"I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham."
My facetiousness evaporated instantly. "I hope Miss Bellingham is not
ill," I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile from
Miss Oman.
"No," was the reply, "she is not ill, but she has cut her hand rather
badly. It's her right hand, too, and she can't afford to lose the use of
it, not being a great, hulking, lazy, lolloping man. So you had better
go and put some stuff on it."
With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanished into
the depths of the cavern like the Witch of Wokey, while I hurried on to
the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments and
materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.
Miss Oman's juvenile maid-servant, who opened the door to me, stated the
existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness:
"Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin."
Having thus delivered herself she retreated towards the kitchen and I
ascended the stairs, at the head of which I found Miss Bellingham
awaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a white
boxing-glove.
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