"Why," she said, "I don't believe I paid him anything. I know I didn't. I
never thought of it at all. Neither did he, for that matter though, I'm
sure of it."

This provoked Lucile into an outburst, rare with her, of outspoken
indignation. The man, delinquent as he had been in the matter of the
drawing-room piano, became once more her protégé, her soldier whom she
had found in the park and attempted to do a kindness to. Paula had
kept him fussing over her piano all day and then let him go without,
for all she knew, money enough to buy his supper or procure a lodging
for the night.

John, though he made less commotion about it, took his wife's negligence
even more seriously for he set about attempting to repair it. "You're
quite sure," he asked in his crisp, consulting-room manner--a manner
Paula was happily unfamiliar with--"You're quite sure he told you
nothing about himself beyond his bare name? You've got that right,
haven't you? Anthony March?"

"Yes," said Paula uncertainly, "I'm absolutely sure of that."

Had he any insignia on his uniform?--little bronze numerals on his
collar--anything like that that she could remember? That would tell them
what organization he belonged to and might give them a clue.

Here Lucile got drawn into the inquisition. She had seen him and talked
to him. Had she noticed anything of the sort? But Lucile had not. She
had, naturally, deferred all inquiries until he came to tune the piano;
and had she been called as she felt she should have been....