And then I found his face turned to mine, and I knew that he recognized me.  More, I knew that he knew that I had recognized him—­not as Ivery, but as that other man.  There came into his eyes a curious look of comprehension, which for a moment overcame his funk.

I had sense enough to see that that put the final lid on it.  There was still something doing if he believed that I was blind, but if he once thought that I knew the truth he would be through our meshes and disappear like a fog.

My first thought was to get at him and collar him and summon everybody to help me by denouncing him for what he was.  Then I saw that that was impossible.  I was a private soldier in a borrowed uniform, and he could easily turn the story against me.  I must use surer weapons.  I must get to Bullivant and Macgillivray and set their big machine to work.  Above all I must get to Blenkiron.

I started to squeeze out of that push, for air raids now seemed far too trivial to give a thought to.  Moreover the guns had stopped, but so sheeplike is human nature that the crowd still hung together, and it took me a good fifteen minutes to edge my way to the open air.  I found that the trouble was over, and the street had resumed its usual appearance.  Buses and taxis were running, and voluble knots of people were recounting their experiences.  I started off for Blenkiron’s bookshop, as the nearest harbour of refuge.

But in Piccadilly Circus I was stopped by a military policeman.  He asked my name and battalion, and I gave him them, while his suspicious eye ran over my figure.  I had no pack or rifle, and the crush in the Tube station had not improved my appearance.  I explained that I was going back to France that evening, and he asked for my warrant.  I fancy my preoccupation made me nervous and I lied badly.  I said I had left it with my kit in the house of my married sister, but I fumbled in giving the address.  I could see that the fellow did not believe a word of it.

Just then up came an A.P.M.  He was a pompous dug-out, very splendid in his red tabs and probably bucked up at having just been under fire.  Anyhow he was out to walk in the strict path of duty.

‘Tomkins!’ he said.  ’Tomkins!  We’ve got some fellow of that name on our records.  Bring him along, Wilson.’

‘But, sir,’ I said, ’I must—­I simply must meet my friend.  It’s urgent business, and I assure you I’m all right.  If you don’t believe me, I’ll take a taxi and we’ll go down to Scotland Yard and I’ll stand by what they say.’

His brow grew dark with wrath.  ’What infernal nonsense is this?  Scotland Yard!  What the devil has Scotland Yard to do with it?  You’re an imposter.  I can see it in your face.  I’ll have your depot rung up, and you’ll be in jail in a couple of hours.  I know a deserter when I see him.  Bring him along, Wilson.  You know what to do if he tries to bolt.’

I had a momentary thought of breaking away, but decided that the odds were too much against me.  Fuming with impatience, I followed the A.P.M. to his office on the first floor in a side street.  The precious minutes were slipping past; Ivery, now thoroughly warned, was making good his escape; and I, the sole repository of a deadly secret, was tramping in this absurd procession.