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.