“Bill,—cut out the suspense. You’re trying to prepare me for bad news. And I think you’re lying about that news story. You came down a purpose to meet me. Let’s have it—the worst. I’ve stood a lot. But I—well, anything’s better than suspense. What’s happened?”
Once before I had been called to break bad news to my chum. I had done it crudely, tossed him a paper with a red-inked item which had aborted his whole life. I wanted to do a more artistic bit of work now. But I’m afraid again I messed it.
“It’s your little girl, Nat,” said I. “She’s—gone away.”
“Gone away? You mean she’s run off—she’s lost?”
“Run off? No! Lost? Yes!”
He gripped my arm.
“You mean little Mary’s—dead?”
My cigar tasted like tar and ashes. I simply proffered him a short clipping from the Telegraph of the previous evening.
AUTO KILLS CHILD
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