"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.