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The information security world is rich with information. From reviewing logs
to analyzing malware, information is everywhere and in vast quantities, more
than the workforce can cover. Artificial intelligence is a field of study that is
adept at applying intelligence to vast amounts of data and deriving meaningful
results. In this book, we will cover machine learning techniques in practical
situations to improve your ability to thrive in a data driven world. With
clustering, we will explore grouping items and identifying anomalies. With
classification, we’ll cover how to train a model to distinguish between classes
of inputs. In probability, we’ll answer the question “What are the odds?”
and make use of the results. With deep learning, we’ll dive into the powerful
biology inspired realms of AI that power some of the most effective methods
in machine learning today.
Published by
The Cylance Data Science Team.
p. ; cm.
ISBN13: 978-0-9980169-0-0
FIRST EDITION
Foreword v
Introduction
Artificial Intelligence: The Way Forward in Information Security ix
1 Clustering
Using the K-Means and DBSCAN Algorithms 1
2 Classification
Using the Logistic Regression and Decision Tree Algorithms 37
3 Probability 79
5. A.M. Turing (1950), Computing Machinery and Intelligence, Mind, 59, 433-460.
Available for download at http://www.loebner.net/Prizef/TuringArticle.html
6. National Science and Technology Council’s Subcommittee on Machine Learning
and Artificial Intelligence, Preparing for the Future of Artificial Intelligence,
October 2016. Available for download at https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/
sites/default/files/whitehouse_files/microsites/ostp/NSTC/preparing_for_the_
future_of_ai.pdf
Artificial Intelligence: The Way Forward in Information Security xiii
https://www.cylance.com/intro-to-ai
1
2 Introduction to Artificial Intelligence for Security Professionals
Assigned
Operating System Value Host Vector
Ubuntu 1 A 1
Red Hat Enterprise Linux 2 B 2
SUSE Linux Enterprise Server 3 C 3
V1
Near V2
Feature 2
Far
V3
Feature 1
FIGURE 1.1:Vectors in Feature Space
"'Dear Sir:
"'I have seen your infamous article. It is a cruel and disgusting
libel. I wish to state publicly that I had nothing to do with the
death of Emily Gaunt; that so far as I know no suspicion does
rest upon me here or elsewhere; and that, if indeed there is
suspicion, it is not in the minds of any one whose opinion I
value, and I can therefore ignore it. In any case I should prefer
to do without your dirty assistance.'"
"'I am not a rich man, and I cannot afford to bring an action for
libel against you. A successful suit would cost me far more
money and trouble than I should like to waste upon it. You, on
the other hand, could easily afford to lose and would probably
be actually benefited by a substantial increase in your
circulation.
"'I must ask you to print this letter in your next issue and insist
also on an unqualified apology for your use of my name.
"'I am sending this letter to the local Press.'"
The editor of I Say did not print this letter, as the Rev. Peter had
fondly imagined he would, but he referred in his second article,
which was similar to the first, only more outspoken, to "the receipt
of an abusive letter from the suspected person."
Slowly that week a copy of I Say found its way into every house in
The Chase; and the article was read and discussed and argued
about, and the whole controversy of May, which had been almost
forgotten, sprang into life again. And the following week the local
papers were bought and borrowed and devoured, and John's spirited
and courageous letter was admired and laughed at and condemned.
The Chase fell again into factions, though now the Whittaker (pro-
John) faction was the stronger. For nobody liked I Say, though it was
always exciting to read when there was some special excuse for
bringing it into the house. Besides, the honour of The Chase was
now at stake.
John and the Rev. Peter had reckoned without the generosity and
communal feeling of the people of The Chase. They were never so
happy as when they had some communal enterprise on foot, a
communal kitchen, or a communal crèche or a communal lawsuit,
some joint original venture which offered reasonable opportunities
for friendly argument and committee meetings and small
subscriptions. This spirit had of course unlimited scope during the
war, and perhaps it was the communal Emergency Food-Kitchen that
had been its most ambitious and perfect expression. But it lived on
vigorously after the war. Several of the busiest and earliest workers
among the men shared a communal taxi into town every day. There
was a communal governess, and one or two semi-communal boats.
There was also a kind of communal Housing Council, which met
whenever a house in The Chase was to be let or sold, and exerted
pressure on the outgoing tenant as to his choice of a successor.
Outside friends of The Chase who desired and were desired to come
into residence were placed upon a roster by the Housing Council,
and when the Council's edict had once gone forth, the outgoing
tenant was expected at all costs to see that the chosen person was
enabled to succeed him, and if he did not, or if he allowed the
owner of the house to enter into some secret arrangement with an
outsider, unknown and unapproved by the Council, it was a sin
against the solidarity of The Chase.
