"Fact," said Miss Oman.
"Well, anyhow," said I, "age is not the only qualification. And,
besides, you are too late for the billet. The vacancy's filled."
Miss Oman slapped the papers down on the table and rose abruptly.
"You had better read the papers and see if you can learn a little
sense," she said severely as she turned to go. "Oh, and don't forget the
finger!" she added eagerly. "That is really thrilling."
"The finger?" I repeated.
"Yes. They found a hand with one finger missing. The police think it is
a highly important clue. I don't know quite what they mean; but you read
the account and tell me what you think."
With this parting injunction she bustled out through the surgery, and I
followed to bid her a ceremonious adieu on the doorstep. I watched her
little figure tripping with quick, bird-like steps down Fetter Lane, and
was about to turn back into the surgery when my attention was attracted
by the evolutions of an elderly gentleman on the opposite side of the
street. He was a somewhat peculiar-looking man, tall, gaunt, and bony,
and the way in which he carried his head suggested to the medical mind a
pronounced degree of near sight and a pair of "deep" spectacle glasses.
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