CHAPTER XXXIV

John having disposed of Mrs. Beecher Monmouth returned to Heatherpoint Fort. Within the fort gates the ground quivered and vibrated. Far below him the Solent was alive with the sweeping beams of Throgmorton's cunning emergency lights. John could see flashes of fire from Ponsonby Point, from Scoles Head, and from a new secret battery beyond Windsor Fort. His time was emphatically not his own, he had received orders to leave the fort on a new mission. Within five minutes he had passed the rear defences and the barbed wire of the fort, and was out upon the downs. He sprinted forward over the short springing turf, and soon came to the cliff edge and the narrow path that descended the chalk to South Bay.

As he reached the cliff edge and looked down an amazing panorama smote his eyes. Dover lights--tremendous, blinding blue-white illuminations--floated upon the surface of the water shedding forth almost painful rays of light. The yellow of the sand in the little bay became a ghost-like floor in this radiance. Sinclair, he knew, was down there busy at his telephone, but it was not Sinclair nor the drama of the scene that occupied his thoughts; he was thinking not of them, but of a slip of paper Throgmorton had handed him bearing the message of his own death, and of Throgmorton's words, "Somebody was murdered."

"Yes," thought John, "somebody who was mistaken for me."

His mind projected itself upon the scene in Cherriton's cottage, and the thing he had suspected from the very first instant revealed itself fully. Bernard Treves had escaped in his second effort to free himself from his enforced detention at St. Neot's, and, of course, the first thing he had done was to search out the whereabouts of Cherriton and Manners in order to obtain the drugs that were a passion with him. He had gone to the cottage, Cherriton had received him, and had clearly shot him in cold blood....

John turned his mind away from the possibilities Treves's death had created for himself. After all, he was sorry. Treves's broken and enfeebled will had been too much for the young man to contend against. He had failed--death had come upon him suddenly and terribly, but perhaps, after all, it was for the best....

His thoughts turned to Colonel Treves.... As was to be expected, and inevitably the delicately beautiful vision of Elaine rose before him.... Her life of bondage was at an end.... Then John drew himself up and took himself severely to task. These thoughts were not for him. In this hour of drama, of tragedy, he must not let his thoughts dwell upon her. There were decencies, and he was a man of honour; nevertheless, in the depths of his heart, something moved, a dim obliterated ray of hope flickered into life....

To the music of the guns he continued his descent of the chalk path. Where the damp penetrated it was slippery beneath his feet, nevertheless he went quickly with steps that must have been noiseless. The path reached the beach some distance away from the scene of activity, of which Sinclair was the centre. And as John came within thirty or forty feet of the shore, he saw below him, at the bend of the path, a man crouching. The man was huddled in a sheltered corner, intent upon some occupation invisible to John, who halted and looked down upon him with some curiosity. The silent figure was in khaki, and his shoulder and half his cap were visible. He was deeply absorbed, and John was able to go forward and descend two or three turns of the path without being observed.

Presently, walking softly on the narrow path in the cliff's face, he came full into view of the stranger, whose presence was concealed by the projection of a cliff from the pitiless Dover flares.

The man was Captain Cherriton.

John was not in the least surprised to find his able and resourceful enemy crouching down working a flashlight towards a portion of the sea cut off from the fort lights.

Manton knew that the hour of destiny had arrived. The thought came to him that Cherriton's hands were stained with blood, that not an hour ago he had----

He moved forward a pace, his face grim and set. Cherriton, still crouching, heard him, and turned, but in the gloom of that sheltered place he did not see clearly. Quick as thought, however, he turned his electric torch and flashed it full upon John's face. In the circle of incandescent light he saw something that caused him to choke with horror--that something was the face and the living eyes of the man he had murdered an hour ago.

The sight was too much for him, the light fell from his fingers. John, guessing what had happened, resolved to give him no chance of discovery. With a shout he leapt forward and flung his arms about him.

Half in terror, half in growing knowledge that he had to deal with a living and determined enemy, Cherriton struggled like a maniac. Each man put forth his entire strength. John sought to get his hands round the German's throat. Together they rocked, bumped, and swayed, and, finally, together they fell, tumbling and thumping to the sand, fifteen feet below.

For a minute each man lay still, stunned by the impact of the fall. Then John, first to recover, creeping on hands and knees, approached Cherriton and fell upon him again.

"I'm done," breathed the German, "get off me...." There was a truce for some minutes after that, during which John sat with a Mauser in his hand, and recovered himself fully.

Cherriton, who had been lying on his back in the sand, turned.

"Who are you?" he asked, staring with strained eyes into John's face.

The mystery was beyond him. Were there two Bernard Treves? He had killed, or as he would have put it, he had legitimately executed Bernard Treves in the cottage less than two hours ago. So far all was clear to him. But this other man, this replica and simulacrum of Treves, who was he? He was Treves, and he was not Treves. He continued to stare and his mystification deepened. John, feeling that the moment for explanation had come, came to his aid.

