"She was perfectly well the day before yesterday, and at your own house in Boston. But don't you know, don't you know—? Why, this is too awful! The more I think of it the more awful it becomes. Don't you know—?"
"I—I don't know anything."
She got it out at last.
"Don't you know—Vio thinks you're—you're dead?"
Iron clampings seemed to press me round the ribs.
"No; I didn't know that. What made her think so?"
"Who wouldn't think so? You were reported missing—and when weeks went by—and no news of you—and then, when your uniform was found on the bank of that river, near Tours, wasn't it? and your papers in the pockets—and your letter of credit, and everything— And here you are in New York, going under another name, working like a stevedore, and looking like a tramp! Why, it's enough to drive anybody crazy!"
I could only stammer: "I shall explain everything, after I've seen Vio."
"You can't explain in such a way that—" She swung toward her hostess. "Lulu, I must go straight back to Boston to-night. There's a train that gets you there in the morning, isn't there? I hate night traveling. I never sleep, and I have a headache all the next day—but what's that when—? If Vio hears this from any one but—" She turned to me again. "Then it was true that you'd been seen in New York hotels?"
"Possibly; I don't know what you're referring to."