'The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they
were going to call it Alfred,' I told him.
He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too.
'Good luck to her,' he said.
'Best of luck,' said I.
'And what did you tell _her_?' he asked.
'That the baby belonged to the old mother--that it was brother to your
girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family.'
He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer.
'And did she take it in?' he asked.
'As much as she took anything else.'
He stood grinning fixedly. Then he broke into a short laugh.
'Good for _her_' he exclaimed cryptically.
And then he laughed aloud once more, evidently feeling he had won a big
move in his contest with his wife.
'What about the other woman?' I asked.
'Who?'
'Elise.'
'Oh'--he shifted uneasily--'she was all right--'
'You'll be getting back to her,' I said.
He looked at me. Then he made a grimace with his mouth.
'Not me,' he said. 'Back your life it's a plant.'
'You don't think the _cher petit bebe_ is a little Alfred?'
'It might be,' he said.
'Only might?'
'Yes--an' there's lots of mites in a pound of cheese.' He laughed
boisterously but uneasily.
'What did she say, exactly?' he asked.
I began to repeat, as well as I could, the phrases of the letter:
'_Mon cher Alfred--Figure-toi comme je suis desolee_--'
He listened with some confusion.
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