"Do I introduce you as Captain Cherriton, Herr Baron?" asked Manwitz,
when Conrad had closed the door and departed.
"Yes," said the Baron. "I find the name of the poor, dead Captain
Cherriton an excellent recommendation in even the best of homes." He
smiled his somewhat derisive smile.
A moment later the door opened and John Manton stepped into the room.
Manners rose and held out his hand.
"My dear Treves," he said, "you have been away from me a very long
time." He was thinking to himself that Treves carried himself a little
better than usual; his gaze was more direct, his handgrip firmer.
However, there was no suspicion in his eyes as he turned towards the
younger man at the hearth.
"Captain Cherriton," he said, "this is a young friend of mine, Mr.
Treves."
For a moment Rathenau's light blue eyes widened, and then narrowed.
"We've met before, Mr. Treves?"
"In the square, half an hour ago. I saw you come in."
"Oh, yes, yes," returned the Baron. "My good friend, Mr. Manners, has
been telling me about you."
"I hope he had something complimentary to say," smiled John Manton. He
was thinking to himself: "There is no doubt at all in my mind that this
big, fat man, Mr. Manners, is a German. His finger nails are cut neatly
to a point." John recalled the habit of the Germans he had met at
Feldkirch, of the masters of his school, who had trimmed their nails in
that particular fashion. Rather a Chinese fashion, John thought. His
eyes travelled from the fat man's face and took in the younger man's
hard countenance. He was recalling something he had read of Captain
Cherriton.
"I think I remember reading something about you, Captain Cherriton," he
ventured.
"You mean my escape from the British officers' prison camp at Celle,"
replied the German, easily.
"Yes," returned John, "that was it. You had rather an adventurous time
getting across the frontier."
"I had a pretty hot time," laughed Cherriton.
The conversation between the three became general after this, and
presently Cherriton invited John to accompany him to his hotel in the
Strand.
"Come along and have a drink and a smoke with me. I should much like to
have a chat with you, Treves."
John considered the proposal for a moment, and then decided to go. He
bade good night to Manners, and as he shook hands with the big man, a
little phial of white tabloids passed from Manners's palm to his own.
For a minute John felt inclined to ask a question, but caution saved
him. He slipped the little cocaine tablets into his waistcoat pocket,
thanked Manners under his breath, and followed Cherriton, who had taken
up his light overcoat, and was moving towards the door.
It was quite dark in the square when they emerged, and in the distance,
near the river, a taxi was moving slowly.
"That is my vehicle," remarked Cherriton, standing under the light of a
shaded lamp, so that the distant taxi-man could observe them. A minute
later the taxi drew to a halt. John stepped inside, and Cherriton
followed him.
As the taxi door closed, a man, who had been standing in the darkness
against the rails of the square opposite stepped out into the road and
signalled with his arm. At that moment John was leaning back in the
taxi, giving himself up to thoughts of the swift events of the last
half-hour. Who was this Captain Cherriton, who appeared to have taken
such a fancy to him? Was it possible----? His thoughts received a
jolt.
"Hey, stop!" a loud voice from the road echoed in his ears. John was
projected forward almost upon his face. The vehicle came to a sudden
halt; the door of the taxi was flung open; two men appeared in the
aperture, and a heavy hand fell upon John's shoulder. He glanced at his
companion, and saw that, from the other side, intruders were also laying
heavy hands upon him. With a mighty wrench of his shoulder John
snatched himself free. Scarcely knowing what had happened, he attempted
to dash after his companion, who had been dragged out into the road. He
was ignominiously pulled back by the leg. He heard a voice shouting:
"Don't bother about the other one--this is our man!"
Then, in a confusion of gripping hands, John was flung back on the seat
of the taxi; a voice spoke firmly in his ear:
"You'll keep quiet, young man, or it will be the worse for you!"
John saw Captain Cherriton flitting like a shadow along the road and out
of the square. He looked at the person who was seated beside him in the
taxi, and was surprised to find a big, typical police officer in plain
clothes. Opposite John two other officers, who had crowded into the
vehicle, were seated, looking at him with steady, interested gaze.
"Your name's Treves?" demanded one of the men.
"What of it?" returned John.
"It's all I want to know," answered the man, coldly.
As the taxi glided along John strove to gather his scattered wits, but
it was not until a plain, quietly-furnished room had been achieved in
Scotland Yard, that any light broke in upon his senses. He found
himself confronted by a tall, grey-moustached man in civilian clothes.
The man was standing beside a table, and beside him stood a
distinguished-looking staff officer.
As John entered the room, in charge of two detectives, his senses were
still in a whirl from the swiftness of his adventure. The
grey-moustached man, whom the detectives addressed as "Sir Robert," rose
from his chair and looked at him with stern, brooding eyes; then his
gaze turned to one of John's captors, who had entered the room and was
holding Baron Rathenau's overcoat on his arm.
"Have you his papers?" he demanded.
"That is not my overcoat," intervened John.
"Silence," commanded Sir Robert.
