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So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the
bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and it
was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed
"Miss Oman."
The door opened with some suddenness, and a short, middle-aged woman
surveyed me hungrily.
"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.
"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort of
thing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."
"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had the
desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."
"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
"Mr. Bellingham."
"Are you the doctor?"
"I am _a_ doctor."
"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."
I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my conductress, ascended a
noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran
up the middle.


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