he turned with a start to find the door open, framing the squat figure
of a man-servant, a brigand in appearance, French of the Midi; black
hair grew low on his forehead; his beetling brows met over sullen shiny
eyes which scanned her with a hostile gaze. Diffidently she mustered
her all-too-scanty French.

"_Est-ce Monsieur le docteur est chez lui?_" she ventured, hoping for
the best.

To her relief the brigand broke into a friendly smile.

"Mademoiselle come about job?" he replied in English. "Yes, come this
way, please."

He led the way through an entrance hall into a large salon of chill and
gloomy aspect.

"Take a seat," he bade her, grinning cheerfully. "I go tell doctor."

The salon was plainly a reception-room for patients. Looking about,
Esther wondered why physicians' reception-rooms were invariably so
uninviting, so lacking in personality. This one was particularly drab
and cold, though she could not say that it was shabby or in more than
usual bad taste. It was furnished in nondescript French style, a
mixture of periods, with heavy olive-green curtains at the windows
shutting out most of the light, and pale cotton brocade on the modern
Louis Seize chairs. A plaster bust of Voltaire on the mantel-piece was
flanked by Louis Philippe candlesticks, the whole reflected in a
gilt-framed mirror extending to the ceiling. Across the middle of the
room stretched a reproduction Louis Quinze table with ormolu mounts,
and on it were stacked regular piles of magazines, French and English.
Everything was in meticulous order. The parquet shone with a glassy
finish. From the corner a tall clock ticked loudly, deliberately. The
house was very still.

Suddenly Esther felt uncomfortable, oppressed. Yet why? There was no
reason to dread the coming interview. Indeed, she could think of no
plausible explanation for the absurd panic which overtook her in a
flash. Why, for a single instant she had half a mind to bolt out of
the house before the doctor appeared. What utter nonsense! How
ashamed she would have been! To steady herself she picked up the
folded copy of the morning paper facing her and opening it re-read the
advertisement that had brought her here. It was plain and to the point:

"Dr. Gregory Sartorius of 86, Route de Grasse, wishes to find a
well-educated young Englishwoman, trained nurse preferred, to assist
him in his work. Good references essential. Applicants may call
between two and fo