sharp, and tired eyes, I had to remind myself that
a secret service net covering Great Britain, France,
and large portions of the war zone was amenable
to his hand.
Sir Roger Casement had been secretly spirited here after that dramatic dawn in Tralee. He had stood there beyond the desk, rather proud than worried. It was impossible not to question how many guilty ones had stood beyond the desk, reading in those tired, quiet, questioning eyes their condemnation to the extreme penalty.
The quiet of the eyes, the quiet of the room, the quiet of the building made such pictures seem incredible. The place offered no appearance of an inquisition, no stagey atmosphere of danger. Now and then a clerk tip-toed in and out, as in any office, leaving more bundles of paper to litter the desk. And yet the room was crowded with shadows. It was full of death.
One thing I carried out of it. In such places there is none of the common contempt for the spy, none of the customary aversion for the degradation of his penalty. Such men find in the stealthy and anonymous heroism of the secret agent something sublime, the most perfect sacrifice.
The Admiralty isn't far from Scotland Yard. That other room was there, that other man who within a few months overcame new conditions
