military stores, and with memoranda of the gossip that went on around our posts. Much of this information was harmless enough and was not intended to be secret. It included, for instance, population and crop statistics and data regarding trade and industries.

The manager of The Rising Sun transmitted his news budget monthly to Siraisi, who received similar reports from other parts of Siberia. It was clear, therefore, that Saraisi was in charge of all the Japanese espionage work in Siberia. But though we could trace his channels of information, we were still in the dark as to how he got that information to Japan.

In 1913 the veil over this mystery began to lift. Early in April I received a cipher dispatch from the chief of our service at Petrograd telling me that a Japanese named Hiroto Minori had just left that city, traveling first-class, for Irkutsk. I already knew that this fellow was an experienced and active spy, who had been working in Russia ever since the war. Consequently I immediately wired my agents all along the line in Siberia proper to keep a sharp eye both on him and on everyone whom he met. A day or two later telegrams began to arrive at frequent intervals. They were all to the same effect that Hiroto had traveled through without stopping or meeting anybody. To all appearances he was an ordinary first-class passenger bound directly for the Orient.

On the day before Hiroto reached Irkutsk — that is, five and a half days after he left Petrograd-I doubled the number of my agents at the station, including in the number one of my best men who knew Hiroto Minori by sight. The others had photographs of him. We had cabmen in our employ ready at the station to offer him our services, and our own porters were there to carry his luggage. In fact, no apparent

loophole existed through which he could escape our observation. Half an hour after the express arrived I was notified by telephone that Hiroto was not on the train. My first thought was that my agents had let him slip past them in spite of their vigilance, but when my head man reached my office and described the precautions he had taken I dismissed that theory at once. The conductor of the train, whom the detective had asked about Hiroto, said that he had noticed him only two or three stations before reaching Irkutsk and was unable to say when he had left his compartment. I now regretted keenly that for reasons of economy I had not had an agent on the train to keep Hiroto under constant surveillance.

Later I discovered that this cautious and experienced spy, knowing that we should watch for him at Irkutsk, had left the train at Innokentievskaia, a station seven kilometres west of the city. We soon picked up the cabman who had driven him from that point to Irkutsk, as he had been surprised at the action of the Japanese and talked about it. When Hiroto reached Irkutsk he dismissed his cabman in one of the suburban streets and, carrying the two little valises that constituted all his luggage, continued his journey on foot.

From that instant our quarry seemed to have vanished into the earth. For three days we searched the city in all directions, keeping men on watch at hotels, theatres, restaurants, and every place a man of this sort might turn up, but without result. Our watch over Siraisi's house and the lodgings of other Japanese under suspicion was equally fruitless.

On the fourth day we thought we had picked up Hiroto's trail. One of my agents noticed a soldier walking up and down in a lonely street and apparently waiting for someone. The

fellow attracted the agent's attention on account of his long red beard, for beards are uncommon in the Russian army, and because he kept looking uneasily behind him and walked close to the house-walls. While my detective was still observing him, Hiroto Minori turned the nearest street-corner. As soon as the soldier caught sight of the Japanese he hurried up to him and handed him something that looked like an envelope, which he had previously kept concealed in his sleeve. Hiroto exchanged a few hasty words with him and continued on his way to the National Restaurant, which was near by, while the soldier made off in the opposite direction.

My agent, although perfectly aware of the importance we attached to discovering Hiroto's retreat, followed the soldier instead, feeling sure that the Japanese had gone to the restaurant for his dinner, as it was just mealtime, and would still be there when he returned. When he overtook the soldier he saw from his insignia that he belonged to a regiment of the Siberian Rifles then stationed at Irkutsk. He spoke to the fellow, pretending to have a relative in the same regiment. The man replied that he knew very little about his comrades, because he was serving as orderly to the Commanding General, at whose house he was quartered. Not wishing to excite suspicion, the agent parted with his new acquaintance, but watched him from a distance. The soldier proceeded straight to the residence of the Commanding General and entered the courtyard without being stopped by the two Cossack sentries in front of the gate. His story was therefore true.

Thereupon the detective hastened back to the restaurant which he had seen Hiroto Minori enter. To his great disappointment the latter had disappeared. After assuring himself of

that, he inquired of a waiter where the Japanese who had come in a few minutes before had gone. The waiter could not tell him; he said that the stranger had merely glanced in, as if looking for someone, and, failing to find the person he sought, had left immediately.

