“We shall have to investigate your story,” he said finally. “We shall send to Holland for the papers you say are contained in the vault there; and you will be questioned further. In the meantime I shall have to place you under arrest.” I had expected nothing better than this, and went to my jail with a feeling that was relief rather than anything else. My papers would establish my identity and then, if all went well, I should go back to Germany and make my way to America by another route. But all did not go well. Somehow, in spite of my commission and leave of absence—perhaps because my offer seemed too good to be true—the British authorities decided that it would be better to lose the information I had offered them and keep me in England. Whatever their suspicions, the only charge they could bring against me and prove was that I was an alien enemy who had failed to register. They had no proof whatever of any connection between me and the German Government. So on the 13th of November, 1914, they brought me into a London police court to answer the charge of failing to register. I was delighted to do so. It was far more comfortable than facing a court martial on trial for my life as a spy, as the English newspapers had seemed to expect. Accordingly on the 26th of November I was duly sentenced to six months at hard labor in Pentonville Prison, with a recommendation for deportation at the expiration of my sentence. I served five months at Pentonville—where Roger Casement was hanged—and then my good behavior let me out. Home Secretary MacKenna signed the order for my deportation. I was free. I was to slip from under the paw of the lion. And then something happened—to this day I don’t know what. Instead of being deported I was thrust into Brixton Prison, where Kuepferer hanged himself, strangely enough, just after his troubles seemed over. Kuepferer had driven a bargain with the English. He was to give them information in return for his life and freedom; and then, when he had everything arranged, he committed suicide. In Brixton I was not sentenced on any charge, I was simply held in solitary confinement, with occasional diversions in the form of a “third degree.” After my first insincere offer to give the English information I kept my mouth shut and made no overtures to them, although I confess that the temptation to tell all I knew was often very great. The English got nothing out of me and in September, 1915, I was shifted to another prison. They took me out of Brixton and placed me into Reading—the locale of Oscar Wilde’s ballad. Conditions were less disagreeable there. I was allowed to have newspapers and magazines, and to talk and exercise with my fellow prisoners.