Herr Prinz, however, had received a message from his father by some secret cipher to the effect that four times each month a submarine would come in-shore off the Scottish coast. He was to reach a deserted part of the foreshore, flash a signal from an electric lamp and a boat would be put off to pick him up. This system would be put into operation the moment the Herr Doctor Councillor of State, Prinz, learnt from me that he was free. “Content yourself, my dear lieutenant,” I said, “you are as good as in the Fatherland. I will notify your august parent, to whom I trust you will remember me forthwith.” “I have already notified him and I desire that you should not communicate,” he said, so I took no further steps. There was no difficulty in getting the young man to Scotland, and I ventured to take a little holiday and accompany him. After all, one should show a little attention to men who have fought and bled for one’s country, especially when they are nearly related to councillors of State who, if not noble, are exalted personages on the way to nobility. I supplied the young man with passports and various documents to identify him, and left him (with £50 which I advanced out of my private purse) at an hotel in a small town not many miles from the west coast of Scotland, under the care of a good German head-waiter who promised to look after the lad. And there I thought I had heard the last of him, and he had gone out of my mind, until I received an urgent message from Scotland saying that the submarine had not come, and asking me for another £50. I went straight up to Scotland and found the Herr Lieutenant living at the hotel and very weary. “It is very strange, Heine, I have been at the appointed place every night, on the 7th, 14th, 21st and 28th, I have flashed my lamp and nothing has happened.” He told me he had waited on one occasion for four hours on the beach; on another he waited till daybreak. “It is very extraordinary,” I said. “When you fixed this scheme with His Excellency the Councillor of State, Doctor Prinz, was it by writing?” “By secret cipher, and what is more, the message was written in secret ink.” “Did it reach you without having been opened?” “Yes,” replied the Herr Lieutenant; “I have one of the letters in my pocket now.” He took the letter and opened it. Apparently it was an innocent letter such as an affectionate father might write to his prisoner son. “Now wait,” said the young officer. He sent for a glass of milk and immersed the letter, then held it before the fire to dry. There instantly appeared string after string of words which were meaningless to me, apparently written in brown ink. “I carry the code in my head,” he said.