Miss Oman gnashed her teeth at me (and very fine teeth they were, too).
"I called," she said majestically, "on behalf of Miss Bellingham."
My facetiousness evaporated instantly. "I hope Miss Bellingham is not ill," I said with a sudden anxiety that elicited a sardonic smile from Miss Oman.
"No," was the reply, "she is not ill, but she has cut her hand rather badly. It's her right hand, too, and she can't afford to lose the use of it, not being a great, hulking, lazy, lolloping man. So you had better go and put some stuff on it."
With this advice, Miss Oman whisked to the right-about and vanished into the depths of the cavern like the Witch of Wokey, while I hurried on to the surgery to provide myself with the necessary instruments and materials, and thence proceeded to Nevill's Court.
Miss Oman's juvenile maid-servant, who opened the door to me, stated the existing conditions with epigrammatic conciseness:
"Mr. Bellingham is hout, sir; but Miss Bellingham is hin."
Having thus delivered herself she retreated towards the kitchen and I ascended the stairs, at the head of which I found Miss Bellingham awaiting me with her right hand encased in what looked like a white boxing-glove.
"I am glad you have come," she said. "Phyllis—Miss Oman, you know—has kindly bound up my hand, but I should like you to see that it is all right."
We went into the sitting-room, where I laid out my paraphernalia on the table while I inquired into the particulars of the accident.