And there had already been a communal lawsuit, that great case of
Stimpson and Others versus The Quick Boat Company—an action for
nuisance brought by the entire Chase, because of the endless and
intolerable noise and smell of the defendant company's motor-boats,
which they manufactured half a mile up the river and exercised all
day snorting and phutting and dashing about with loud and startling
reports in the narrow reach between the Island and The Chase.
Nine gallant champions had stood forward with Stimpson for
freedom and The Chase. But all The Chase had attended the
preliminary meetings; all The Chase had subscribed; all The Chase
and all their wives had given evidence in Court; and before this
unbroken, or almost unbroken, front (for there were a few black
sheep) the Quick Boat Company had gone down heavily. Judgment
for the plaintiffs had been given in the early spring.
So that when it was widely understood that for lack of money John
Egerton, a member of The Chase, was unable to defend himself
from a scurrilous libel in a vulgar paper, the deepest instincts of the
neighbourhood were aroused. A small informal Committee met at
once at the Whittakers' house—Whittaker and Mr. Dimple (for legal
advice) and Andrews and Tatham and Henry Stimpson. Stephen
Byrne was asked to come, but had an engagement.
Mr. Dimple's advice was simple. He said that subject to certain
reservations—as to which he would not bother the Committee, since
they related rather to the incalculable niceties of the law, and
lawyers, as they knew, were always on the nice side (laughter—but
not much)—and assuming that Mr. Egerton won his case, as to
which he would express no opinion, though as a man he might
venture to say that he knew of no one in The Chase—he had almost
said no one in London—of whom it would be more unfair—he would
not put it stronger than that, for he liked to assume that even a
paper such as I Say was sincere and honest at heart—to make the
kind of suggestion which he knew and they all knew had been made
in that paper, about Mr. Egerton—a quiet, God-fearing, honest citizen
—but they all knew him as well as he did, so he would say no more
about that—subject then to what he had said first and assuming
what he had just said—and bearing in mind the proverbial—he
thought he might say proverbial (Dickens, after all, was almost a
proverb) uncertainties and surprises of his own profession, he
thought they would not be wildly optimistic or unduly despondent—
and for himself he wanted to be neither—if they estimated the costs
of the action at a thousand pounds, but of course—
Waking up at the word "pounds"—the kind of word for which they
had been subconsciously waiting—the Committee began the process
of unravelling which was always necessary after one of Mr. Dimple's
discourses. And their conclusion was that it was up to The Chase to
subscribe as much of the money as possible, as much at any rate as
would enable John Egerton to issue a writ without the risk of
financial ruin.
Henry Stimpson was naturally deputed to collect the money.
Stimpson was an indefatigable man, a laborious Civil Servant who
worked from 10 till 7.30 every day (and took his lunch at the office),
yet was not only ready but pleased to spend his evenings and his
week-ends, canvassing for subscriptions, writing whips for meetings,
or working out elaborate calculations of the amount due to Mrs.
Ambrose in money and kind on her resigning from the communal
kitchen after paying the full subscription and depositing a ham in the
Committee's charge which had been cooked by mistake and sent to
Mrs. Vincent. He genuinely enjoyed this kind of task, and he did it
very, very well.
Henry Stimpson duly waited on the Byrnes and explained the
position. Stephen Byrne had read the articles in I Say, and Margery
had read them. And a gloom had fallen upon Stephen, for which
Margery was unable wholly to account as a symptom of solicitude for
his friend's troubles—especially as they never seemed to see each
other nowadays. To her knowledge they had not met at all since the
summer holidays.
Nor had they. They avoided each other. This resurrection of the
Emily affair, these articles and the new publicity, and now on top of
that the prospect of a libel action, was to Stephen like a slap in the
face. He had almost forgotten his old anxieties in the absorption of
work and the soothing atmosphere of his new resolutions. But he
would not go to John; he had been lucky before; he might be lucky
again; he would wait. Old John might be trusted to do nothing
precipitate.
So he promised to subscribe to the fund for the defence of John
Egerton's good name, and Stimpson went away. The money was to
be collected by that day week, and on the following Thursday there
would be a general meeting to consider a plan of campaign.
Stimpson's eyes as he spoke of "a general meeting" were full of
quiet joy.
And Stephen went on with his work—very slowly now, but he went
on. The poem was nearly finished; he had only to polish it a little.
But he sat now for long minutes glowering and frowning over his
paper, staring out of the window, staring at nothing. Margery,
watching him, wondered yet more what work he was at, and what
was the secret of this gloom. She began to think that the two things
might be connected; he might be attempting some impossible task;
he might be overworked and stale. This had happened before. But in
his worst hours of artistic depression he had never looked so black
as sometimes she saw him now. And she noticed that he tried to
conceal this mood from her; he would manufacture a smile if he
caught her watching him. And that, too, was unusual.
