before a row of tin-roofed shanties, and a Y.M.C.A. hut flew the stars-and-stripes across the way.
Troy jumped down and began to ask questions. At first the only person who recognized the name of Gantier was an old woman too frightened and feeble-minded to answer intelligibly. Then a French territorial who was hoeing with the women came forward. He belonged to the place and knew the story.
"M. Gantier—the old gentleman? He was mayor, and the Germans took him. He died in Germany. The young girl—Mile. Gantier—was taken with him. No, she's not dead. . . . I don't know. . . . She's shut up somewhere in Germany . . . queer in the head, they say. . . . The sons—ah, you knew Monsieur Paul? He went first. . . . What, the others? . . . Yes: the three others—Louis at Notre Dame de
