"I said _Mr_. Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, and
Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.

It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position. The
room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and though
the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of a
conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,
indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came through
the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and painfully
distinct:

"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what it
amounts to. You want to square me!"

"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but at
this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voices
subsided once more into an indistinct murmur.

To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours I glanced curiously
about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants. A
very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendour and old-world dignity: a room full of interest and character
and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part it
spoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a small
kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); a
threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the
table; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of grocer's
boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty, the place
exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the taste was