s is true.

As for Jimmy, you will not be surprised to learn that Jimmy had not long
been content with relief-work of any kind. He was young; and he had
_seen_ things--there, in the eastern districts. By midsummer of 1915 he
had resigned from the "C. R. B.," had made a difficult way to Paris, via
Holland and England, had enlisted in the Foreign Legion, and had
succeeded in getting himself transferred to the French Flying Corps.
Thus, months before we had officially abandoned our absurd neutrality,
he was flying over the lines--bless him! If Jimmy never became a
world-famous ace, well--there was a reason for that, too; the best of
reasons. He was never assigned to a combat squadron, for no one brought
home such photographs as Jimmy; taken tranquilly, methodically, at no
great elevation, and often far back of the German lines. His quiet
daring was the admiration of his comrades; anti-aircraft batteries had
no terrors for him; his luck was proverbial, and he grew to trust it
implicitly, seeming to bear a charmed life.

But Susan's luck had failed her, at last. On Thanksgiving Day of 1917
she was wounded in the left thigh by a fragment of shrapnel, a painful
wound whose effects were permanent. She will always walk slowly, with a
slight limp, hereafter. Mona Leslie got her down as far as Paris by
January 20, 1918, meaning to take her on to Mentone, where she had
rented a small villa for three months of long-overdue rest and
recuperation for them both. But on reaching Paris, Susan collapsed; the
accumulated strain of the past years struck her down. She was taken to
the comfortable little Red Cross hospital for civilians at Neuilly and
put to bed. A week of dangerous exhaustion and persistent insomnia
followed.

I knew nothing of it directly, at the moment. I knew only that on a
certain day Miss Leslie had planned to start with Susan from Dunkirk for
Mentone; I was waiting eagerly for word of their safe arrival in that
haven of rest and beauty; and I was scheming like a junior clerk for my
first vacation, for two weeks off, perhaps even three, that I might run
down to them there. But no word came. Throughout that first week in
Paris, Miss Leslie in her hourly anxiety neglected to drop me a line.

And then one night, as I sat vacantly on the edge of my bed in my hotel
room at Evian, almost too weary to begin the tedious sequence of
undressing and tumbling into it, came the second of my psychic reels, my
peculiar visions; br