Satterthwaite went without a word to the escritoire standing in a corner of the room and took out a paper. He came back with it, handed it silently to Tremaine. It was an official War Department notification.
Tremaine stared at it.
“My God!” he muttered, appalled.
“You are dead, my friend!” said Satterthwaite, grimly. “Killed in action, October 10th, 1918.”
Again there was a long silence. Tremaine sank heavily into a chair, stared straight in front of him. An expression of combativeness came slowly into his face, his jaw set. At last he uttered an aggressive grunt.
“Well, I’m not!” he said. “I’m very much alive. So that’s that! Whatever has happened, I’ve come back! This is my flat—and my wife and child. And you can clear out just as soon as you like!” His eyes flamed hostility as they met Satterthwaite’s. “Quit!”
His wife sprang forward.
“Harry!” she cried, imploring she scarcely knew what.
He turned to her.
“I’ll talk to you presently,” he said, in a voice of smouldering resentment. “I’m not blaming you—but I guess you might have waited a bit. We’ll square this out by ourselves when he’s gone.”