He began rummaging in the huge clothespress, all the while regaling me with news from the regions below. "Mr. Poopendyke has gone up to his room, sir, with his typewriter. The young lady insisted on having it. She squealed with joy at seeing an antique typewriter and he--he had to run away with it, 'pon my soul he did, sir." I couldn't help laughing. "And your golf clubs, Mr. Smart. The young gentleman of the party is perfectly carried away with them. He says they're the real thing, the genuine sixteenth century article. They _are_ a bit rusted, you'll remember. I left him out in the courtyard trying your brassie and mid-iron, sir, endeavouring to loft potatoes over the south wall. I succeeded in hiding the balls, sir. Just as I started upstairs I heard one of the new window panes in the banquet hall smash, sir, so I take it he must have sliced his drive a bit." "Who let these people in?" I demanded in smothered tones from the depths of a sweater I was getting into in order to gain time by omitting a collar. "They came in with the plumbers, sir, at half-past eight. Old man Schmick tried to keep them out, but they said they didn't understand German and walked right by, leaving their donkeys in the roadway outside." "Couldn't Rudolph and Max stop them?" I cried, as my head emerged. "They were still in bed, sir. I think they're at breakfast now." "Good lord!" I groaned, looking at my watch. "Nine-thirty! What sort of a rest cure am I conducting here?" We hurried downstairs so fast that I lost one of my bedroom slippers. It went clattering on ahead of us, making a shameful racket on the bare stones, but Britton caught it up in time to save it from the clutches of the curio-vandals. My workmen were lolling about the place, smoking vile pipes and talking in guttural whispers. All operations appeared to have ceased in my establishment at the command of the far from idle rich. Two portly gentlemen in fedoras were standing in the middle of the great hall, discussing the merits of a dingy old spinet that had been carried out of the music room by two lusty porters from the hotel. From somewhere in the direction of the room where the porcelains and earthenware were stored came the shrill, excited voices of women. The aged Schmicks were sitting side by side on a window ledge, with the rigid reticence of wax figures. As I came up, I heard one of the strangers say to the other: "Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it. My wife says it can be made into a writing desk with a little--" "I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said I confronting them. "Will you be good enough to explain this intrusion?" They stared at me as if I were a servant asking for higher wages. The speaker, a fat man with a bristly moustache and a red necktie, drew himself up haughtily. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded, fixing me with a glare.