Lady Larkspur. Meredith Nicholson

a pleasurable sense of comfort as I opened the door into the snug living-room.

      "The house is in order. You will have your meals at the residence, I suppose, sir," Antoine suggested.

      I debated this a moment, and when he hinted that dinner could be more conveniently served there than in my own quarters, I said that for the present the Flynns might give me breakfast and luncheon at the garage, but that I would dine at the house. The original owner of the property, from whose executor my uncle had purchased it with all its belongings, had accumulated a remarkable library, rich in the Elizabethan stuff for which I have a weakness, and it occurred to me that it would be pleasant to eat my solitary dinner at the residence and loaf in the library for an hour afterward. Like most slaves of the inkpot, I habitually postpone actual labor as long as possible, and if I were to dine at the garage I should have no excuse for not plunging at once into my novel. The Tyringham people were domiciled in cottages scattered over the estate, though a full staff of house servants was established in the residence.

      It was five o'clock when I reached the garage, and Antoine left me after opening my bags with the suggestion that I could summon Zimmerman, a former valet of the Tyringham, for any service I might require. I knew Zimmerman very well and said I would call him when occasion required.

      "He is of that race," said Antoine plaintively in the French which now seemed to come readily enough to his lips.

      "Race? Botheration! You mustn't trouble yourself about race questions out here, Antoine. Zimmerman is a good old chap, who's probably forgotten the very name of the German town he was born in."

      "They do not forget," Antoine replied with emphasis. "There has been much discussion—much——"

      "Forget it, Antoine! I supposed you were all living here like a happy family. You've been sticking too close to the farm, and it would do you good to run into town for a week. Please tell them at the residence that I'll dine at seven."

      "Very good, sir," he said in his pompous Tyringham manner, but I saw that he was miffed by my indifference.

      Flynn, having disposed of the car, came to ask if there was anything he could do for me. When I had explained my arrangement with Antoine he still lingered.

      "Tony's against the wife and me," he said mournfully. "It's the war, sorr, and she and me that lile, sorr, the American flag floats from the garage every day. And if a heart can be lile, Elsie's as true to America as though she was born in Boston State-house."

      "I believe you, Flynn," I said, touched by his earnestness. "Don't you worry about Antoine and the rest of them; they're just a little nervous; I'll see what I can do to straighten things out."

      As I went about my unpacking I was sorry that I had discouraged Antoine's confidences. That these old hotel servants, flung upon a farm with little to do, should fall to quarrelling was not surprising, but what he had said as to the inquiries for Mrs. Bashford had roused my curiosity. In spite of my legal right to live on the farm, I had no intention of remaining if my uncle's widow turned up. Alone on the estate I could lodge in the garage without any loss of dignity, but with an aunt on the premises my status would be decidedly uncomfortable. She could hardly fail to regard me as an intruding poor relation, no matter how strictly I kept to my own quarters. It was possible that she might even confuse me with the veterans of the Tyringham, and, while I am no snob, I did not relish the idea of being classed by a strange aunt with a crowd of broken-down hotel employees.

      I whistled myself into good humor as I dressed and started for the house along the driveway, which followed the shore, veering off for a look at the sunken garden, one of the few features of the place that had ever interested my uncle.

      As I paused on the steps I caught sight of a man sitting dejectedly on a stone bench near a fountain whose jet tossed and caught a ball with languid iteration. I had identified him as an old Tyringham bell-hop, known familiarly as Dutch, before he heard my step and sprang to his feet, grabbing a pitchfork whose prongs he presented threateningly.

      "Oh, it's you, sir," he faltered, dropping the implement. "Excuse me, sir!"

      "What's your trouble, Dutch? You're not expecting burglars, are you?"

      "Well, no, sir, but things on the place ain't what they wuz. It's my name, which ain't my name, not reg'lar, that's caused feelin'. They've drove me out, an' I'm campin' in the tool-house. An' me born right there in New York an' American clean through. My grandpap came across when he wuz a kid, but it ain't my fault he wuz Goiman. I'd 'a' made 'im a Frenchy or a Dago or somethin' else if I could 'a' done it. Mr. Singleton, I don't know no Goiman except pretzel, sauerkraut, wiener wurst, and them kind o' woids."

      "Those belong to the universal language, Dutch," I answered consolingly. "What is your name, anyhow?"

      "Augustus Schortemeier, and I say it ain't no worse'n Longfellow," he protested.

      The point was delicate and not one that I felt myself qualified to discuss. To cover my confusion I suggested that poets enjoy a certain license, but I was honestly sorry for Dutch. If he was not the oldest living bell-hop, he was at least entitled to honorable mention among the most ancient veterans of the calling, vocation, or avocation of the bell-hopper. I bade him cheer up and passed on.

      As I reached the house I heard a sharp command in an authoritative voice and saw at a curve of the driveway a number of men in military formation performing evolutions in the most sprightly manner. They carried broomsticks, and at sight of me the commander brought his company to a very ragged "Present arms!" Their uniform was that of the Tyringham bell-hops and waiters, and it dawned upon me that this was an army of protest representing the Allied armies on the shores of Connecticut. There was a dozen of them, and the captain I recognized as Scotty, a hop who had long worn the Tyringham livery. I waved my hand to them and turned to find Antoine awaiting me at the door.

      "It's the troops, sir," he explained. "It's to keep Dutch and Gretchen and Elsie—she's the wife of that Flynn—in proper order, sir."

      "Troops" was a large term for the awkward squad of retired waiters and bell-hops, and it was with difficulty that I kept my face straight.

      "It's most unfortunate, but we was forced to it. Dinner is served, sir."

      From the table in the long dining-room I caught glimpses through the gathering dusk of Scotty's battalion at its evolutions.

      "They keep a guard all night, sir," Antoine explained, not without pride. "The goings on has been most peculiar."

      "Antoine!" I said sharply, "what do you mean by these hints of trouble on the place? You're not silly enough to imagine that Dutch and a couple of women can do anything out here to aid America's enemies! The rest of you ought to be ashamed of yourselves for annoying them. And as for these inquiries about Mrs. Bashford, they couldn't possibly have anything to do with the war. Specifically, who are the persons who've asked for her?"

      "There's the party I told you about, most persistent, who's motored here three times, and another person who seems to be looking for him, sir. It's most singular."

      "It's singularly ridiculous; that's all. They're probably piano-tuners or rival agents for a rug house or something of that sort who don't know that Mrs. Bashford isn't here or at all likely to be."

      "They may be agents, but not that kind, sir." His lips quivered, either from fear or vexation at my refusal to take his story seriously.

      "If anything tangible happens, Antoine," I said kindly, "anything we can really put our hands on, we'll certainly deal with it. But you mustn't get nervous or allow yourself to suspect everybody who turns up here of evil designs against the Republic. I've come here for quiet, you know, and we can't have every passing stranger throwing the place into a panic."

      I had no sooner reached the library, where he gave me coffee, than I heard a slow, measured tread on the broad brick terrace that ran along the house on the side toward the Sound. The windows were open and the guard was in plain view. I glanced at Antoine, whose attitude toward me was that of one benevolently tolerant of stupidity. He meant to save me in spite of my obtuseness. "Tell