German Spies in England: An Exposure

by William Le Queux

I will not quote more. There are dozens of such expressions of opinions in the files of that unreliable organ of "public opinion."

Where should we have been to-day, I ask, had we suffered ourselves to be led by the nose by this "patriotic" organ of the Press, which, with its sinister commercialism on the declaration of war, urged upon us to keep out of the fighting, and to capture the trade of our friends the Belgians, French, and Russians?

This self-proclaimed organ of "humanitarianism" actually urged us to stand aside and make capital out of the agonies of those countries at war. I will quote the following from the article in its actual words on August the 4th—the day upon which war was declared:—

"If we remained neutral we should be, from the commercial point of view, in precisely the same position as the United States. We should be able to trade with all the belligerents (so far as the war allows of trade with them); we should be able to capture the bulk of their trade in neutral markets; we should keep our expenditure down; we should keep out of debt; we should have healthy finances."

And this same organ of humanitarianism has assured us, for years, that no spies of Germany existed in England, and that war was utterly out of the question. And the British public have paid their half-pennies for such bamboozle! One sighs to think of it!

Times without number—even to-day as I write—this journal has sought to ridicule those who attempt to tell the nation the truth concerning the underground peril existing in every part of our islands. Its motive for so doing may be left to the inquisitive.

Probably few men have travelled so constantly up and down Europe as I have done, in search of material for my books. In the course of my wanderings, and perhaps a somewhat erratic life on the Continent, I have—ever since I recognised the spy-peril—made it my practice to seek out the spies of Germany, and I know a good many of them.

An incident which may interest the reader occurred on October 29th, 1914:

I was on the platform of Waterloo Station buying a paper, and chatting with the bookstall clerk, when I noticed a group of men, mostly in shabby overcoats and presenting a woebegone appearance, surrounded by a cordon of police in silver-trimmed helmets—county constabulary from the North. An excited crowd had surrounded them, and as I glanced across my attention was attracted by a man slightly better dressed than the others, though his well-cut grey overcoat was somewhat shabby. As his dark, narrow-set eyes met mine, he lifted his grey plush hat to me, and smiled across in recognition.

For a moment I halted, puzzled. I had not realised that the group of men were prisoners. The fellow's face was familiar, and the next instant I recognised him. We had met a dozen times in various places in Europe—the last time at Salvini's, in Milan, early in the previous year. He was a well-known agent of the German General Staff, though I had never met him before on British soil.