you object. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know
Miss Elliot, anyway. But sooner or later there's coming one big fight in
the 'Clarion' office, and it's going to open two pairs of eyes. Old Doc
Surtaine is going to discover his son. Hal Surtaine is going to find out
about the old man. Neither of 'em is going to be awfully pleased. And in
that ruction the fate of the Neverfail Company's ad. is going to be
decided and with it the fate and character of the 'Clarion.' Now, Dr.
Elliot, my cards are on the table. Will you help me in the Rookeries
matter?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Go cautiously, and find out what that disease is."

"I'll go there to-morrow."

"They won't let you in."

"Won't they?" Dr. Elliot's jaw set.

"Don't risk it. Some of O'Farrell's thugs will pick a fight with you and
the whole thing will be botched."

"How about getting a United States Public Health Surgeon down here?"

"Fine! Can you do it?"

"I think so. It will take time, though."

"That can't be helped. I'll look you up in a few days."

"All right. And, Ellis, if I can help in the other thing--the
clean-up--I'm your man."

Meantime from his office Dr. Surtaine had, after several attempts,
succeeded in getting the Medical Office of Canadaga County on the
telephone.

"Hello! That you, Doctor Simons?--Seen O'Farrell?--Yes; you ought to get
in touch with him right away--Three more cases going over to you.--Oh,
they're there, are they? You're isolating them, aren't you?--Pest-house?
That's all right.--All bills will be paid--liberally. You
understand?--What are you calling it? Diphtheria?--Good enough for the
present.--Ever see infectious meningitis? I thought it might be that,
maybe--No? What do you think, then?--_What_! Good God, man! It can't be!
Such a thing has never been heard of in this part of the
country--What?--Yes: you're right. We can't talk over the 'phone. Come
over to-morrow. Good-bye."

Putting up the receiver, Dr. Surtaine turned to his desk and sat
immersed in thought. Presently he shook his head. He scratched a few
notes on a pad, tore off the sheet and thrust it into the small safe at
his elbow. Proof of a half-page Certina display beckoned him in buoyant,
promissory type to his favorite task. He glanced at the safe. Once again
he shook his head, this time more decisively, took the scribbled paper
out and tore it into shreds. Turning to the proof he bent over it,
striking out a word here, amending there, jotting i