Then one evening when she went to her table for some small thing
she saw there the unmistakable manuscript of this new work lying in
an irregular heap on the blotter. Her eyes were caught by the title
—"The Death in the Wood"—written in large capitals at the head;
and almost without thinking she read the first line. And she read the
few following lines. Then, urged on by an uncontrollable curiosity
and excitement, she read on. She sat down at the table and read,
threading a slow way through a maze of alterations and erasions,
and jumbles of words enclosed in circles on the margin or at the
bottom or at the top and wafted with arrows and squiggly lines into
their intended positions. But she understood the strange language of
creative manuscript, and she read through the whole of the first
section—Gelert riding through the forest, the battle in the forest, and
the death of the maiden. And as she read she was deeply moved.
She forgot the problem of Stephen's gloom in her admiration and
affectionate pride.
At the end of it Gelert stood sorrowing over the body and made a
speech of intense dignity and poetic feeling. And at that point she
heard the voice of Stephen at the front door, and started away,
remembering suddenly that this reading was a breach of confidence.
But why—why was she not allowed to see it?
Yet that, after all, was a small thing; and she went to bed very
happy, dreaming such golden dreams of the success of the poem as
she might have dreamed if she had written it herself.
XV
The Chase was true to its highest traditions. Before the week was
over it was known that the sum determined on by the Egerton
Defence Fund Committee had been already promised, and more.
Stephen Byrne, with a heavy heart, went to the "general meeting"
on Tuesday evening. To have stayed away would have looked odd;
also he was anxious to know the worst. He walked there as most
men go to a battle, full of secret foreboding, yet dubiously glad of
the near necessity for action. If, indeed, there was to be a libel
action, backed by all the meddlesome resources of The Chase,
things would have to come to a head. This was a development which
had never been provided for in his calculations and plans. It would
have been easier, somehow, if John had been arrested, charged by
the Crown with murder. He would have known then what to do—or
he thought he would. He wished now that he had been to see John,
found out what he was thinking. But he was nervous of John now, or
rather he was nervous of himself. He could not trust himself not to
do something silly if he met John in private again; the only thing to
do was to try to forget him, laugh at him if possible. And that was
the devil of this libel business. He would have to be there himself, he
would have to give evidence again, and sit there probably while poor
old John was stammering and mumbling in the box. Yet he had done
it before—why not again? Somehow he felt that he could not do it
again. It all seemed different now.
And that poem! Why the hell had he written it? Why had he sent it
to The Argus. He had had it typed on Thursday, and sent it off by
special messenger on Friday, just in time for the October number.
The Argus liked long poems. What a fool he had been! Or had he?
He knew very well himself what it all meant—but how could any one
else connect it with life—with Emily Gaunt? No, that was all right.
And it was damned good stuff! He was glad he had sent it. It would
go down well. And another day would have meant missing the
October number.
Yes, it was damned good stuff! He stood at the Whittakers' door,
turning over in his head some favourite lines from Gelert's speech in
the forest. Damned good! As he thought how excellent it was, there
was a curious sensation of tingling and contraction in the flesh of his
body and the back of his legs.
When he came out, an hour later, he was a happier man. He was
almost happy. For it had been announced at the meeting, with all
the solemnity of shocked amazement, that Mr. Egerton had refused
to avail himself of the generous undertakings of The Chase and
neighbourhood. The money promised would enable him to sue with
an easy mind. But he would not sue.
There was nothing to be done, then, but put and carry votes of
thanks to the unofficial Committee for their labour and enterprise, to
Whittaker for the use of his house, to Henry Stimpson for his wasted
efforts. The last of these votes was felt by most to be effort equally
wasted, since they knew well that Henry Stimpson had in fact
thoroughly enjoyed collecting promises and cash, and had now the
further unlooked-for delight of having to return the money already
subscribed.
This done, the meeting broke up with a sense that they had been
thwarted, or at any rate unreasonably debarred from a legitimate
exercise of their communal instincts.
But apart from this intelligible disappointment there was a good deal
of head-shaking, and plain, if not outspoken, disapproval of
Egerton's conduct. Stephen, moving among the crowd, gathered
easily the sense of The Chase, and it had veered surprisingly since
Whittaker's announcement. For John Egerton had advanced, it
seemed, the astounding reason that he might lose the case. To the
simple people of The Chase—as indeed to the simple population of
England—there was only one test to a libel action. Either you won or
you lost. The complex cross-possibilities of justification and privilege
and fair comment and the rest of it, which Mr. Dimple was heard to
be apologetically explaining in a corner to a deaf lady, were lost
upon them. If you failed to win your case, what the other man said
was true, and if you were not confident of winning, your conscience
could not be absolutely clear. The meeting rather felt that John
Egerton had let them down, but they were certain that he had let
himself down. And it was clear that even his staunchest supporters,
men like Whittaker and Tatham, were shaken in their allegiance.
