of spirit--of which, God knows, I have little in these days--Dawson
would pull out his terrible red volumes of ever-expanding Regulations
and make notes of my committed crimes. The Act itself could be printed
on a sheet of notepaper, but it has given birth to a whole library of
Regulations. Thus he bent me to his will as he had my poor friend
Richard Cary.

The mills of Scotland Yard grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding
small. There is nothing showy about them. They work by system, not by
inspiration. Though Dawson was not specially intelligent--in some
respects almost stupid--he was dreadfully, terrifyingly efficient,
because he was part of the slowly grinding Scotland Yard machine.

As this book properly begins with my published story of "The Lost
Naval Papers," I will reprint it here exactly as it was written for
the readers of the _Cornhill Magazine_ in September, 1916.

* * * * *


I. BAITING THE TRAP

This story--which contains a moral for those fearful folk who exalt
everything German--was told to me by Richard Cary, the accomplished
naval correspondent of a big paper in the North of England. I have
known him and his enthusiasm for the White Ensign for twenty years. He
springs from an old naval stock, the Carys of North Devon, and has
devoted his life to the study of the Sea Service. He had for so long
been accustomed to move freely among shipyards and navy men, and was
trusted so completely, that the veil of secrecy which dropped in