urity" (to quote Mr. Harry Squires, the
_Banner_ reporter), the residents of Tinkletown admitted that they
didn't know what to make of it.

The Nixon cottage was a quaint, old-fashioned place on the side of
Battle Hill, looking down upon the maples of Sickle Street. The grounds
were rather spacious, and the house stood well back from the street,
establishing an aloofness that had never been noticed before. A low
stone wall guarded the lawn and rose-garden, and there was an iron gate
at the bottom of the slope. The front porch was partly screened by
"Dutchman's Pipe" vines. With the advent of the tenant, smart Japanese
sun-curtains made their appearance, and from that day on no prying eye,
no matter how well-trained it may have been, could accomplish anything
like a satisfactory visit to the regions beyond.

Mrs. Nixon usually rented her house for the summer months. The summer of
1918 had proved an unprofitable season for her. It was war-time, and the
people who lived in the cities proved unduly reluctant to venture far
from their bases of supplies. Consequently Mrs. Nixon and her daughter
Angie remained in occupancy, more heartsick than ever over the horrors
of war. Just as they were about to give up hope, the unexpected
happened. Joseph P. Singer, the real-estate agent, offices in the
Lamson Block, appeared bright and early one morning to inquire if the
cottage could be had for the month of September and part of October.

"You may ask any price you like, Abbie," he said. "The letter I received
this morning was written on the paper of the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Anybody who can afford to put up at the Plaza, which is right on Central
Park,--and also on Fifth Avenue,--ain't going to haggle about prices.
The party wants a bathroom with hot and cold water and electric lights.
Well, you've got all these improvements, and--"

"I've got to have references," said Mrs. Nixon firmly.

"I guess if the Plaza is willing to rent a room to a party, there
oughtn't to be any question as to the respectability of the said party,"
said Mr. Singer. "They're mighty particular in them New York hotels."

"Well, you write and tell the party--"

"I am requested to telegraph, Abbie," said he. "The party wants to know
right away."

As the result of this conversation and a subsequent exchange of
telegrams, the "party" arrived in Tinkletown on the first day of
September. Mr. Singer's contentions were justified by the manner in
which the n