“Waiter,” I said (of course, in German), “I want a bag, a handbag.  Do you think you could get me one?”

“Does the gentleman want it now?” the man replied.

“This very minute,” I answered.

“About that size?”—­indicating Semlin’s.  “Yes, or smaller if you like:  I am not particular.”

“I will see what can be done.”

In ten minutes the man was back with a brown leather bag about a size smaller than Semlin’s.  It was not new and he charged me thirty gulden (which is about fifty shillings) for it.  I paid with a willing heart and tipped him generously to boot, for I wanted a bag and could not wait till the shops opened without missing the train for Germany.

I paid my bill and drove off to the Central Station through the dark streets with my two bags.  The clocks were striking six as I entered under the great glass dome of the station hall.

I went straight to the booking-office, and bought a first-class ticket, single, to Berlin.  One never knows what may happen and I had several things to do before the train went.

The bookstall was just opening.  I purchased a sovereign’s worth of books and magazines, English, French and German, and crammed them into the bag I had procured at the cafe.  Thus laden I adjourned to the station buffet.

There I set about executing a scheme I had evolved for leaving the document which Semlin had brought from England in a place of safety, whence it could be recovered without difficulty, should anything happen to me.  I knew no one in Holland save Dicky, and I could not send him the document, for I did not trust the post.  For the same reason I would not post the document home to my bank in England:  besides, I knew one could not register letters until eight o’clock, by which hour I hoped to be well on my way into Germany.

No, my bag, conveniently weighted with books and deposited at the station cloak-room, should be my safe.  The comparative security of station cloak-rooms as safe deposits has long been recognized by jewel thieves and the like and this means of leaving my document behind in safety seemed to me to be better than any other I could think of.

So I dived into my bag and from the piles of literature it contained picked up a book at random.  It was a German brochure:  Gott strafe England! by Prof.  Dr. Hugo Bischoff, of the University of Goettingen.  The irony of the thing appealed to my sense of humour.  “So be it!” I said.  “The worthy Professor’s fulminations against my country shall have the honour of harbouring the document which is, apparently, of such value to his country!” And I tucked the little canvas case away inside the pages of the pamphlet, stuck the pamphlet deep down among the books and shut the bag.