"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
"Mr. Bellingham."
"Are you the doctor?"
"I'm 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.