"You are recalling that you killed me in your cottage less than two hours ago?"

"Yes," began Cherriton.

"All along," went on John, "you and your colleagues have been mistaken in me. I have played the part of Bernard Treves with some success, but my real name happens to be John Manton."

Dawn came, and with it victory for the defenders of the Solent. In the last moment von Kuhne's plans had gone astray. His submarines which had intended to cause havoc among the multitude of shipping at Portsmouth had indeed passed the boom, only to meet destruction beyond. Eight submarines went to the credit of the R.G.A. and the Navy that night; eighty German marines were captured on the little shore of South Bay. And now, in the fort mess-room that had known so much of drama during the last few months, Colonel Hobin occupied his chair at the head of the table. Beside him was seated Throgmorton, the Flag-Lieutenant. Commander Greaves and John Manton were also present, grouped at the end of the room, near the window whence the dawn crept in. At the far end of the room stood Ewins, something of a hero that morning, but the time for compliment had not yet arrived.

"Bring them in, Ewins," commanded Hobin.

Ewins saluted and clattered away.

Five minutes later he returned with a squad of men who waited in the little passage outside. And Ewins ushered into the mess-room Captain Cherriton, still in British uniform. With him was the tall German naval lieutenant John had some time ago seen at Voules's house at Brooke. The last prisoner to enter the room was Voules himself, the General von Kuhne who had so industriously instituted the attack which had met with disaster.

Colonel Hobin put a few questions.

"I am an officer of the German Navy," said the tall lieutenant. "I demand all the privileges of an honourable prisoner of war."

"Certainly," intervened Throgmorton, "in your case there is no question of the death penalty."

"I, too, am an officer," began Voules in his rasping voice.

"I am afraid the fact," said Colonel Hobin, "that you neglected the formality of wearing uniform in your attack upon us will tell somewhat severely against you. All I want this morning," he concluded, "is that you should each admit your identity."

The three Germans had no objection to this.

When the prisoners had been removed Hobin and then Throgmorton gripped John by the hand--in fact, everybody in the room shook hands in the grey of the dawn that morning.

"All the luck in the world was ours, Treves," said Throgmorton.

"My name is Manton," John reminded him.

"Of course, of course--I had quite forgotten that."

John's life story was only just beginning--the recovery of his own name marked an epoch. Summer went and autumn came; the sun of Peace rose over the horizon. Letters at first somewhat formal, but later growing in cordiality, passed between himself and Elaine. Then, at last, on a certain autumn day--a red-letter day for John--he received an epistle in Colonel Treves's shaking hand. "_My dear boy,_" ran the Colonel's letter, "_I want you to come and visit me. We have been friends a long time--you have played your part well and truly. That which my poor boy failed to do, you have done in his name. You have done credit to my house and to the name of Treves. I am well again now, and shall welcome you with all my heart._"

John did not know how it was, but a film came before his eyes as he finished reading the old Colonel's letter. And on the Saturday following, when he drove up to the Colonel's house in a hired motor, from Freshwater, the sun was setting over the Solent and yellow leaves were falling in the long drive.

Gates drew open the front door of the mansion before John alighted and conducted him straight to the Colonel, in the library. The old man, who had been standing in the window expecting his arrival, came across the room and gripped his hand. He looked into John's face, then smiled. There was conviction in his voice.

"Yes," he said. "You're a Treves in everything except name."

There was much to talk about. In the first place the Colonel spoke of Elaine always as his daughter-in-law. She had completely won his heart.

"This gives me a new lease of life, my boy," he said to John. Then the smile that was so attractive in him lit up his face. "And when that lease is run out she shall have all that is mine just as she would have had if my boy had lived." The Colonel laid his hand on John's shoulder.

"John, my boy," he said, "your attention's wandering, it isn't me you want to hear talking, so I'll take myself off now."

He went out of the room, and John, walking to the window, looked for a moment upon the autumn scene outside. Then a sound came to him, and he turned to see Elaine, radiant yet doubtful, and strangely shy--looking like spring in autumn.

For a moment John was still; then he hurried across the room and took her hands in his.

"Elaine," he whispered, "is everything forgotten and forgiven?"

Elaine lifted her eyes to his. She was ten times more beautiful at that moment than the image he had treasured in his heart.

"There is nothing to forget, and nothing to forgive, John," she said quietly.

John drew in a deep breath.

"You love me, don't you?"

"You know I do."

Again John drew in a deep breath, this time of complete happiness.

"Thank goodness," he said--"so that's all right!" Then, without more ado, he swept her into his arms. "I'm going to make mad love to you until seven o'clock," he announced masterfully.

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