The long sojourn which I was destined to make in Brussels was uneventful compared to my late experiences. There I obtained papers certifying that I was a Belgian commercial traveller, but discretion, you will readily understand, forbids me going into details. Oh, no; I did not put those forged papers to too severe a test by use. As much as possible, I sought to remain hidden in the terrorized city, and to slip out of it for Malines and the villages near the Dutch frontier, without showing my _papiers_ any more than was absolutely necessary. The frontier between Belgium and Holland is of so serrated a nature that at the time of which I am speaking it was comparatively easy for a hunted man like myself to cross into neutral territory. To do so now would be almost impossible, so well do the Germans guard the irregular line, the configuration of which is such that it is difficult, in places, to tell whether you are in Holland or in Belgium. Fortunately, I had come into contact with a person who was expert in getting young Belgians across the frontier into Holland, and he agreed to help me. Here, again, I cannot--on account of those who risked their lives in befriending me--go into too many details. Suffice it to say, that on the evening of my escape from the frontier village of A---- I was instructed to walk to a certain milestone, where I should find a man with a red muffler, sitting on a heap of stones. There, sure enough, I found him--an elderly man with his hands folded over the top of his stick, his chin resting on his hands, and his eyes gazing innocently into the gathering dusk. As I passed him I uttered the word "Belgica," which I had been told to pronounce, and keep on, without once turning my head. Very soon I heard his footsteps and the tap, tap of his stick. He overtook me with alert step, and on reaching me, said: "Follow me." We shot off from the main road into a small winding pathway, which we followed for some fifty yards. Then, suddenly stopping, the man in the red muffler exclaimed: "Holland!" No word ever before sounded to me so sweet as that. Overcome by the thought that once more I was standing on free ground--that I had but to follow the pathway on which I stood to reach a Dutch village--and that the journey thence to a port and my beloved France _viâ_ England, was but a question of time, I remained for a few seconds lost in reverie. At last, mastering my emotion, I prepared to set off before darkness completely enveloped the wild landscape which surrounded me. Before putting my best foot foremost, however, I was seized with a desire to thank the man who had guided me there, so I turned half-round to press his hand. To my surprise, however, I found that he had disappeared, and that only the gleam of his red muffler marked his progress down the path. TALES OF THE SPIES AND THEIR DANGEROUS MISSIONS _Revelations of Methods and Daring Adventures_ _Told by Secret Service Men of Several Countries_