Thus Hiroto Minori vanished again without leaving a trace. But that night I received full information regarding the soldier who had communicated with him. The latter's name was Katzan, and he was a corporal in the Siberian Rifles who had been employed as the Commanding General's orderly for several months. My agents who were watching Siraisi's house recalled having seen a tall soldier with a red beard visit the laundry frequently, but they had never specifically mentioned it in their reports, as there was nothing extraordinary in the fact.

On the following morning, having detailed several experienced agents to shadow Katzan, I went directly to the General's Chief of Staff and told him what I had discovered about Katzan. I also requested this officer to inform the General that the success of my inquiry depended upon his keeping secret the information I had given him. It turned out that the Chief of Staff knew Katzan very well, because he brought him daily the letters signed by the General to be dispatched. For the previous month or two, however, the orderly had always brought them to him very late. The Chief of Staff had mentioned this to the General, who asked Katzan the cause of the delay. The latter replied that he had so many commissions that he sometimes had to defer this duty. The General thereupon ordered all letters to be carried immediately to the Chief of Staff to be dispatched, and directed that Katzan should perform his other commissions afterward.

It had been agreed between the Gener

al and the Chief of Staff at the time that, in order to keep a check on Katzan, the former would write on every envelope the time when he delivered it to his orderly, while the latter would keep a record of the time of its receipt. It was clear that Katzan had been carrying the General's letters to the Siraisis, who had opened and perused them and had photographed any that proved of sufficient importance. We confirmed the latter fact the very first day we kept Katzan under surveillance. He took the letters to Siraisi, and one of my agents made an excuse to enter the laundry a moment after him. But Katzan was neither in the front rooms nor in the kitchen. Consequently he must have been either in Siraisi's private room or in the secret room of the photographer. Ten minutes after entering Katzan left the laundry and hastened as fast as he could to the quarters of the Chief of Staff. Our chain of evidence in this matter was therefore complete. We decided to spring the trap on Katzan and the

Siraisi brothers while they were examining the General's correspondence. With this in view I ordered a police detachment to be ready near the laundry between four and five o'clock the following afternoon.

On the morning after I had this arranged I visited the Chief of Staff to tell him what I intended to do. Imagine my astonishment when he said: 'It was not till last night that I was able to inform the General of what you had told me about Katzan. The General at once ordered the fellow back to the barracks, and asked me to send him another orderly.'

I inquired if the General had been informed of my request that Katzan be left alone until I could catch him in the act of betraying his trust. The chief said that he had done so.

'Well, then,' I said, 'why would n't the General let me settle with Katzan and the whole nest of Japanese spies in this city? I think I could have done so.' To this the Chief of Staff only shrugged his shoulders.

It is a beautiful springlike afternoon, although it is actually midwinter elsewhere. Here in Africa, however, the weather is very variable. Often the wind blows with the fury of a hurricane, seeming at times as if it might even topple over the mountains. Again, Again, the torrential rains, which like cloudbursts break over the solitary encamp1 From a private letter

ment in a dark and heavy downpour, suddenly give place to a lovely summer day with a pure and beautiful blue sky above in which shines a resplendent sun whose torrid rays seem to penetrate to the very hearts of the surrounding oval mountains. But neither the fecund, heavy rains nor the hot caresses of the sun have power to bring forth trees that might serve us as a defense from

the rigor of the sun's rays, or even flowers to gladden our sight and sweeten the air.

Our encampment - which is situated at quite an elevation and affords a good view of the surrounding country - is a very large one, where thousands of men are gathered together, representing every branch of the Army. It is protected by a strong, well-fortified wall. The view from here is typical of the country, made up of thousands of carmechos, or Moro dwellings, scattered over the mountain-sides and separated from one another by heavy hedges of cactus. This curious plant is the only adornment possessed by the Kabyles, and produces an abundant crop of higos chumbos, or prickly pears, which form the chief food of the natives, more especially in those regions farthest removed from the Spanish cities, to which, because of the lack of means of communication, very little in the way of provisions or other of the necessaries of life can be conveyed.

The forces in the encampment are housed in small conical tents set out in long parallel lines forming streets. Each tent in which there is scarcely standing room for them is supposed to accommodate twenty men, with all their accoutrements.

