"I know that old house," he said. "Jamaica Pond. But see here, Youngster, your idea of ghosts is terribly illogical. It was the _man_ who was killed, not the _horses_. The wrong part of the team walked." "You _are_ particular," replied the Youngster. "The man did not come back, and the horses did. I can't split hairs when it's a ghost story. I feel afraid that I have missed my vocation, and that flights in the imagination are more in my line than flights in the air. I don't know what you think. _I_ think it's a mighty good story. I say, Journalist, do you think I could sell that story? I've never earned a dollar in my life." "Well," laughed the Journalist, "a dollar is just about what you would get for it." "If I had been doing that story," said the Critic, "I should have found a logical explanation for it." "Of course you would," said the Youngster. "I know one of a haunted house on St. James Street which had an explanation." But the Doctor cut him short with: "Come now, you've done your stunt. No more stories to-night. Off to bed. You and I are going to take a run to Paris to-morrow." "What for?" "Tell you to-morrow." As every one began to move toward the house, the Violinist remarked, "I was thinking of running up to Paris myself to-morrow. Any one else want to go with me?" The Journalist said that he did, and the party broke up. As they strolled toward the house the Lawyer was heard asking the Youngster, "What were the steps in the corridor?" "Well," replied the Youngster, "I suppose on the night that the team came home there must have been great excitement in the house--every one running to and fro and--" But the Journalist's shout of laughter stopped him. The Youngster eyed him with shocked surprise. "By Jupiter!" cried the Journalist. "That is the darnedest ghost story I ever heard. Everything and everybody walked but the dead man--even the carriage." "That isn't _my_ fault," said the Youngster, indignantly. II THE TRAINED NURSE'S STORY THE SON OF JOSEPHINE THE TALE OF A FOUNDLING The house was very quiet next day. All the men, except the Critic and the Sculptor, had made an early and hurried run to Paris. So we saw little of each other until we gathered for dinner, and the conversation was calm--in fact subdued. The Doctor was especially quiet. No one was really gay except the Youngster. He talked of what he had seen in Paris--the silent streets--the moods of the women--the sight of officers in khaki flying about in big touring cars--and no one asked what had really taken them to town. The Trained Nurse and I had walked to the nearest village, but we brought back little in the way of news. The only interesting thing we saw was _Monsieur le Cure_ talking to a handsome young peasant woman in the square before the church. We heard her say, with a sob in her throat, "If my man does not come back, I'll never say my prayers again. I'll never pray to a God who let this thing happen unless my man comes back."