“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.”

“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 irreproachable.  The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasant harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the Windsor chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of their glaring varnish and stained a sober brown; and the austerity of the whole was relieved by a ginger-jar filled with fresh-cut flowers and set in the middle of the table.