The man closed the door and looked at him curiously.
"Mr. Titus Oates, sir?"
"Yes!" roared the financier impatiently. "Titus Oates. Tell him I was whipped from Aldgate to Newgate, and from Newgate to Tyburn. And hurry up!"
The man nodded perfunctorily, and edged past him at a cautious distance of which Mr. Oates was too wrought up to see the implications.
"Yes, sir. Will you wait in here a moment, sir?"
Mr. Oates was ushered into a barely furnished distempered room and left there. With an effort he fussed himself down to a superficial calm — he was Titus Oates, a power in the City, and he must conduct himself accordingly. Dr. Jethero might misunderstand a blundering excitement. If he was crotchety, and perhaps even potty, he must be handled with tact. Mr. Oates strode up and down the room, working off his overflow of excitement. There was a faint characteristic flavour of iodoform in the air, but Mr. Oates did not even notice that.
Footsteps sounded along the hall, and the door opened again. This time it admitted a grey-bearded man who also wore a white coat. His keen spectacled eyes examined the financier calmly. Mr. Oates mustered all his self-control.
"I am Titus Oates," he said with simple dignity.
The grey-bearded man nodded.
"You wanted to see me?" he said; and Mr. Oates recalled his instructions again.