There is one building, comfortable as compared with the tents, which is the General Barracks. Then there is a row of wooden huts, or barracas, placed in the form of a village, which are the canteens. There are also a few other dwellings, constructed of mud with tin roofs, in which some of the officers live. It is the hour of general recreation, and on every hand may be seen groups of soldiers. Some are reading over for the third or fourth time the letters received during the day; others are cleaning their personal belongings as they chat amicably together; others again are playing games of cards-all

intent on seeking in one way or another to drive away their ennui.

The afternoon is waning and the sun's rays are growing less rigorous as he nears his eclipse behind the stupendous, almost inaccessible, mountains of the enemy country. All are glad of the pleasant coolness of evening as they leave the shelter of the crowded tents to breathe the fresher air outside. It is the hour when the sentinels for the night take charge and keep watch while their companions sleep.

At seven o'clock the vibrant tones of the bugle announce the hour of the roll call, and after each man on hearing his name called has answered 'Present,' according to custom, he immediately sets to work, amid much talking and laughing, to prepare carefully his humble bed. This consists of a sack filled with straw, if so be he has been able to find any; while the less fortunate sleep on the hard bare ground, resting their heads on the bags or sacks that contain their scant supply of clothing. At nine o'clock the bugle announces 'Silence,' and everyone lies down to rest and sleep; for, though their couch leaves much to be desired, the greater number, worn out by the labors of the day, soon fall into sound slumber.

At the entrance of each tent stands a sentinel, while those whose place it is to guard the outskirts of the camp walk about peering into the darkness, their guns cocked and their machetes, or bayonets, in readiness. At midnight the encampment assumes the aspect of a graveyard: the tents look in the moonlight like so many white marble mausoleums, and the sentinels like ghosts who have just issued from their niches in them. A sepulchral silence reigns, broken only by the howls of the chacales, or jackals, who come down from the mountains in search of the garbage thrown out during the day, or

by the barking of the dogs in the adjacent kábilas, echoed back from the surrounding hills. At intervals a voice may be heard calling 'Centinela alerte,' and another answering 'Alerte está.' This is the patrol who goes about to see that none has fallen asleep.

In the morning at six o'clock a bugle call breaks the prolonged silence of the night, at which signal all precipitately spring up ready for their coffee a beverage hardly deserving of the name. Immediately, even before the beams of the morning sun are yet visible, the life of the camp begins. All who had not had the opportunity to do so the day before set forth in procession to the little spring in search of sufficient water with which to wash themselves. There being no other way to secure the morning bath, each fills his canteen and one man slowly pours out the water little by little over another's back till his ablutions are completed, when the action is reversed, each helping the other like a good comrade.

The hour arrives for the multiple duties required to keep the camp clean and tidy. Besides, there are such matters to attend to as bringing up supplies and changing guards. All those who are not employed on these tasks have their arms and accoutrements carefully inspected, and then are either drilled or set to work building roads.

Before dawn a battalion of infantry has already sallied forth, with other auxiliary troops, constituting a convoy, to the advanced positions twenty or more kilometres away. These marches are ordinarily very severe, for if the weather is dry and hot the sun's rays are stifling, and the treading of so many feet in the narrow road raises a choking cloud of dust that seems to stop one's throat. Moreover, the men are bent almost double under the weight of their burdens. If, on the

other hand, there has been a heavy rain, the roads, which were bad enough already, are turned into veritable morasses of mud and water through which it is almost impossible to march either up or down the steep declivities. Often the weaker men stumble and fall into the muddy water, soaking themselves to the skin, and, if it is winter, chilling themselves to the very marrow and becoming almost incapable of further effort. The alpargatas, or sandals, which are the only footgear they have, are made of a piece of sole leather or tough hempen fabric of plaited rope, fastened to the foot by means of cords. These become so caked with mud as to make it impossible to march, and it therefore often becomes necessary to discard them altogether and go barefoot.

At last the men arrive at the end of the march and, having delivered the provisions and ammunition, are allowed a few hours' rest. A little food is given them to fill their empty stomachs. After having recuperated they again plod off on the return trip. This service is the severest duty the soldier has to perform, and must be repeated daily between one advanced outpost and another.

Meanwhile at the general encampment midday has arrived, and all the varied activities cease at the sound of the bugle. It is the only call the soldiers really appreciate, for it announces the hour for dinner and the time for the distribution of the mail. Each awaits the latter anxiously and expectantly; it is his only joy, this letter from his family, his mother or perhaps his sweetheart, or his war mother. His correspondence is the one solace for a soldier's heart; if that fails him there is nothing left. In those moments is reflected on every face either joy or disappointment - joy when the news from his far-distant dear ones is good;