“Hello,” said Beveridge. “Here I am.”
“Oh,” cried Madge, with what sounded like a gasp of relief. She drew him quickly in, closed and locked the door, and stood looking at him.
“I had to go out of town, Madge. I didn't get in till late last night. I have some news for you.”
“Come in,” she said. And they went back into the dining room, where she had set down the lamp. They took chairs on opposite sides of the table. Madge rested her elbows on the red cloth, propped her chin on her two hands, and waited. Beveridge, while he looked at her, was rapidly getting back his self-possession.
“Well, Madge, there's a good deal to tell you. McGlory—”
She waited as long as she could, then exclaimed, in an uncertain voice: “What about him? Where is he?”
“He's gone.”
“Where?”
“Nobody on earth can tell you that.”
She leaned across the table and caught his arm. “Is he dead?”