"Two, only." "Who's treating them?" "I am in charge. Mr. O'Farrell employs my services: so the pipple have not to pay anything. All the time which I am not at the Certina factory, I am here." "Just so. And no other doctor gets in?" "There is no call. They are quite satisfied." "And is the Board of Health satisfied?" The employee shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. "How is it you Americans say? 'What he does not know cannot hurt somebody.'" "Is O'Farrell agent for all these barracks?" Dr. Surtaine inquired as they walked up the street. "All. Many persons own, but Mr. O'Farrell is boss of all. This Number 4, Mr. Gibbs owns. He is of the great department store. You know. A ver' fine man, Mr. Gibbs." "A very fine fool," retorted the Doctor, "to let himself get mixed up with such rotten property. Why, it's a reflection on all us men of standing." "Nobody knows he is owner. And it pays twelve per cent," said the Italian mildly. He paused at the door. "Do we go in?" he asked. An acrid-soft odor as of primordial slime subtly intruded upon the sensory nerves of the visitor. The place breathed out decay; the decay of humanity, of cleanliness, of the honest decencies of life turned foul. Something lethal exhaled from that dim doorway. There was a stab of pestilence, reaching for the brain. But the old charlatan was no coward. "Show me the cases," he said. For an hour he moved through the black, stenchful passageways, up and down ramshackle stairs, from human warren to human warren, pausing here to question, there to peer and sniff and poke with an exploring cane. Out on the street again he drew full, heaving breath. "O'Farrell's got to clean up. That's all there is to that," he said decisively. "The Doctor thinks?" queried the little physician. Dr. Surtaine shook his head. "I don't know. But I'm sure of one thing. There's three of them ought to be gotten out at once. The third-floor woman, and that brother and sister in the basement." "And the German family at the top?" Dr. Surtaine tapped his chest significantly. "Sure to be plenty of that in this kind of hole. Nothing to do but let 'em die." He did not mention that he had left a twenty-dollar bill and a word of cheer with the gasping consumptive and his wife. Outside of the line of business Dr. Surtaine's charities were silent. "How many of the _other_ cases have you had here?" "Eleven. Seven deaths. Four I take away." "And what is your diagnosis, Doctor?" inquired the old quack professionally of the younger ignoramus. Again De Vito shrugged. "For public, malignant malaria. How you call it? Pernicious. For me, I do' know. Maybe--" he leaned forward and spoke a low word. "Meningitis?" repeated the other. "Possibly. I've never seen much of the infectious kind. What are you giving for it?" "Certina, mostly." Dr. Surtaine looked at him sharply, but the Italian's face was innocent of any sardonic expression.