CHAPTER XIX
THE GRIM GAME OF INTELLIGENCE
THE quiet of Paris, however, did not make it seem as remote from battle as I had expected to find it after such experiences. You looked upon the men in uniform with a new sympathy, a broader comprehension, and you talked of nothing but the war.
It was about that time, I remember, that a German spy was caught under dramatic circumstances and shot with a deserved despatch. Of that case it is impossible to write, but it reminded me that when I had sailed for Europe I had planned to find out something about these men and women—not so much their ciphers and signals and mathematical routine, rather the kind of people they are, and the type of drama they play continuously behind the lines. So I reviewed my own contact with them, and the stories I had heard of their daring.
In the first place, officially in Europe spying has ceased to exist. One speaks of Intelligence, yet it doesn't make much difference under what label a man faces a firing squad or feels the noose
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