"The poor woman is emotional. She does not enjoy wedding receptions. She weeps."
"So does Aunt Gretchen," Joy observed.
Aunt Gretchen was indeed weeping—quietly, under the blanket of reserve with which the Nicholases cover their emotions. I was about to comfort her when she turned and fled. I started to run after her but decided against it and returned to Joy.
"Perhaps," I said, "we had better investigate this strange turn of events. Possibly our reception has been crashed by some undesirable persons."
"Impossible," Joy replied. "But it might be fun to look them over. Shall we have a quick one first—just to stiffen the old spine a bit?"
It sounded like a good suggestion so we stiffened our spines with what was left in the bottle, and quitted the conservatory.
Back in the house, one thing became swiftly apparent. We had guests who were utter strangers to me. But it was Bag Ears who summed up the situation with the briefest possible statement. "Jees!" he ejaculated. "It's a crooks' convention!"
"You can identify some of these intruders?"
"If you mean do I know 'em, the answer is without a doubt, pal. Somehow, the whole Cement Mixer Zinsky mob has infiltered into the joint."