"Well, not altogether, of course. There is still the question of the fever itself." "That is what I want to know, doctor. I shall be very glad if you tell me plainly what you think." "Oh, there's not much room for conjectures. Drains, of course. Lonsdale Road had been a perfect nest of typhoid germs for years. I don't know who built the street, but I do know that, whoever he was, he was a scoundrel. The drains run under the kitchen floors, and I'll be bound that there isn't one that is not a death-trap. I've seen some of these drains exposed, and I give you my word for it that the pipes are not so much as cemented together." Arthur turned sick and pale. Then he said quietly, "My father built those houses." "Oh, my dear sir," began the doctor, "I'm sorry I spoke. I had no idea." "You need not apologise," said Arthur. "I asked a plain question and expected a plain answer. I understand that Vickars is the victim of bad drains?" "Well, yes, primarily. Of course, run down as he was, he might have fallen ill, any way. But honestly I can't say that I believe this. The real cause is only too clear." "Then Eliz--Miss Vickars is in danger too?" "Any one is in danger who lives in those houses," said the doctor hotly, forgetting his usual caution. "They are mere death-traps, I tell you. And though I don't want to hurt your feelings, yet I am bound to say that in my opinion a highway robber who takes your purse upon a public road is a respectable person compared with the rascal who condemns scores of decent people to certain suffering, and some to certain death, for the sake of a few pounds of illicit gain." "Thank you, doctor. I think I'll go now." He groped for his hat, like a blind man. "You'd better wait a little while," said the doctor. "Stop, and have some breakfast with me." And then Arthur's self-control broke. He leant against the library shelves, covering his face with his hands. "O my father," he cried, "how could you do it?" "Don't take it too hardly," said the doctor. "Perhaps he didn't know ... surely he didn't think." "Yes, he knew," said Arthur, turning on the doctor a pair of flaming, tear-wet eyes. "He's done it before. He once put oyster-shells and road-gravel into the foundations of a church instead of concrete. I heard him say so. He must have done it many times. And he doesn't care. People die, and he doesn't care. And I'm his son ... the son of a man who is a scoundrel." He pushed the astonished doctor aside, and somehow found his way into the open air. There lay the world, even as he had left it, but its aspect was wholly changed. In the fresh morning light it had smiled upon him, it had seemed honest, it had breathed security of joy; now the mask of hypocrisy was gone, and it was an old, evil, wrinkled face that leered at him. It was the stage of tragic passions, it was full of the habitations of cruelty.