awaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a white
boxing-glove.

"I am glad you have come," she said. "Phyllis--Miss Oman, you know--has
kindly bound up my hand, but I should like you to see that it is all
right."

We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my paraphernalia on the
table while I inquired into the particulars of the accident.

"It is most unfortunate that it should have happened just now," she
said, as I wrestled with one of those remarkable feminine knots that,
while they seem to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity to untie,
yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at inopportune moments.

"Why just now, in particular?" I asked.

"Because I have some specially important work to do. A very learned lady
who is writing a historical book has commissioned me to collect all the
literature relating to the Tell el Amarna letters--the cuneiform
tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth."

"Well," I said soothingly, "I expect your hand will soon be well."

"Yes, but that won't do. The work has to be done immediately. I have to
send in the completed notes not later than this day week, and it will be
quite impossible. I am dreadfully disappointed."

By this time I had unwound the voluminous wrappings and exposed the
injury--a deep gash in the palm that must have narrowly missed a