The housekeeper was leaning forward in her chair, her cheeks flushed and her hands clenched.
“How do you know he's dead?” she asked, in a mysterious whisper.
“Eh? How do I know who's dead?”
“Albert. How do you know he's dead?”
Laban stared at her.
“How do I know he's DEAD!” he repeated. “How do I know—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” impatiently; “that's what I said. Don't run it over three or four times more. How do you know Albert's dead?”
“Why, Rachel, what kind of talk's that? I know he's dead because the newspapers say so, and the War Department folks say so, and this cap'n man in France that was right there at the time, HE says so. All hands say so—yes, yes. So don't—”
“Sh! I don't care if they all say so ten times over. How do they KNOW? They ain't found him dead, have they? The report from the War Department folks was sent when they thought that other body was Albert's. Now they know that wasn't him. Where is he?”
“Why, under the ruins of that cottage. 'Twas all blown to pieces and most likely—”