froze up into the most rigid formality. Sitting down, he wrote out
what I deemed was the report of the morning's proceedings. I
watched him writing with all the semblance and precision of a
machine, except for a half-smile that sometimes flickered upon his
close-pressed lips.

He was a machine, or, more precisely, a cog in the great fighting
machine that was producing death and destruction to Belgium.
Just as the Germans have put men through a certain mold and
turned out the typical German soldier, in like manner through other
molds they have turned out according to pattern the German
secret service man. He is a kind of spy-destroyer performing in his
sphere the same service that the torpedo-boat destroyer does in
its domain. This man was the German reincarnation of Javert, the
police inspector who hung so relentlessly upon the flanks of Jean
Valjean. In his stolid silence I read an iron determination to "get"
me, and in that flickering smile I saw an inhuman delight in putting
the worst construction upon my case as he wrote it down.
Hereafter he shall be known as Javert.

Towards Javert I sustain a very distinct aversion. This is not the
result of any evil twist put into my constitution by original sin. Quite
the contrary. Hitherto I have always felt that I, like the man in
Oscar Wilde's play, could forgive anybody anything, any time,
anywhere. One can forgive even a hangman for doing his duty,
however it may thwart one's plans. Some men must play the part
of prosecutor and devil's advocate.

But such was the cold, cynical delight in this fellow's doing his duty,
such was his arrogant, overbearing attitude toward the helpless