“You say the sickness has been in there?”

“Yes.  Now it’s broken out an’ we’ll all get it an’ die,” she wailed.

A little, squat, dark man hurried past them.  He nodded, but did not pause.

“I know him,” said Hal.  “Who is he?”

“Doc De Vito.  He tends to all the cases.  But it’s no good.  They all die.”

“You keep your head,” advised Hal.  “Don’t be scared.  And wash your hands and face thoroughly as soon as you get home.”

“A lot o’ good that’ll do against the Death,” she said scornfully, and left him.

Back at the office, Hal, settling down to write his editorial, put the matter of the Rookeries temporarily out of mind, but made a note to question his father about it.

Milly Neal’s article, touched up and amplified by Hal’s pen, appeared the following morning.  The editorial was to be a follow-up in the next day’s paper.  Coming down early to put the finishing touches to this, Hal found the article torn out and pasted on a sheet of paper.  Across the top of the paper was written in pencil: 

    “Clipped from the Clarion; a Deadly Parallel.”

The penciled legend ran across the sheet to include, under its caption a second excerpt, also in “Clarion” print, but of the advertisement style: 

WANTED—­Sewing-girls for simple machine work.  Experience not necessary. $10 to $15 a week guaranteed.  Apply in person at 14 Manning Street.  THE SEWING AID ASSOCIATION.

Below, in the same hand writing was the query: 

“What’s your percentage of the blood-money, Mr. Harrington Surtaine?"

Hal threw it over to Ellis.  “Whose writing is that?” he asked.  “It looks familiar to me.”

“Max Veltman’s,” said Ellis.  He took in the meaning of it.  “The insolent whelp!” he said.

“Insolent?  Yes; he’s that.  But the worst of it is, I’m afraid he’s right.”  And he telephoned for Shearson.

The advertising manager came up, puffing.

Hal held out the clipping to him.

“How long has that been running?”

“On and off for six months.”

“Throw it out.”

“Throw it out!” repeated the other bitterly.  “That’s easy enough said.”

“And easily enough done.”

“It’s out already.  Taken out by early notice this morning.”

“That’s all right, then.”

“Is it all right!” boomed Shearson. “Is it!  You won’t think so when you hear the rest of it.”

“Try me.”

“Do you know who the Sewing Aid Association is?”

“No.”

“It’s John M. Gibbs!  That’s who it is!”

“Yell louder, Shearson.  It may save you from apoplexy,” advised McGuire Ellis with tender solicitude.

“And we lose every line of the Boston Store advertising, that I worked so hard to get back.”

“That’ll hurt,” allowed Ellis.