He said it could scarcely be called escaping. He literally put on his hat and walked. He figured it out this time that the way to avoid detection was not to hide around dark corners; but to disarm suspicion by openly mixing with the crowds. Wherefore he went openly down the streets to the railroad-depot, bought a ticket to Moscow in the ordinary way, and traveled just like any other passenger. At Moscow he stopped for several weeks. His story became decidedly vague at this point. He told me that he fell in with a woman who had the _entrée_ to army circles in Russia and that she got him a card to a Russian officers' club where he hung around for two weeks, mingling with the officers without his nationality being suspected. The woman had in the meantime dressed him up in good clothes and had changed his Austrian money into Russian coinage. The Hussar tried to give me the impression that the woman had fallen a victim to his manly charms and had thereby been induced to turn traitor to her country. I couldn't quite believe this, he didn't look the part. From what we have since learned of Russian conditions, it seems very probable that, when the Hussar got to Moscow, he hunted up the circle of German spies who were operating there, reported for duty, and was taken care of. * * * * * "Well, what am I going to do--stay here for the rest of my life?" demanded the Hussar testily. "Patience, my son," said the old man. "To-night there is another train--a scrubby little local train that runs back and forth across the border carrying the peasants and traders. No one pays any attention to that train. You will be on it when it goes out to-night." When the local train left that night the Hussar was one of the passengers. The others were dirty, badly smelling Manchurian farmers. But it carried him safely across the border and into China. Without further difficulty he made his way to America. He was on his way to the Eastern coast and expected to take ship for Austria within a month. When his companion hinted that he would find it harder to get through the British blockade than to hoodwink the Russian officials, he winked. And sure enough, within three months the Westerner had received a card from him. He was back at his old table in the café of Peremysl, drinking cool concoctions from tall glasses. (The foregoing stories are: (I) told in the _New York Evening World_; (II) told in the _Los Angeles Times_, and reprinted in the _Literary Digest_.) SURVIVORS' STORIES OF SINKING OF THE _LUSITANIA_ "_How We Saw Our Ship Go Down--Torpedoed by a German Submarine_" _Told by Passengers of the Ill-Fated "Lusitania"_