I have dined at the Ritz in Paris on more than one occasion with the yellow-toothed old Baroness X----, an Austrian, high-born, smart, and covered with jewellery. With her she has usually one and sometimes two pretty "nieces," who speak French, and pose as French. Perhaps they are, but one may be forgiven if one is suspicious. The Baroness X---- always has on hand a goodly supply of these "nieces." I have met them at Doney's in Florence, at Ciro's at Monte Carlo, at Maxim's in Paris, at Shepheard's at Cairo. I have chatted with these young ladies at the Hotel Hungaria in Budapest, at the Royal at Dinard, at the Grand in Rome, and in the aviary at the Métropole at Brighton. But these merry little "nieces" are always different! Baroness X---- and myself are in entire agreement. She knows what I know, and she sent me a Christmas card this season and dated from The Hague! She is certainly the ugliest old lady I have ever met, a figure well known in every European capital. Her speech is like the filing of brass. As a linguist, however, she is really wonderful. I believe she speaks every European language perfectly, and Arabic too, for she once told me, while we were together on a steamer going down the Mediterranean, that she was born in Smyrna, of Austrian parents. As a spy of Germany she is unique, and I give her her due. She is amazingly clever. To my certain knowledge, she and her nieces, two years ago, while living in Nice beneath the same roof as myself, obtained through a young artillery officer a remarkable set of plans of the defences of the Franco-Italian frontier near the Col di Tenda. Again, I know how she and her attendant couple of "nieces" were in Ireland "on a tour" during the troubles of last year. And, further, I also know how many a military secret of our own War Office has been "collected" by one or other of those pretty cigarette-smoking flapper "nieces," with whom I, too, have smoked cigarettes and chatted in French or Italian. How often have I seen one or other of these sirens--daughters of a foreign countess as their dupes have believed them to be--driving about London in private cars or in taxis, or supping at restaurants. On a day in last November I found one of these interesting young ladies, dark-haired and _chic_--Parisienne, of course--enjoying a tête-à-tête luncheon at the Hut at Wisley, on the Ripley road, her cavalier being a man in khaki. I wondered what information she was trying to obtain. Yet what could I do? How could I act, and interrupt such a perfectly innocent _déjeuner à deux_? Yes, to the onlooker who knows, the manoeuvres are all very intensely interesting, and would be most amusing, if they were not all so grimly and terribly tragic. And who is to blame for all this? Would it be suffered in Germany?