So far as I remember, only one attempt at escape on a large scale was really successful. That was when some officers hired a motor-boat to take them down the Amur till they reached Chinese territory. At the same time two other officers were to put the Russians on a false scent by starting off by train and getting captured some way down the line. The trick succeeded to perfection; the Russians continued to search for the other fugitives on the railroad, and the men in the motor-boat got clear away to Manchuria, and eventually to Tientsin. In the spring of 1917, after the first Revolution, an order from the Austrian and German Governments was circulated through the Siberian camps that no more prisoners were to escape to China, as they would only be interned, and the camps there were much worse than in Russia. Whether there was any political motive behind this order I do not know, but in the summer of 1917 those prisoners who wanted to escape went westwards through Russia. There was a brisk trade in forged passports, Russian or English by preference, and it was easy to get to Petrograd. I do not think it would have been so easy if there had been more English consuls in Siberia to look after matters of this sort. How the prisoners managed to cross the frontier from Petrograd I do not understand. It was quite impossible on an Allied passport. But the letters we received from Germany proved that somehow or other they did get home at last. The frequent attempts at escape, like my surreptitious life, can only be understood by those who know the venality with which the Russian state was honey-combed. Chehof has a sparklingly malicious story of a Russian gentleman who goes to a Government office to make some inquiries. He is shown into a room where several officials are busy writing. He wanders about for a long time, ignored by every one. Finally he receives a hint from the porter that a gratification is expected. He lays a banknote on the desk of one of the officials, who adroitly slips a book over it and goes on writing. At first he does not understand this manœuvre, but light breaks in upon his mind, and he lays a banknote for a much larger sum on the desk. The official wakes up as from a trance, recognizes his visitor, does the necessary little piece of business, and escorts him to the corridor. The gentleman is so overwhelmed by his politeness and condescension that he feels obliged, on leaving, to convey to him still another gratification.... Such, or something like this, is Chehof’s story. [SN: “HAMPELMANN”]