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!” They ran down the passage into the study and locked the door. “Which is the drawer?” “The writing-table--the one to the right.” Herold flew to it and tried it. His vision had been false: it was locked. He sat down in John's worn leather writing-chair and pulled out his bunches of keys. One after another he tried them. Some were too large, others too small. Now and then one fitted into the keyhole and turned slightly in the wards. “It 's coming.” “Yes--no.” “Let me try; it won't do.” The perspiration streamed upon their faces, and their fingers shook. Sometimes the tried keys slid back into the bunch, and all had to be tried over again. A piano organ which had been playing maddeningly in front of the house ceased suddenly, and there was the silence of death in the room, broken only by the rattle of the keys and the tense breathing of the two. At last they assured themselves that none of the keys would fit. They tried to wrench the drawer open by the handles, but the workmanship was stout. It was clattering discord. They searched the room for some instrument to pick or break open the lock. They rummaged among unlocked drawers filled with papers, old letters, bits of sealing-wax, forgotten pipes thrown together haphazard after the fashion of an untidy man. They found many rusty keys, which they tried in vain. “We must break it open,” said Herold.