“Charity certainly seems to be needed here.”

“Help and decent fairness are needed; not charity.  What’s your paper, by the way?”

“The ‘Clarion.’”

“Oh!” said the other, in an altered tone.  “I shouldn’t suppose that the ‘Clarion’ would go in much for any kind of reform.”

“Do you read it?”

“No.  But I know Dr. Surtaine.”

“Dr. Surtaine doesn’t own the ‘Clarion.’  I do.”

“You’re Harrington Surtaine?  I thought I had seen you somewhere before.  But you said you were a reporter.”

“Pardon me, I didn’t.  Mrs. Breen said that.  However, it’s true; I’m doing a bit of reporting on this case.  And I’m going to do some writing on it before I’m through.”

“As for Dr. Surtaine—­” began the young clergyman, then checked himself, pondering.

What further he might have had to say was cut off by a startling occurrence.  A door on the floor above opened; there was a swift patter of feet, and then from overhead, a long-drawn, terrible cry.  Immediately a young girl, her shawl drawn about her face, ran from the darkness into the half-light of the lower hall and would have passed between them but that Norman Hale caught her by the arm.

“Lemme go!  Lemme go!” she shrieked, pawing at him.

“Quiet,” he bade her.  “What is it, Emily?”

“Oh, Mr. Hale!” she cried, recognizing him and clutching at his shoulder.  “Don’t let it get me!”

“Nothing’s going to hurt you.  Tell me about it.”

“It’s the Death,” she shuddered.

The man’s face changed.  “Here?” he said.  “In this block?”

“Don’t you go,” she besought.  “Don’t you go, Mr. Hale.  You’ll get it.”

“Where is it?  Answer me at once.”

“First-floor front,” sobbed the girl.  “Mrs. Schwarz.”

“Don’t wait for me,” said the minister to Hal.  “In fact you’d better leave the place.  Good-day.”

Thus abruptly discarded from consideration, Hal turned to the fugitive.

“Is some one dead?”

“Not yet.”

“Dying, then?”

“As good as.  It’s the Death,” said the girl with a strong shudder.

“You said that before.  What do you mean by the Death?”

“Don’t keep me here talkin’,” she shivered.  “I wanta go home.”

Hal walked along with her, wondering.  “I wish you would tell me,” he said gently.

“All I know is, they never get well.”

“What sort of sickness is it?”

“Search me.”  The petty slang made a grim medium for the uncertainty of terror which it sought to express.  “They’ve had it over in the Rookeries since winter.  There ain’t no name for it.  They just call it the Death.”

“The Rookeries?” said Hal, caught by the word.  “Where are they?”

“Don’t you know the Rookeries?” The girl pointed to the long double row of grisly wooden edifices down the street.  “Them’s Sadler’s Shacks on this side, and Tammany Barracks on the other.  They go all the way around the block.”