“So far, no one from the military has found or at least asked me about the cabin or the hermit,” said Old Tom. “But now that the soldiers are zeroing in on where the plane landed, they might go far enough back in the woods to see the cabin, and it’s too chancy if they also find the hermit. We don’t know who he really is. He doesn’t know who he really is. I always knew he had been in the air force, but I never figured him for anything very high ranking. However, it’s now clear he must be someone fairly high up, because he had the code to the Argot. With all the attention here, someone may recognize who he is, and then they will take him away. I promised him safe refuge here. He’s done what he could for his country and for all of us. We owe him that. No, we can’t have people finding him in the cabin. He’s safe enough with Miss Macy for now. But not if she becomes the center of attention finding Flying Bob. We need someone no one will suspect of lying. But who? Who will the military believe? Who will the soldiers trust?”

And at that moment, Gladys came tripping into the house saying, “Breakfast anyone?”

*   *   *

Well, it took a while. We had to explain it to her three times. She would have to take Mrs. Brookman’s car, and we’d have to think of a good reason why she would have done so without telling Mrs. Brookman. Mrs. Brookman didn’t have a dreadful old clunker like Miss Macy had. She kept her Nash touring car in top-notch working condition in her garage and only drove on Sundays unless there was a very pressing need. She wasn’t going to be too happy with Gladys when she found out Gladys had stolen it and banged it up besides.

“And why am I doing this again?” asked Gladys, who was sitting down, eating her own burnt eggs and toast with gusto.

“Because you’re saving an entire family,” said Old Tom. “You must see that.”

“Yeah, right,” said Gladys. “I said, why am I doing this?”

“We don’t have time for long explanations,” I wailed. “You have to get going now!”

“Jeez, you’re not getting it. But never mind, I’ll make it easy for you,” said Gladys. “I do something for you, and you do something for me.”

“What?” said Old Tom. “What do we do for you?”

“I want to go to cooking school,” said Gladys.

“What?” we all said. We were like a badly fed, sleep-deprived Greek chorus.

“That’s right,” she said, squirming a bit uncomfortably. “I … well, I love cooking.”

“You love cooking?” I said.

“Since when?” asked Old Tom.

“All right, I didn’t say I was the best at it,” said Gladys. “But that’s what cooking school is for.”