



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Sant of the Secret Service
Some Revelations of Spies and Spying.
By William Le Queux
Published by Hodder and Stoughton Ltd, London.

Sant of the Secret Service, by William Le Queux.

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SANT OF THE SECRET SERVICE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

PREFACE.

ABOUT GERRY SANT.

To those who, like myself, have moved in the Continental underworld of
spies and spying, the name of "Sant of the Secret Service" is synonymous
with all that is ingenious, resourceful, and daring.  In the
Intelligence Departments of London, Paris, Rome, and New York, the name
of "Sant of the Secret Service" is to-day one to conjure with.

Cheerful, optimistic, and the most modest of men, Gerry Sant has seldom
spoken of his own adventures.  The son of a certain nobleman who must
here remain nameless, and hence the scion of a noble house, he has
graduated through all stages of the dark and devious ways of espionage.

Our first meeting was ten years ago, in the tribune at the Battle of
Flowers at San Remo, where, to be exact, we were fellow-members of the
committee, and it is because of our old friendship, and the fact that we
have been fellow-spies up and down Europe, that he has permitted me to
write down these intensely absorbing memoirs of exciting and unrecorded
adventures in defeating the Hun.

William Le Queux.

_Devonshire Club, London, 1918_.

CHAPTER ONE.

ESPIONAGE IN PICCADILLY.

The place: The kerb in front of the Criterion at Piccadilly Circus.  The
time: Five minutes past three on a broiling afternoon in July.  As an
idle lounger, apparently absorbed in contemplation of the ceaseless tide
of human traffic that ebbed and flowed, I stood gazing along the famous
London thoroughfare.  In truth, I was keenly alert to every movement
about me, for I had extremely important Secret Service work in hand.

I took out a cigarette, tapped it mechanically, and slowly lit it
preparatory to crossing the road to Shaftesbury Avenue, when suddenly,
from the procession of hurrying vehicles, a taxi detached itself and
drew up to where I stood.  I caught a momentary glimpse of a woman's
eager face half shaded by a fashionable hat.  The next moment I was
seated beside her, and we were bowling smoothly along Piccadilly.

"_Ah, mon cher Monsieur Gerry_!" exclaimed my pretty companion.  "Well,
has anything serious occurred?" she asked breathlessly, with her
fascinating French accent.

"Listen, my dear madame, and I will explain," I replied.  "Hecq has sent
me over from Paris in order to see you.  I arrived only this morning,
and am returning this evening.  Something very serious is on foot, and
Hecq wants you to get leave of your chief, and come over to help us."

And here perhaps I may introduce my companion a little more fully.
Gabrielle Soyez was a female agent of the British Secret Service, who
had distinguished herself in her profession times out of number, both
before and since the outbreak of war.  Dark-haired and handsome, she
inherited from her French father that seemingly irresponsible and
irrepressible gaiety which so many of her countrywomen exhibit.  From
her English mother, no doubt, she had acquired the sterner, almost
masculine, qualities which her femininity concealed but did not
suppress.  A splendid linguist, speaking several European tongues to
perfection, she could, on occasion, pass as a native of some other
countries.  And one of her most amazing feats had been a journey right
across Germany from Holland in wartime, in the character of a young
German fraulein travelling to take up a position as governess in East
Prussia.  Added to her linguistic abilities, she possessed nerves of
steel and a quick, subtle brain, which saw the real significance of many
an almost unnoticeable incident.  Nothing was too big or too small for
her attention.

I knew her well.  I had worked with her in more than one affair of
international importance, and it was at my suggestion that Armand Hecq,
the astute chief of the French International Secret Service Bureau, had
applied for her to assist in the difficult task that lay before us.

"Something fresh this time?" queried the _chic_ little lady, as we drove
along.  "And, pray, who has applied for me?"

"I have," was my reply.  "A very difficult task is before me, involving
the risk of many lives, and you are the only woman I know in whom I can
place absolute trust."

"Except Doris, eh?" she flashed out, turning to me with a quizzical
smile.  She was referring to Doris Rae, my well-beloved, who lived with
her mother in a quaint old timbered house buried deep in Worcestershire.
In the stress of my war-work I had seen her but seldom for the past two
years, for I was constantly on the move, but the bond between us was
none the less