large and high one--was furnished barely and like an office--with a red
flock wall-paper, a brown linoleum on the floor, and in the centre of
the linoleum a bulky roll-top desk and a Windsor chair. Other Windsor
chairs stood in array against the walls, and a couple of rosewood
bookcases with glass fronts. There was also by the fireplace an
armchair covered with American leather, a rag-work hearth-rug, and a
large waste-paper basket stuffed with envelopes and circulars. Over the
mantelshelf hung a print in an Oxford frame, with the title _Suffer
Little Children to Come unto Me_, and a large stain of damp in the lower
left-hand corner. The mantelshelf itself supported a clock, a pair of
bronze candlesticks, a movable calendar, a bottle of paste, and a wooden
box with _For the Little Ones_ painted on it in black letters.

All this the child took in almost at a glance, and notwithstanding that
the room was dark. Yet it had two large windows, and they were
curtainless. Its gloom came of the thick coating of dirt on their upper
panes, and a couple of wire blinds that cut off all light below.

Doctor Glasson had walked straight to his desk, and stood for a few
moments with his back to the child, fingering his papers and apparently
engaged in thought. By-and-by he picked up a pair of spectacles,
turned, and adjusted them slowly whilst he stared down on her.

"Where did you get this information?"

Tilda's first impulse was to show him her scrap of paper, but she
thought better of it. She would keep it back while she could, as a
possible trump card. Besides, she feared and distrusted this man with
the little eyes. Seen through glasses they were worse than ever.