I presumed that I was to walk away without further ado; but not so easy.  We proceeded into another office, where the whole assemblage was standing.  I have no idea who the high superior officer was; but he held in his hand a blue book which contained a long report of my case, with all the documents except the defense I had written.  Again I was cross-examined, and my papers were carefully passed upon one by one.

One they could not or would not overlook, and to it throughout all this last examination they kept perpetually referring.  When I had made my thirty-seven-mile journey into Liege on August 20,1 had secured this paper at Maastricht signed by the Dutch and German authorities.  Over the Dutch seal were the words, “To the passing over the boundary into Belgian-Germany of Mr. Albert Williams there exists on the part of the undersigned no objection.  Signed, The Commissioner of Police Souten.”  Over the German seal were the words, “At the Imperial German Vice-Consulate the foregoing signature is hereby attested to be that of Souten, the Police Commissioner of Maastricht.”  For this beautifully non-committal affair I had delivered up six marks.  I would have cheerfully paid six hundred to disown it now.

“What explanation is there for his possession of that paper?” asked the General sternly.

De Leval pleaded cleverly, dilating upon the natural inquisitiveness and roaming disposition of the American race.

“I know what the Wanderlust is,” said the General, “but I fail to understand the peculiar desire of this man to travel only in dangerous and forbidden war zones.”

“In the second place,” the General continued, “there is no doubt that he has made some remark to the effect that in the long run Germany cannot win.  That was overheard by an officer in a cafe and is undeniable.  The other charges we will for the time waive,” said the General, drawing himself up with a fine hauteur.  “But his identifying evidence is very flimsy.  Can you produce any better?”

Suddenly I bethought me of the gold watch in my pocket.  It was a presentation from some two hundred people of small means in an industrial district in Boston.  Three of the aides successively and successfully damaged their thumbnails in their eagerness to pry open the back cover.  That is a source of considerable satisfaction to me now; but it was embarrassing in that delicate situation when my fate hung almost by a thread, and a trifle could delay my release for days.  If the General damaged his own thumb on it, I feel sure that I would have been remanded back to prison.  But, luckily, the cover sprang open and revealed to the eyes the words:  “From friends at Maverick.”