"Bernard Treves," said General Whiston, "you have broken your father's heart already; you must now make your peace with God. There is only one thing left for me to do for my old and dear friend, and I intend to do it—he shall never learn that his son died as a traitor to his country. Even now," he went on, "though I have had you watched for three months, I can still scarcely credit it, you—a Treves!"
He glanced towards the door. John felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder from behind.
"This way, please," said a polite voice in his ear.
As the detective's voice sounded in his ear and the detective's hand fell on his shoulder, John's scurrying senses seemed to gather themselves together. He became calm in presence of the greatest danger his life had ever known. When next he spoke his voice was steady, and his manner, despite its deep gravity, portrayed not the slightest trace of nervousness.
"Sir," he said, "may I speak merely one or two words before I am removed?" He looked into the bronzed countenance of Colonel Treves's old friend. There was no pity for him on that strong, handsome face. In General Whiston's eyes he had been guilty of the blackest of all crimes. The General answered in his deep-toned voice of authority.
"You will be permitted to make a statement, but not now."
"I have a very important declaration to make, sir."
Sir Robert, who was still scrutinising the incriminating letter that had been taken from Rathenau's overcoat, looked up now, then rapidly pencilled a few words on a slip of paper which he handed to Whiston. The General read the slip.
"Yes, perhaps so," he said; "I agree with you, time is everything."
Sir Robert looked into John's face.