Upon the gaily papered walls hung a framed silver name-plate and two pictures.  One a gorgeously coloured print of the lamented Queen Victoria in a deep gold frame, and the other a representation of an entrancing allegorical theme entitled “The Two Paths,” illustrating the ascent of the saint into heaven and the descent of the sinner into hell.  At the top of this picture was the legend, “Which will you choose?”—­implying a possible but regrettable lack of taste on the part of the chooser.

Into this abode of the arts and muses came Callandar, alert and smiling.  It was hardly his fault that he stumbled over the visitor who, whether in awe or fear of these unveiled splendours, had retreated as far as possible toward the door.

“Don’t mind me!” said the visitor meekly.

“Willits! by Jove, I thought it would be you!  Say, would you mind not sitting on that chair?  It’s just glued!”

The visitor arose with conspicuous alacrity.  He was a tall man with a domelike head, piercing eyes and formidable nose.  Ann’s description had been terribly accurate.  He observed the tail of his coat carefully and finding no damage, seemed relieved.

“Sit here,” said Callandar affably.  “And don’t expect me to make you welcome, because you aren’t.  What misfortunate chance has brought you to Coombe?”

“Neither fortune nor chance had anything at all to do with it,” declared the visitor.  “I followed your luggage.  I wanted to see you.”

“Well, take a good look.”

“I think you can guess why.”

“Yes,” with a sigh.  “I was always a good guesser.  And, frankly, Willits, I wish you hadn’t.”

“I do not doubt it.  But, first, is there any other place where we can talk?”

“Don’t you like this?” innocently.

The Button-Moulder’s look of surprised anguish was sufficient answer.  Callandar laughed.

“You always were a bit narrow in your views, Willits.  How often have I impressed upon you that beauty depends upon understanding?  I don’t suppose you have even tried to understand this room?  No?  Will it help any if I tell you that Mrs. Sykes went without a spring bonnet that she might purchase the deep gold frame which enshrines Victoria the Good, or if I explain that Joseph Sykes, deceased, whose name you see yonder upon that engraved plate, was the most worthless rogue unhung.  Yet the silver which displays—­”

“Not in the least,” interrupted the other hastily.  “The place is a nightmare.  Nothing can excuse it!  And you—­how you stand it I cannot see.”

“My dear man, I don’t stand it.  I am not allowed to.  It’s only upon special occasions that any one is allowed to stand this room.  You are a special occasion.  But as you seem so unappreciative we can adjourn to my office if you wish.”

“You have an office?”

“Certainly.  A doctor has to have an office.  This way.”