“Oh, I’m not going to pick his brains,” Mr. Bellingham said quickly and with some wrath.  “I’m not the sort of man who goes round cadging for free professional advice.  Understand that clearly, Doctor.”

“I do,” I answered hastily.  “That wasn’t what I meant at all.  Is that Miss Bellingham coming in?  I heard the front door shut.”

“Yes, that will be my girl, I expect; but don’t run away.  You’re not afraid of her, are you?” he added as I hurriedly picked up my hat.

“I’m not sure that I’m not,” I answered.  “She is a rather majestic young lady.”

Mr. Bellingham chuckled and smothered a yawn, and at that moment his daughter entered the room; and, in spite of her shabby black dress and a shabbier handbag that she carried, I thought her appearance and manner fully justified my description.

“You come in, Miss Bellingham,” I said as she shook my hand with cool civility, “to find your father yawning and me taking my departure.  So I have my uses, you see.  My conversation is the infallible cure for insomnia.”

Miss Bellingham smiled.  “I believe I am driving you away,” she said.

“Not at all,” I replied hastily.  “My mission was accomplished, that was all.”

“Sit down for a few minutes, Doctor,” urged Mr. Bellingham, “and let Ruth sample the remedy.  She will be affronted if you run away as soon as she comes in.”

“Well, you mustn’t let me keep you up,” I said.

“Oh, I’ll let you know when I fall asleep,” he replied, with a chuckle; and with this understanding I sat down again—­not at all unwillingly.

At this moment Miss Oman entered with a small tray and a smile of which I should not have supposed her to be capable.

“You’ll take your toast and cocoa while they’re hot, dear, won’t you?” she said coaxingly.

“Yes, I will, Phyllis, thank you,” Miss Bellingham answered.  “I am only just going to take off my hat,” and she left the room, followed by the astonishingly transfigured spinster.

She returned almost immediately as Mr. Bellingham was in the midst of a profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father mystified me considerably by remarking: 

“You’re late to-night, chick.  Have the Shepherd Kings been giving trouble?”

“No,” she replied; “but I thought I might as well get them done.  So I dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished them.”

“Then they are ready for stuffing now?”

“Yes.”  As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and laughed softly.

“We mustn’t talk in riddles like this,” she said, “before Doctor Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt.  My father is referring to my work,” she explained to me.

“Are you a taxidermist, then?” I asked.

She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke into a ripple of quiet laughter.