"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, bulky, 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 maidservant, 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 toward 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'm 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.

"It is most unfortunate that it should have happened just now," she
said, as I wrestled with one of those remarkable feminine knots that,
while they seem to defy the utmost efforts of human ingenuity to untie,
yet have a singular habit of untying themselves at inopportune moments.

"Why just now in particular?" I asked.

"Because I have some specially important work to do. A very learned
lady who is writing an historical book has commissioned me to collect
all the literature relating to the Tell-el-Amarna letters--the
cuneiform tablets, you know, of Amenhotep the Fourth."

"Well," I said soothingly, "I expect your hand will soon be well."

"Yes, but that won't do. The work has to be done immediately. I have
to send in completed notes not later than this day week, and it will be
quite impossible. I am dreadfully disappointed."

By this time I had unwound the voluminous wrappings and exposed the
injury--a deep gash in the palm that must have narrowly missed a
good-sized artery. Obviously the hand would be useless for fully a
week.

"I suppose," she said, "you couldn't patch it up so that I could write
with it?"

I shook my head.

"No, Miss Bellingham. I shall have to put it on a splint. We can't
run any risks with a deep wound like this."

"Then