"Tell me—for God's sake—tell me quick. I can't—No, no—wait! Not yet. Don't tell me. I'll know from your face. They said she couldn't live—"
But she had, and he watched me so fiercely that when the light came into my face he snatched the letter from me like a madman.
"Ah-h! Give it to me! Give it to me! I knew it! I told you they couldn't fool me. No, sir. I felt all the time she'd make it. Why, I knew it in my marrow!"
"What's the date?" I inquired.
"September thirtieth," he said. Then, as he realized how old it was, he began to worry again.
"Why didn't they write later? They must know I'll eat my heart out. Suppose she's had a relapse. That's it. They wrote too soon, and now they don't dare tell me. She—got worse—died—months ago, and they're afraid to let me know."
"Stop it," I said, and reasoned sanity back into him.
Monty had taken his mail and run off like a puppy to feast in quiet, so I went over to Eckert's and had a drink.
Sam winked at me as I came in. A man was reading from a letter.
"Go on. I'm interested," said the proprietor.