"That is not my overcoat," intervened John.
"Silence," commanded Sir Robert.
The detective went through the pockets of the overcoat. He found a small time-table, two or three paid restaurant bills, and finally the letter Treves had written to Manners. The grey-moustached police commissioner took these articles, and laid them on the blotting-pad before him. Then, at a brief command, a second detective stepped forward and searched John's pockets, taking out the two letters that had been addressed to Treves and the telegram signed "Elaine." These also were laid upon the desk. The staff officer and Sir Robert read them carefully. When the officer, whom John observed to be a general of staff, read Treves's incriminating letter to Manners, he drew in his breath and whistled.
"My God!" he exclaimed.
The grey-moustached man took the letter from his fingers, read it, then held it forth towards John. His tone was utterly aloof, cold, and forbidding.
"It was unfortunate, Treves," he said, "that you should carry this letter in your pocket. For this, added to the information we have gathered about you during the past three months, condemns you absolutely." He paused a moment, then went on. "I can only say," he added ruthlessly, "that I thank God we have been able to lay our hands on you."
It was only in that moment that John for the first time realised the appalling danger that was sweeping upon him.
"I would like to make some explanation, sir."
"Your correspondence," retorted Sir Robert, with sinister meaning, "has made all the explanation we require! General Whiston here is quite satisfied, and so am I."
General Whiston, who had been looking fixedly at John, now passed round the table and walked towards him. He was a tall, bronzed man, with a clipped moustache, and a wide, strong mouth. John had recognised his name in a moment. He was Colonel Treves's old friend.