Ormsby took the slip between his fingers. His pale face hardened, and his teeth ground together. His surprise was expressed in a smothered cry of rage.
“It can’t be!” he gasped. “Alive? Then, the story of his death was a lie. His heroic death was a sham.”
“Dora will have to be told,” groaned the colonel.
“No, certainly not,” cried Ormsby. “If he attempts 207 to show his face in New York, I’ll have him arrested.”
“No, no, Ormsby, you wouldn’t do that. I must confess, it isn’t any pleasure to hear that he’s alive. It’s a confounded nuisance! His death—damn it all! He sha’n’t see her. They mustn’t meet, Ormsby!”
“No, of course not—of course not. We’ll have to send him to jail.”
“Ormsby, you couldn’t do it—you couldn’t.”
“Well, he mustn’t see Dora.”
“No—I’ll attend to that.”
The colonel read the telegram again.