said Frau von Prackwitz gently.“I won’t have it!” cried the Rittmeister still more violently.“It was just a precaution,” said Frau von Prackwitz soothingly.“Where’s the letter? I want to have my letter! It’s my letter!” he roared.“The matter has surely been dealt with long ago,” conjectured Frau von Prackwitz.“A three-weeks-old letter addressed to me—and I don’t see it! Who is the master here?” thundered the Rittmeister.“You!” said his wife.“Yes, and I’ll show him I am,” he shouted and ran to the door. “He’s getting too big for his boots!”“You’re forgetting your letter,” his wife reminded him.“What letter?” The Rittmeister stopped, dumbfounded. Apart from this letter he could remember no other.“The one over there—from Berlin.”“Oh, yes.” He stuffed it into his pocket, giving his wife a dark threatening look. “You’re not to telephone the fellow!”“Of course not. Don’t get so excited. The men will be coming at any moment.”“The men can …”
