prisoners at Irkutsk could not have taken place without their consent, and it must have meant something. It seems very much as if the recent sudden activity in the Bolshevik armies was due to a German brain. This vigorous and successful fighting north, east, south and west points to a superior intellect at work somewhere. And the Bolsheviks have shown no such military genius in their campaigns that one might expect it to come from them. [SN: BRITISH CONSUL] Meanwhile in this nest of German intrigue my position became very difficult. I have not dwelt at length upon my reasons for severing my connection with Germany. I think they will be obvious to any civilized person. In renouncing my allegiance I left all I possessed in the hands of the Germans, so that at any rate I did not get the best of the bargain. In the circumstances I went to the English Consul, explained to him how I stood, and that I feared that I might be made to fight for Germany or the Bolsheviks in the immediate future, and asked him for a paper enabling me to get out of Russia. There followed weary months of waiting while we telegraphed to the Home Government. The Bolsheviks delayed all and suppressed half of what we tried to send. At last a wire arrived announcing that British protection was to be accorded to me. But that was only half the battle, the more strenuous half was with the Soviet. They absolutely refused to let me go. The British Consul at Irkutsk had a great name with them; they were more afraid of him than of all the other consuls put together. When they heard that he was interested in a matter, they used to give up resistance to him as a bad job. But in my case some influence stiffened them, and they were obstinate. Not that they wished me ill. With that touch of topsy-turvydom, which is never absent from Russian affairs, they urged the Consul to let me escape. “Why doesn’t he escape?” they said. “It is quite easy.” And it was--for Germans. Meanwhile I was spied on wherever I went. In the morning when I went down to the Consul’s, a tall Austrian officer used to pick me up and march behind me with set military pace until I had “reached my objective.” Afterwards he would follow me home again, keeping exactly the same distance all the while. His countenance was so lean and mournful that I could not help christening him “Don Quixote.” But I was sorry for the Austrians; I thought they had more brains than to spy like that. Then, quite unexpectedly, the Central Soviet at Moscow telegraphed that I was to be allowed to go. I have since found out that it was through a lucky misunderstanding.[1] Anyhow the Irkutsk people at last gave me a licence to travel. But my troubles were not over yet. The stations all along the line were picketed with prisoners of war, whose business it was to see that only the right prisoners escaped. They cared nothing for the Soviet’s licence. At other stations there were Red Guards whose business it was to see that no one left Russia too rich.