“And you have n't a single suggestion to make?” he asked.
“I have one,” said Herold, fastening his shirt-studs while Perkins was buttoning his boots. “But it's so commonplace and unromantic that you 'd wreck the dressing-room if I made it.”
“Well, what is it?” He stood, his hand on the door-knob.
“You 've got a maiden aunt somewhere, have n't you?”
“Oh, don't talk rot!” said John. “I'm dead serious.”
And he went out and banged the door behind him. He walked the streets furiously angry with Herold. He had gone to consult him on a baffling problem. Herold had suggested a maiden aunt as a solution. He had but one, his mother's sister. Her name was Gladys. What was a woman of over fifty doing with such an idiot name? His Aunt Gladys lived at Croydon and spent her time solving puzzles and following the newspaper accounts of the doings of the royal family. She knew nothing. He remembered when he was a boy at school coming home for the holidays cock-a-whoop at having won the high jump in the school athletics sports. His Aunt Gladys, while professing great interest, had said, “But what I don't understand, dear, is—what do you get on to jump down from?” He had smiled and explained, but he had felt cold in the pit of his stomach. A futile lady. His opinion of her had not changed. In these days John was rather an intolerant fellow.
Chance willed it, however, that when he reached Fenton Square he found a letter which began “My dearest John” and ended “Your loving Aunt Gladys.” And it was the letter of a very sweet-natured gentlewoman.
John sat down at his desk to work, but ideas would not come. At last he lit his pipe, threw himself into a chair in front of the fire, and smoked till past midnight, with his heavy brows knitted in a tremendous frown.