She ordered the coachman to take her to an obscure hotel, and, after having engaged a room, she left her baggage and started in search of the residence of McCloskey.

She drew her veil down over her face very closely, and walked quickly through the familiar streets, until she arrived at the place indicated in his letter.  It was a small, mean tenement, in a by street, in which there were but one or two other houses.  The shutters were closed from the upper story to the lowest, and the whole place wore an uninhabited appearance.  After knocking several times, she was about to give up in despair, when she discovered through the glass above the door the faint glimmer of a light, and shortly after a female voice demanded from the inside, “Who is there?”

“Does Mr. McCloskey live here?” asked Lizzie.

Hearing a voice not more formidable than her own, the person within partially opened the door; and, whilst shading with one hand the candle she held in the other, gazed out upon the speaker.

“Does Mr. McCloskey live here?” repeated Lizzie.

“Yes, he does,” answered the woman, in a weak voice; “but he’s got the typers.”

“Has the what?” inquired Lizzie, who did not exactly understand her.

“Got the typers—­got the fever, you know.”

“The typhus fever!” said Lizzie, with a start; “then he is really sick.”

“Really sick!” repeated the woman—­“really sick!  Well, I should think he was!  Why, he’s been a raving and swearing awful for days; he stormed and screamed so loud that the neighbours complained.  Law! they had to even shave his head.”

“Is he any better?” asked Lizzie, with a sinking heart.  “Can I see him?”

“’Praps you can, if you go to the hospital to-morrow; but whether you’ll find him living or dead is more than I can say.  I couldn’t keep him here—­I wasn’t able to stand him.  I’ve had the fever myself—­he took it from me.  You must come in,” continued the woman, “if you want to talk—­I’m afraid of catching cold, and can’t stand at the door.  Maybe you’re afraid of the fever,” she further observed, as she saw Lizzie hesitate on the door-step.

“Oh, no, I’m not afraid of that,” answered Lizzie quickly—­“I am not in the least afraid.”

“Come in, then,” reiterated the woman, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

The woman looked harmless enough, and Lizzie hesitated no longer, but followed her through the entry into a decently furnished room.  Setting the candlestick upon the mantelpiece, she offered her visitor a chair, and then continued—­

“He came home this last time in an awful state.  Before he left some one sent him a load of money, and he did nothing but drink and gamble whilst it lasted.  I used to tell him that he ought to take care of his money, and he’d snap his fingers and laugh.  He used to say that he owned the goose that laid the golden eggs, and could have money whenever he wanted it.  Well, as I was a saying, he went; and when he came back he had an awful attack of delirium tremens, and then he took the typers.  Oh, laws mercy!” continued she, holding up her bony hands, “how that critter raved!  He talked about killing people.”