Miss Lindon, who had been watching all day for John by the drawing-room window, greeted them in the passage, her eyes red, and her cap askew on her white hair.
“Oh, Mr. Herold, have you found him? Where is he? I 'm sure he 's been run over by a motor-omnibus,” she continued, on learning that Herold brought no news. “The way they whizz upon you when you 're not looking is so bewildering. The old days of horses were bad enough, although I do remember his poor father being upset out of a rowing-boat at Ramsgate.”
“You may be quite sure, dear Miss Lindon,” said Herold, gently, “that John has n't met with a street accident. The police would have told us long ago.”
“But what could have happened to him? I know I 've thought of everything.”
“Very likely he went down to spend the night in the East End, so as to write a descriptive article for the review,” said Herold. “You have n't thought of that.”
Miss Lindon admitted she had not, but tearfully held to the motor-omnibus theory. He tried to reassure her. Unity clenched her teeth, half mad with anxiety to get to the fateful drawer. At last Herold led the dear but delaying lady into the drawing-room.
“I am going to examine John's papers. Very likely I shall find something to put me on the track. You don't mind if I go in alone—with Unity to tell me where things are?”
“I'm sure, if you really try, you 'll find him. You are so clever,” she replied.
He kissed her hand and left her sitting by the window, the tears running down her cheeks. In the passage Unity caught him by the hand.
“Come along!”