcely believe it myself. But—I know it is coming. And it is coming from the north."
"Through Belgium?"