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. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,
pointing to the room, said: "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you're
here."