"Do not dare to lay a hand on me," he said violently.
When he reached his desk he seated himself in a big swivel-chair, drew out a drawer, and flung certain documents on the table. From under his eyebrows he glowered at Manton.
"Sit down," he commanded.
John moved to the table side and occupied a chair near his elbow. Among a pile of documents Colonel Treves searched for a certain typewritten sheet. He found it at length, a long, yellow piece of official paper.
"Listen to this," he commanded. From the table beside him he took up a square reading glass, and deciphered the typewritten paper with faded grey eyes. "This," he vouchsafed, raising his eyes, "is from my old, good friend, General Whiston." He paused a moment, and John seized the opportunity to intervene, "May I say a word, sir?"
"No," thundered Treves. Then he read aloud in a voice vibrant with emotion:
"My dear Treves,—Your boy had every chance.... It was the merest fluke in the world that he escaped as easily as he did. He is not of the right stuff, and my condolences are with you. I wish I could suggest something, but I cannot. I know, old friend, what a tragedy this must be to you——"
The Colonel stopped abruptly, flung down his reading glass, and looked into Manton's face. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you think of that?"
Manton said nothing.
"Can you read between the lines?" questioned the elder man.