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.