Doctor Glasson."

"I am Doctor Glasson. Well?"

"It's about a boy," harked back poor Tilda. "He's called Arthur Miles
Surname Chandon--an' he was born at a place called Kingsand, if that's
any 'elp--an' there's somebody wants to see 'im most particular."

"Come indoors."

Doctor Glasson said it sharply, at the same time turning right about and
leading the way towards the house. Tilda followed, while behind her the
excluded 'Dolph yapped and flung himself against the gate. But the gate
was lined on the inside with wire-netting, and the garden wall was
neither to be leapt nor scaled.

In the porch Dr. Glasson stood aside to let the servant precede them
into the house, looked after her until she vanished down the length of a
dark passage that smelt potently of soapsuds and cabbage-water, and
motioned the child to step within. She obeyed, while her terror and the
odours of the house together caught her by the throat. But worse was
her dismay when, having closed the front door, the Doctor bolted it and
slipped a chain on the bolt.

"The first door to the left, if you please." He stepped past her and
pushed it open, and she entered, albeit with quaking knees. The room--a
large and high one--was furnished barely and like an office--with a red
flock wall-paper, a brown linoleum on the floor, and in the centre of
the linoleum a bulky roll-top desk and a Windsor chair. Other Windsor
chairs stood in array against the walls, and a couple of rosewood
bookcases with glass fronts. There was also by the fireplace an
armchair covered with American leather, a rag-work hearth-rug, and a
large waste-paper basket stuffed with envelopes and circulars. Over the
mantelshelf hung a print in an Oxford frame, with the title _Suffer
Little Children to Come unto Me_, and a large stain of damp in the lower
left-hand corner. The mantelshelf itself supported a clock, a pair of
bronze candlesticks, a movable calendar, a bottle of paste, and a wooden
box with _For the Little Ones_ painted on it in black letters.

All this the child took in almost at a glance, and notwithstanding that
the room was dark. Yet it had two large windows, and they were
curtainless. Its gloom came of the thick coating of dirt on their upper
panes, and a couple of wire blinds that cut off all light below.

Doctor Glasson had walked straight to his desk, and stood for a few
moments with his back to the child, fingering his papers and apparently
engaged in