I got home safely!
Although arrested and tried upon the false, frivolous, trumped-up charge of being a British spy, I have never been acquitted of that indictment. It still hangs over my head.
Shortly after reaching home I received a letter from a friend with whom I had been interned. He secured his release some months before I shook the dust—and mud—of Ruhleben from my feet. On the day we parted he sympathised deeply with me at the prospect of being condemned to languish in the hands of the enemy until the clash of arms had died down. I did not seek to disillusion him, although, even at that time, I had made up my mind to get away by hook or by crook.
This former fellow-prisoner had heard of my safe return to my own fireside. The envelope contained nothing beyond his visiting card, across the back of which he had scrawled, “How the devil did you get out?”
But that is another story.