“Yes, it’s Van Hee’s signature all right,” muttered Javert with a shrug of his shoulders, “only he is not the consul, but the vice-consul at Ghent and let us remember that he is of Belgian ancestry—­that wouldn’t incline him to deep friendship with us.”

On a card of introduction from Ambassador Van Dyke there were the words “Writer for The Outlook.”  It’s hard to understand how that escaped my very scrutinous search, but there it was.

“Another anti-German magazine,” commented, sardonically.  I was marveling at the uncanny display of knowledge of this man at the center of the European maelstrom, aware of the editorial policy of an American magazine.

“But that doesn’t mean that I am anti-German,” I protested; “we can retain our own private opinions.”

“Tommyrot,” exclaimed Javert, “tommy-rot!” Strange language in a military court!  Where had he laid hold of that choice bit of our vernacular?

“You know perchance,” he continued, “what the penalty is for newspaper men caught on the German side.”  I thought that surely I was going to reap the result of the adverse reports that the American correspondents had made already about the Germans, when he added, “But you are here on a different charge.”

The judge started to cross-examine me as to all my antecedents.  My replies were in German—­or purported to be—­but in my eagerness to clear myself I must have wrought awful havoc with that classic language.  I was forthwith ordered to talk English and direct my remarks to Javert, acting now as interpreter.  In the midst of this procedure Javert, with a quick sudden stroke, produced the scribble-paper which he had seized in the morning, held it fairly in my face, and cried, “Whose writing is that?” The others all riveted their gaze upon me.

I replied calmly, “It is mine.”

“I want you to put it into full, complete writing,” cried Javert.  “As it now stands it is a telegraphic code.”

That is the most complimentary remark that has ever been made upon my hieroglyphics.  However, I shall be eternally grateful to Providence for my Horace Greeley style.  For, while that document contained by no means any military secrets, there were, on the other hand, uncomplimentary observations about the Germans.  It would not be good strategy to let these fall into their hands in their present mood.  At Javert’s behest, I set to work on my paper, and delivered to him in ten minutes a free, full, rapid translation of the abbreviated contents.  On inspecting it Javert said, irritably, “I want an exact, precise transcript of everything here.”

“I thought you wanted it in a hurry,” I rejoined.

“No hurry at all.  We have ample time to fix your case.”

These words do not sound a bit threatening, but it was the general setting in which they were said that made them so ominous, and which set the cold waves rippling up and down my spinal column.