"Oh, no! But who are they, Father? Do you mind telling me?"
"Mercy, Joyce! I can't think just now of all of them!" He was deep in a preëlection article in his paper, and wanted to return to it.
"But can't you think of just a few?" she implored.
"Well, you are the queerest child! There's Grandfather Lambert, and your Great-aunt Lucia, and old Mr. Selby, and—oh, I can't think, Joyce! What's all this foolishness anyway?" Joyce saw at once that she was getting at nothing very definite along this line and determined on a bold move.
"Well, who is the old lady that you spoke of once, who, you said, knew something about that queer old boarded-up house next door?"
"Now, why in the world didn't you say so at once, without first making me go through the whole list of my elderly acquaintances?" he laughed. "That was your Great-aunt Lucia."
"What!" Joyce almost shouted in her astonishment.
"Why, certainly! What's queer about that? She used to live in New York City, and knew all the best families for miles around. When we first moved here, next to that ramshackle old place, I remember her telling me she'd known the people who used to live there."
"Who were they?" demanded Joyce, eagerly.
"Oh, I don't remember their name! I don't know that she ever mentioned it. She only said she knew them, and they'd gone away rather suddenly and left their house all furnished and never came back. Now do let me finish my paper in peace, Duckie dear!"