I saw the heavy ulster and the cap, which I had realized, though I had not seen, outside in the dark laurels.  They belonged to the journalist, Clarence Donne, the trusted emissary of Blenkiron.  But I saw his face now, and it was that face which I had boasted to Bullivant I could never mistake again upon earth.  I did not mistake it now, and I remember I had a faint satisfaction that I had made good my word.  I had not mistaken it, for I had not had the chance to look at it till this moment.  I saw with acid clearness the common denominator of all its disguises—­the young man who lisped in the seaside villa, the stout philanthropist of Biggleswick, the pulpy panic-stricken creature of the Tube station, the trim French staff officer of the Picardy chateau . . .  I saw more, for I saw it beyond the need of disguise.  I was looking at von Schwabing, the exile, who had done more for Germany than any army commander . . .  Mary’s words came back to me—­’the most dangerous man in the world’ . . .  I was not afraid, or broken-hearted at failure, or angry—­not yet, for I was too dazed and awestruck.  I looked at him as one might look at some cataclysm of nature which had destroyed a continent.

The face was smiling.

‘I am happy to offer you hospitality at last,’ it said.

I pulled my wits farther out of the mud to attend to him.  The cross-bar on my chest pressed less hard and I breathed better.  But when I tried to speak, the words would not come.

‘We are old friends,’ he went on.  ’We have known each other quite intimately for four years, which is a long time in war.  I have been interested in you, for you have a kind of crude intelligence, and you have compelled me to take you seriously.  If you were cleverer you would appreciate the compliment.  But you were fool enough to think you could beat me, and for that you must be punished.  Oh no, don’t flatter yourself you were ever dangerous.  You were only troublesome and presumptuous like a mosquito one flicks off one’s sleeve.’

He was leaning against the side of a heavy closed door.  He lit a cigar from a little gold tinder box and regarded me with amused eyes.

’You will have time for reflection, so I propose to enlighten you a little.  You are an observer of little things.  So?  Did you ever see a cat with a mouse?  The mouse runs about and hides and manoeuvres and thinks it is playing its own game.  But at any moment the cat can stretch out its paw and put an end to it.  You are the mouse, my poor General—­for I believe you are one of those funny amateurs that the English call Generals.  At any moment during the last nine months I could have put an end to you with a nod.’

My nausea had stopped and I could understand what he said, though I had still no power to reply.