The detective went through the pockets of the overcoat. He found a small
time-table, two or three paid restaurant bills, and finally the letter
Treves had written to Manners. The grey-moustached police commissioner
took these articles, and laid them on the blotting-pad before him.
Then, at a brief command, a second detective stepped forward and
searched John's pockets, taking out the two letters that had been
addressed to Treves and the telegram signed "Elaine." These also were
laid upon the desk. The staff officer and Sir Robert read them
carefully. When the officer, whom John observed to be a general of
staff, read Treves's incriminating letter to Manners, he drew in his
breath and whistled.
"My God!" he exclaimed.
The grey-moustached man took the letter from his fingers, read it, then
held it forth towards John. His tone was utterly aloof, cold, and
forbidding.
"It was unfortunate, Treves," he said, "that you should carry this
letter in your pocket. For this, added to the information we have
gathered about you during the past three months, condemns you
absolutely." He paused a moment, then went on. "I can only say," he
added ruthlessly, "that I thank God we have been able to lay our hands
on you."
It was only in that moment that John for the first time realised the
appalling danger that was sweeping upon him.
"I would like to make some explanation, sir."
"Your correspondence," retorted Sir Robert, with sinister meaning, "has
made all the explanation we require! General Whiston here is quite
satisfied, and so am I."
General Whiston, who had been looking fixedly at John, now passed round
the table and walked towards him. He was a tall, bronzed man, with a
clipped moustache, and a wide, strong mouth. John had recognised his
name in a moment. He was Colonel Treves's old friend.
"Bernard Treves," said General Whiston, "you have broken your father's
heart already; you must now make your peace with God. There is only one
thing left for me to do for my old and dear friend, and I intend to do
it--he shall never learn that his son died as a traitor to his country.
Even now," he went on, "though I have had you watched for three months,
I can still scarcely credit it, you--a Treves!"
He glanced towards the door. John felt a heavy hand fall upon his
shoulder from behind.
"This way, please," said a polite voice in his ear.
As the detective's voice sounded in his ear and the detective's hand
fell on his shoulder, John's scurrying senses seemed to gather
themselves together. He became calm in presence of the greatest danger
his life had ever known. When next he spoke his voice was steady, and
his manner, despite its deep gravity, portrayed not the slightest trace
of nervousness.
"Sir," he said, "may I speak merely one or two words before I am
removed?" He looked into the bronzed countenance of Colonel Treves's
old friend. There was no pity for him on that strong, handsome face. In
General Whiston's eyes he had been guilty of the blackest of all crimes.
The General answered in his deep-toned voice of authority.
"You will be permitted to make a statement, but not now."
"I have a very important declaration to make, sir."
Sir Robert, who was still scrutinising the incriminating letter that had
been taken from Rathenau's overcoat, looked up now, then rapidly
pencilled a few words on a slip of paper which he handed to Whiston.
The General read the slip.
"Yes, perhaps so," he said; "I agree with you, time is everything."
Sir Robert looked into John's face.
"Are you prepared," he went on, "to give us the name of the person to
whom this letter was written?" He lifted Treves's incriminating missive
and held it for John's inspection. John had already been permitted to
read the letter, though not to hold it in his hand.
"Certainly," answered Manton.
A slight flicker of surprise lit in Sir Robert's eyes.
"His name," answered John, "is either Manners, or Cherriton."
Sir Robert laid down the letter with an impatient gesture.
"That is no answer to my question. You wrote the letter yourself. To
whom did you write it?"
"I didn't write it!"
"You suggest that it is a forgery?"
"Either you wrote the letter or you didn't write it," pursued Sir
Robert. "Your statements contradict each other. You say, in the first
place, that you did not write it. In the second place, you say it is
not a forgery."
General Whiston now spoke, his stern gaze on John's face.
"This letter," he said, glancing towards the sheet, "is in your own
writing, which I happen to know very well. Your attempt at
mystification," he went on, "will be of no avail, either now or later."
John felt in his tones intense antagonism.
"If I might be permitted to speak to you gentlemen alone," he said, "I
will in three minutes explain the mystery."
General Whiston glanced at the Commissioner of Police.
"It is for you to say, Sir Robert," he said. "To-night the affair is in
your hands."
Sir Robert pondered the subject for a moment, then glanced at the
detectives who stood behind John; with his hand he made a slow,
significant gesture. John, who was standing at attention before the
table, heard the detectives move away, and a moment later the door
softly closed behind them.
He was alone with the Commissioner of Police and the General.
On his accusers' faces John read a stern and determined intention that
the law should take its course, not the tortuous, long-drawn old law of
pre-war days, but the swift justice which is meted out to traitors.
"You shall have three minutes in which to speak!" Sir Robert's voice
smote John's ears.
Manton knew that if he held his peace and the law moved with its
inexorable swiftness, he would by to-morrow have expiated the crime of
another man. He was in another man's shoes. Innocently, he had taken
up that other man's identity.
