“What!” the Ambassador exclaimed in astonishment. “Have you actually been there and returned?”
“Certainly,” the other answered, smiling. “I can move swiftly when necessary. I was in Barcelona when I received my telegraphic instructions, and set out at once.”
“Well, tell us the result of your observations,” urged Lord Barmouth, instantly interested.
“I went down to Algeciras, and crossed to the much-discussed penal settlement by boat. Before I could do so, I was compelled to get a permit from the commander of the Algeciras garrison, and only then was allowed to board the steamship, whose every nut, screw, and chain was screaming for a little oil, whose hands stretched themselves on deck in the sun and left the work to the captain and his engineer, while they sang songs and smoked cigarettes. There were very few passengers, mostly women, who sang until the steamer cut across the Straits in the teeth of the wind; then they ceased to sing and commenced to pray. In little more than two hours we were just off Ceuta—a long, straggling Spanish town, the convict station high up on the eastern hill, with stone-work fortifications, that would hardly endure three hours’ attention from modern guns, down to the water’s edge, and beyond, to the west, well-cultivated fields full of young wheat or barley. Arrived on shore, I was summoned to a shed, where a severe official in uniform examined my papers, recorded my age and other details in a book, returned the passport, and told me that if I wished to leave Ceuta at any time I must go to the commandant and get his written permission to do so. Later on, the native who showed me the way to the Governor’s house made an explanation that was less satisfactory than he intended. ‘You see, señor,’ he said, ‘we have a great many convicts here, and they are very like you. I mean to say,’ he went on, feeling that he had not expressed himself happily, ‘that they are often dressed to look like gentlemen.’ I then changed the conversation.”
“And how about the fortifications?” His Excellency inquired.
“I have full plans and photographs of them,” answered the member of the secret service. “The photographs are on films, as yet undeveloped, and I at once posted them to an address in Bâle, so as to get rid of them from my possession. The plans, on tissue paper, I have here in my walking-stick,” he added, smiling grimly and holding up to our view his rather battered ebony cane with a silver knob.
“Aren’t you afraid of anyone prying into that?” I asked.
“Not at all. The knob is removable, as you see,” and he unscrewed it, revealing a small cavity with a compass set in the top. “But no one ever suspects the ferrule. There is a hidden spring in it;” and, inverting the stick, he opened the ferrule, disclosing a small cavity in which reposed some tiny pieces of tissue closely resembling rolled cigarette papers.
It is against the British principles of openness and fairness to employ secret agents; but in these days, when spies abound everywhere and the whole of Europe is a vast network of political intrigue, we cannot afford to sit inactive and remain in contented ignorance.
“You will make a full report later, with photographs and plans, I presume?” His Excellency suggested.