The teller took the money, counted it and jotted the totals down until he came to the Swiss note. He looked at the note and then looked at me. Then he pushed the note back. “We cannot change Swiss money,” he said. I scented a mystery--possibly some hidden diplomatic trouble with our good Swiss neighbour. “Why?” I asked. “The Swiss exchange is above parity.” “I’m sorry, sir,” said the clerk decisively, “but we are not changing Swiss notes.” He added some lame story about a large number of Swiss forgeries being in circulation, but I sought a deeper reason. There had been a frontier incident. Two or three English newspaper correspondents had been arrested at Bale and there had been certain hints in the Paris newspapers that a member of the Swiss General Staff had been conveying information to our own staff. Here was a matter on which I could very well consult “Mr. Brown,” if von Kahn’s inquiries satisfied me as to his bonâ fides. I started off next morning, accompanied by von Kahn, who had left his family at an East Coast watering place, fully determined to over-ride the objections which Berlin had shown and to establish communication with “the hermit of the Glen,” as I had, with a little touch of true German sentimentality, described him. We went across Scotland, changing at Stirling, and in the evening I came to the little town which was the nearest point on the railway to Mr. Brown’s residence. Stirling was interesting. It was full of soldiers in their picturesque kilts. “Ah, my fine fellows,” thought I pityingly, “how little you know of the humiliation in store for you!” In six months’ time these proud regiments who were marching to the station with bands and banners would come creeping back, possibly under a German guard! Little did they think, these officers who sat chattering so frivolously on the station, that the unobtrusive man in knickerbockers and rough stockings, watching them so innocently, was a member of the dominant race and an officer of that great secret service which has no parallel in the world. But to resume my narrative. The next morning, at six o’clock, I rose and knocked on the door of von Kahn’s room. He was up and dressed, and after a hasty breakfast we were soon flying through the morning sunlight to our destination. Four miles out of the town we left the main road and pursued a narrow cart-track which led gradually up to the hills. The road crosses a saddle of one of these ridges, then drops steeply into a broad green valley, through which runs two rivers. We stopped at the top of the hill and von Kahn pointed out the shooting-box which stood on the crest of the farther rise--a little white building. “Our Mr. Brown is at home,” he said and pointed to the flag, a yellow flag with a red lion in the centre, the same being the secret standard of Scotland, which is always flown in defiance of the English, whose banner is the Union Jack.