But he had not shouldered everything, he had not rendered himself liable
for that other man's treachery. And yet, at the back of his mind, there
was pity, even for Treves. He thought of the man's weakness, of his
shattered nerves, of Manners's obvious power over him. Perhaps, even in
uttering the truth to these two stern judges, he might put in a good
word for Treves.
"The statement I have to make, gentlemen, is an amazing one."
"It will also have to be a brief one," retorted Sir Robert coldly.
"Well, out with it," interposed General Whiston.
John turned towards him.
"I wish to say, sir, that I am not Bernard Treves!"
A flash of anger lit in General Whiston's eyes.
"You say that, despite the fact that I am prepared to identify you as
Bernard Treves."
"My statement," returned John, "is, I admit, an amazing one.
Nevertheless, it is a fact, gentlemen. My name is Manton."
The Commissioner of Police pulled at his moustache.
"A statement of this kind," he said, "is ridiculous in presence of
General Whiston, who knows you and recognises your handwriting in this
letter." He leaned back in his chair and struck the letters that had
been taken from John's pocket with the back of his hand. "These letters,
taken from your person, this telegram addressed to you, and this letter
conveying information to the enemy, are sufficient in themselves to
identify you."
"There is nothing you wish to say, General?" asked Sir Robert of
Whiston.
The General shook his head, and Sir Robert put his thumb on the
bell-push at the corner of his desk.
John heard the whirr of a bell in the room beyond.
"I am prepared, sir," he said hurriedly, "to prove every word I say. My
name is Manton, and I undertook to assume Treves's identity merely to
please a friend who wished to help him."
"You are ready to give us the name of your friend, of course?"
interposed General Whiston. He had been utterly unmoved by this
statement of John's.
"His name is Gilbert, sir; Captain Gilbert, of Ryde, Isle of Wight."
General Whiston answered nothing; there was no softening in the
harshness of his expression. For a moment he was silent. Then, with a
glance at Sir Robert, he moved towards the door.
"Just a few minutes, Sir Robert," he said. "This is a matter easy of
proof."
He passed out of the room. At the door, as he drew it open, John heard
him speaking to two men outside.
"Sir Robert will be ready for you in five minutes," he was saying.
The door closed.
Sir Robert tapped his fingers upon the surface of his desk.
"You wish to affirm that Captain Gilbert is prepared to prove the truth
of your statement?"
"I am sure he will be prepared to prove that my name is Manton,"
answered John.
In his long experience Sir Robert had come across many singular and
dramatic events. The great police force of which he was the chief was
dealing always in drama. In his experience he had interviewed every
quality and degree of criminal, from affluent company promoters
downward.
John's bearing and manner struck him as nothing unusual. John's
statement that his was a case of mistaken identity, that Scotland Yard
had for once made a mistake, meant nothing to the Police Commissioner.
Such a statement was one of the commonest in his experience.
He felt no sympathy for John, and believing explicitly in his guilt, was
determined to listen no further. He leaned forward and began to make
rapid notes upon the writing pad.
Manton, in the meantime, stood motionless beyond the desk. Save for the
movement of Sir Robert's pen, and the tick of a small travelling clock
on Sir Robert's desk, no sound disturbed the heavy silence. Despite his
calmness, John felt the tension grow upon him; the waiting seemed to
draw itself out. He glanced at the clock, and observed that it was only
a little after ten.
The whirl of events that night sped through his mind in rapid panorama,
but of one thing he was certain--Manners and Captain Cherriton were
either spies or traitors, and Scotland Yard in laying hands upon him,
and allowing Cherriton to go, had made a mistake.
He had already guessed that General Whiston had gone to telephone
Captain Gilbert. He recalled now the letter General Whiston had written
to old Colonel Treves. The letter which said that he had done for
Bernard Treves everything that was possible.
His mind then turned again to Gilbert. He wondered what the Captain
would do when he heard of the extraordinary outcome of his visit to St.
George's Square. He had gone there at Gilbert's own suggestion. He felt
that the situation for himself at that moment was delicate in the
extreme. But it was not yet fatal. A miscarriage of justice was
impossible if Gilbert spoke up, as no doubt he would do. He knew that
all Gilbert's sympathy for Bernard Treves would vanish the moment he
heard to what depths that young man had descended. He recalled what
Gilbert had said:
"Treves is afraid. He imagines that some one is watching him."
Then it suddenly occurred to John that at the back of Treves's mind
there had been a subtle idea against himself. Treves had desired that
he, John, should step into his guilty shoes and should not only wear
those shoes, but should suffer for his crime.
"I stepped into far deeper water than I knew," mused John, and as the
thought passed through his mind, the door opened and General Whiston
re-entered.
The General walked behind John, then turned and looked keenly into his
face.
"Treves," he said, "you will be examined again in the morning."
Sir Robert's finger was suspended over the bell upon his desk. In
answer to his inquiring glance, General Whiston nodded.
Again John felt a man's hand laid on his shoulder, and for the second
time a voice uttering polite words:
"This way, please!"
This time, however, there was no pause; he was led out into the
corridor, with a tall, heavily-built man at his side and another walking
behind him.
The door of Sir Robert's room closed with a soft click.