“What does Beauty so far afield?”

“Thank you, if you mean me,” said Esme demurely.

“Do you see something else around here that answers the description?”

“No:  I certainly don’t,” she replied, letting her eyes wander along the street where Sadler’s Shacks rose in grime and gauntness to offend the clean skies.  “I am going over there to see some sick people.”

“Ah!  Charity as well as Beauty; the perfect combination.”

The Doctor’s pomposity always amused Esme.  “And what does Science so far from its placid haunts?” she mocked.  “Are you scattering the blessings of Certina amongst a grateful proletariat?”

“Not exactly.  I’m down here on some other business.”

“Well, I won’t keep you from it, Dr. Surtaine.  Good-bye.”

The swinging doors of a saloon opened almost upon her, and a short, broad-shouldered foreigner, in a ruffled-up silk hat, bumped into her lightly and apologized.  He jogged up to Dr. Surtaine.

“Hello, De Vito,” said Dr. Surtaine.

“At the service of my distinguish’ confrere,” said the squat Italian.  “Am I require at the factory?”

“No.  I’ve come to look into this sickness.  Where is it?”

“The opposite eemediate block.”

Dr. Surtaine eyed with disfavor the festering tenement indicated.  “New cases?”

“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.