As he lay now in the quiet and darkness of his room, he felt he dared not let his mind dwell upon the future. He had tricked and duped Elaine, and some day she would be bound to find him out.
What would happen then? What would happen when she learned the truth?
"There is nothing for it," John pronounced suddenly and emphatically. "I must tell her myself—I must confess the whole thing from the beginning."
Having arrived at this decision, he saw himself making the confession, though he could not see what her attitude would be. He could visualise, always standing between them as an impassable and sinister barrier, the man whose identity he had borne for so many months. Bernard Treves—his alter ego, his doppel-gänger—had become what he had probably been from the first—his evil genius. From the very first he had disliked Treves; he had later grown to despise him. The man was contemptible beyond words.
At this point John took himself resolutely in hand—or, rather, he thought he took himself resolutely in hand. What really happened was that he put away thoughts of Elaine, hiding them courageously and tenderly in the deeps of his mind, for the sole reason that to think of her, to think of the hopeless situation between them, meant nothing but misery and bitterness.
At eight o'clock, when John appeared in the little mess-room, Colonel Hobin was alone at breakfast, at the head of the table.
"Well, Treves," he said, "if your predictions are right, this is going to be the day of our lives!"
"I think I am right, sir," John answered.
"We shall see," answered the Colonel. "Pass the marmalade, please."
John passed the marmalade. He noticed the Colonel's hand was steady—none of the nervous irritability that characterised him usually was apparent—and the old soldier's eyes had taken on a new masterful expression of command—the countenance of a good captain on the bridge in face of a great oncoming storm.