“Maybe someone's dead,” said Mr Riggs dolorously.
“Like as not, but what of it?”
“What of it, you infernal—but, excuse me, Danbury, I won't say it. It's against the rules, God bless 'em. If anybody's dead, she ought to know it.”
“But supposing nobody is dead.”
“There's no use arguing with you.”
“She'll read it when she gets good and ready. At present she prefers to read the letters from Freddy and Lyddy.”
“Maybe it's from Jim,” said his friend, a wistful look in his old eyes.
“I—I hope it is, by gee!” exclaimed the other, and then they got up and went over to examine the envelope for the tenth time. “I wish he'd telegraph or write, or do something, Dan. She's never had a line from him. Maybe this is something at last.”
“What puzzles me is that she always seems disappointed when there's nothing in the post from him, and here's a cablegram that might be the very thing she's looking for, and she pays no attention to it. It certainly beats me.”
“You know what puzzles me more than anything else? I've said it a hundred times. She never goes outside this here house, except in the garden, day or night.”