The door was at once opened by a pale-faced man in black, who conducted the visitor to the waiting-room, where a single patient was seated reading a last year's volume of Punch and not seeming to realise the jokes.
This person was called out presently, and then came Simon's turn.
Oppenshaw got up from his desk and came forward to meet him.
"I'm sorry to bother you," said Simon, when they had exchanged greetings. "It's a difficult matter I have come to consult you about, and an important one, else I would not have cut into your time like this."
"State your case," said the other jovially, retaking his seat and pointing out a chair.
"That's the devil of it," replied Simon; "it's a case that lies out of the jurisdiction of common sense and common knowledge. Look at me. Do I look as though I were a dreamer or creature of fancies?"
"You certainly don't," said Oppenshaw frankly.
"Yet what I have to tell you disgusts me—will disgust you."
"I'm used to that, I'm used to that," said the other. "Nothing you can say will alarm, disgust, or leave me incredulous."