I recognized him at once as an agent of the Russian Government, whom I had once been instrumental in exposing as a spy in Germany. I saw him look at me closely for a moment and I could tell by his expression, although he said no word, that he had recognized me also. Thrusting a penny into the boy’s hand, I made haste to get out of the crowd as quickly as I could. Here was a pleasant situation, I thought, as I made my way very quietly to my hotel. I could not doubt that the Russian would report me—but what then? His word against mine would not convict me of anything, but it might lead to an inconvenient period of detention. I sat down to consider the situation. After all, I decided, the situation was serious but not absolutely hopeless. Unquestionably I should be reported to the police; unquestionably a careful investigation would result in the discovery that there was no Bridgman H. Taylor at the address in El Paso which I had given to the Relief Commission at the Hague. For the rest, my accent would prove only that I was of German blood; not that I was a German subject. So far, so bad. But what then? I had, in the safe deposit vaults at Rotterdam, papers proving that I was a Mexican officer on leave. It would be a simple matter to send for these papers, to admit that I was Horst von der Goltz, and to state that I was in England _en route_ from a visit to my family in Germany and now bound for Mexico to resume my services. There remained but one matter to explain: why I was using an American passport bearing a name that was not mine. That should not be a difficult task. Huerta had been overthrown barely a week before my leave of absence was issued. Carranza’s government had not yet been recognized, and already my general, Villa, had quarreled with him, so that it was impossible for me to procure a passport from the Mexican Government. In my dilemma, I had taken advantage of the offer of an American exporter, who had been kind enough to lend me his passport, which he had secured and found he did not need at the time. As for my name, it was not a particularly good one under which to travel in England, so I had naturally been obliged to use the one on my passport. It was a good story and had somewhat the appearance of truth. The question was, would it be believed? Even if it were, it had its disadvantages; for I should certainly be arrested as an enemy alien, and after a delay fatal to all my plans, I should probably be deported. I decided to try a bolder scheme.