he photograph of a
man--a young, somewhat sinister man, for I had observed him closely
before she snatched the picture from my hand--was what she either could
not, or would not, explain.

Then came the time for my leaving Radchurch. I had been appointed to a
junior but very responsible post at the War Office, which, of course,
entailed my living in London. Even my week-ends found me engrossed with
my work, but at last I had a few days' leave of absence. It is those few
days which have ruined my life, which have brought me the most horrible
experience that ever a man had to undergo, and have finally placed me
here in the dock, pleading as I plead to-day for my life and my honour.

It is nearly five miles from the station to Radchurch. She was there to
meet me. It was the first time that we had been reunited since I had put
all my heart and my soul upon her. I cannot enlarge upon these matters,
gentlemen. You will either be able to sympathize with and understand the
emotions which overbalance a man at such a time, or you will not. If you
have imagination, you will. If you have not, I can never hope to make
you see more than the bare fact. That bare fact, placed in the baldest
language, is that during this drive from Radchurch Junction to the
village I was led into the greatest indiscretion--the greatest dishonour,
if you will--of my life. I told the woman a secret, an enormously
important secret, which might affect the fate of the war and the lives of
many thousands of men.

It was done before I knew it--before I grasped the way in which her quick
brain could place various scattered hints together and weave them into
one idea. She was wailing, almost weeping, over the fact that the allied
armies were held up by the iron line of the Germans. I explained that it
was more correct to say that our iron line was holding them up, since
they were the invaders. "But is France, is Belgium, _never_ to be rid of
them?" she cried. "Are we simply to sit in front of their trenches and
be content to let them do what they will with ten provinces of France?
Oh, Jack, Jack, for God's sake, say something to bring a little hope to
my heart, for sometimes I think that it is breaking! You English are
stolid. You can bear these things. But we others, we have more nerve,
more soul! It is death to us. Tell me! Do tell me that there is hope!
And yet it is foolish of me to ask, for, of course, you are only a
subordinate at the