To complete the story of the Burns Detective Agency, I will also mention that just prior to America’s entry into the World War this agency was conducting a spy service in the United States for the German government. Shortly before the sinking of the Lusitania, the Burns’ agency had men stationed in American munition plants and was secretly selling information to German government agents, who were gathering knowledge of munition shipments for the purpose of torpedoing munition-laden vessels. The head of Burns’ New York office, Gaston B. Means, admitted under oath that he delivered reports in a secret place to an unknown man to whom he was directed by the German government spy, Paul Koenig. The Burns agency perpetrated against the United States government a gigantic frame-up designed to supply von Bernstorff with perjured evidence for diplomatic use against the United States government. Tug boat captains were hired by a nest of German military spies under the direction of Burns’ New York agent, Gaston B. Means, the captains being induced to swear to false affidavits to indicate that they were carrying supplies to British vessels outside New York harbor in violation of the laws of neutrality. In this frame-up the Burns agency was caught red-handed, but was given immunity from prosecution because its clients could better be caught by holding this club over Burns’ head. Recently, when the Workers’ Party called a mass meeting in our national capital, at which Robert Minor was announced to tell this story, the use of the hall was mysteriously withdrawn, and Mr. William J. Burns, in his capacity as chief of the United States Secret Service, raided the offices of the sponsors of the meeting and arrested a dozen men. CHAPTER III IN WHICH I GET ARRESTED The purpose of the previous chapter was to explain to you the series of events whereby it came about that Upton Sinclair, muckraker and enemy of society, was in the office of the president of the Merchants’ and Manufacturers’ Association of Los Angeles, at ten o’clock on the morning of Monday, May 7th, 1923. My brother-in-law, Hunter Kimbrough, and myself had come without appointment; at the same time two gentlemen came in who had an appointment—so a polite clerk explained. I had not presented my card, and no one there knew either Kimbrough or myself; we were invited to sit down, and did so, while the other gentlemen were escorted into the inner office. We made no effort to listen to what went on, but we had to hear it, because the door of the inner office was left ajar, and the talk was carried on in tones which caused the clerks in the outer office to drop their work and look at one another and grin. “Who is that?” asked the young lady stenographer. “That’s Mr. Hammond,” was the answer of the chief clerk. “He owns a couple of hundred thousand acres of timber land, and he’s got about twenty ships tied up at the harbor.”