But Stephen Byrne was happy. He had trusted to luck again, and
luck, or rather the quixotic lunacy of John Egerton, had saved him
again. It was wonderful. It was all over now. John had finally made
his bed, and he must lie on it. He thought little of what this must
mean to John, this aggravation of the local suspicions. He saw only
one thing, that yet another wall had been raised between himself
and exposure, that once more his anxieties might be thrust into the
background. That he might settle down again with a comfortable
mind to literature and domestic calm. He had forgotten with his fears
his compunction of an hour ago; he had forgotten even to feel
grateful to John; and if he thought of him with pity, it was a
contemptuous pity. He saw John now as a kind of literary figure of
high but laughable virtue, a man so virtuous as to be ridiculous, a
mere foil to the heroic dare-devils of life—such as Gelert and
Stephen Byrne.
So he came to his own house, thinking again of those excellent lines
of Gelert's speech. In the hall he composed in his mind the
description of the meeting which he would give to Margery.
But Margery, too, was thinking of Gelert. She was reading the
manuscript of "The Death in the Wood." She had watched Stephen
go out in a slow gloom to the meeting, and then she had hurried to
the table and taken guiltily the bundle from the special manuscript
drawer. For Stephen, with the sentimental fondness of many writers
for the original work of their own hands, preserved his manuscripts
long after they had been copied in type and printed and published.
Twice during the last week she had gone to that drawer, but each
time she had been interrupted. And at each reading her curiosity
and admiration had grown.
She had suspected nothing—had imagined no sort of relation
between Stephen's life and Gelert's adventures. There was no
reason why she should. For she detested—as she had been taught
by Stephen to detest—the conception of art as a vast autobiography.
Stephen's personality was in the feeling and in the phrasing of his
work; and that was enough for her; the substance was a small
matter.
Even the incident of the maiden in the wood, her death and her
concealment in the lake, had scarcely stirred the memory of Emily.
For the reverent and idyllic scene in which the two knights had "laid"
the body of the maiden among the reeds and water lilies of the lake,
to be discovered by her kinsmen peeping through the tangled
thickets of wild rose, was as remote as possible from the sordid
ugliness of Emily's disposal and discovery in a muddy sack near
Barnes.
But now she had finished. And she did suspect. When she came to
the passage describing Gelert's remorse for the betrayal of his old
companion-at-arms, his gloomy bearing and penitent vows, she
thought suddenly of Stephen's late extravagant gloom, which she
was still unable to understand. And then she suspected. Idly the
thought came, and idly she put it away. But it returned, and she
hated herself because of it. It grew to a stark suspicion, and she sat
for a moment in an icy terror, frozen with pain by her imaginations.
Then in a fever of anxiety she went back to the beginning of the
manuscript, and hurried through it again, noting every incident of
the story in the hideous light of her suspicions. And as she turned
over the untidy pages, the terror grew.
In the light of this dreadful theory so many things were explained—
little odd things which had puzzled her and been forgotten—
Stephen's surprising anxiety when Michael was born (and Emily
disappeared), and that evening in the summer, when they had all
been so silent and awkward together, and the drifting apart of
Stephen and John, and John's extraordinary evidence, and Stephen's
present depression. It was all so terribly clear, and the incidents of
the poem so terribly fitted in. Margery moaned helplessly to herself,
"Oh, Stephen!" When he came in, she was almost sure.
It was curious that at first she thought nothing of Gelert's illicit
amours in the castle, the stealing of his own friend's lady. That part
of the poem, of course, was a piece of romantic imagination, with
which she had no personal concern. But while she waited for
Stephen, turning over the leaves once more, the thought did come
to her, "If one part is true—why not all?" But this thought she firmly
thrust out. She was sure of him in that way, at any rate. She flung a
cushion over the manuscript and waited.
He came in slowly as he had gone out, but she saw at once that his
gloom was somehow relieved. And as he told her in studied accents
of distress the story of the meeting, there came to her a sick
certainty that he was acting. He was not really sorry that John had
thought it best not to take any action; he was glad.
When he had finished, she said, in a hard voice which startled her,
"What do you make of it, Stephen? Do you think he really did it?"
Stephen looked at the fire, the first fire of late September, and he
said, "God knows, Margery; God knows. He's a funny fellow, John."
He sighed heavily and stared into the fire.
And then she was quite sure.
She stood up from the sofa, the manuscript in her hand, and came
towards him.
"Stephen," she said, "I've been reading this—You—I—oh, Stephen!"
The last word came with a little wail, and she burst suddenly into
tears, hiding her face against his shoulder. She stood there sobbing,
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