“I’m afraid so.”
Then he saw an orderly bringing the screen that was placed about the beds of those about to die.
When Captain Sutton and Anthony Trent came into the ward the priest had finished his solemn work and was gone to console another dying man and the physicians to make one of those quick operations unthinkable in the leisurely days of peace.
Trent had no knowledge of what had taken place during his absence. He saw that his enemy was more exhausted. And as he looked he noticed that the eyes of Devlin lacked something of their hate. But it was no time for speculation. Trent saw in the sick man only his nemesis, the instrument which fate was using to rob him of his liberty. He was not to know that here was a man so close to death that hate seemed idle and vengeance a burden.
“Lieutenant,” Captain Sutton began, “I have here a copy of your statements and the evidence given by Sergeant Austin of the British army. I will read it to you. Then I shall need witnesses to your signature.”
“Let me see it,” Devlin commanded and drew the typewritten sheets to him. Then, with what strength was left him, he tore the document across and across again.
Captain Sutton looked at him in amazement.
“What did you do that for?” he asked.
But Devlin paid no heed to him. He gazed into the face of Anthony Trent, the man he had hated.
“I made a mistake,” said Devlin faintly. “This isn’t the man.”