It was the gentle voice of the Violinist that called us back.  “Better get on,” he said.  “We can do nothing now but obey orders,” and quietly we crawled back and the car started on.

We did not speak again until we ran up to the gates of Paris, and stopped to have our papers examined for the last time.  Then I said, with a laugh:  “And only think!  I did not tell my story at all!”

“That’s so,” said the Youngster.  “What a shame.  Never mind, dear, you can tell the whole story!”—­And I have.

THE END