"They don't know whether he's alive or dead." Her hands were slowly withdrawn from her cheeks, her face regained its composure, and she resettled herself, still breathing a little quickly, on the sofa. "They know nothing," he went on slowly. "But there's reason to suppose that he wasn't killed at the time when he was reported missing. There's reason to suppose that he was alive at the beginning of October."
Still standing with his shoulders leaning against the mantel-piece, Eric told her slowly and colourlessly of the belated cheque. At the end she sat watching him in silence. She too, surely, was trying to convince herself that this was what she had always expected.…
"That's all I know. That's all his people know," he added.
"But October.… June.… Why hasn't he written?"
"You're assuming he's alive. We don't know. He may have been badly wounded, he may have died of wounds——"
"But if he was well enough to write a cheque?"
"I don't pretend to explain it. His sister threshed it all out at the bank yesterday; she and I threshed it all out again last night. And we're none the wiser—except that on the ninth of October he drew, dated and signed a cheque. I think that's certain. There's no doubt about the signature, and no one would trouble to forge a cheque for ten pounds.… I always promised to let you know as soon as I had any news, Babs."
She nodded and pressed her knuckles into her eyes.
"October to June … instead of August to June," she murmured at length. "And not a word of any kind. What do his people …?"
"He'll now be published as 'Previously reported missing, now reported to be missing and a prisoner.' They don't know what to think any more than we do."