evidently made with an object. This Betty gathered from the solemnity of
her manner.

"Betty," said Lady Anstruthers, catching sight of her, "do come in for a
moment."

When Betty entered, both her sister and Mrs. Brent looked at her
questioningly.

"You look a little pale and tired, Miss Vanderpoel," Mrs. Brent said,
rather as if in haste to be the first to speak. "I hope you are not at
all unwell. We need all our strength just now. I have brought the most
painful news. Malignant typhoid fever has broken out among the hop
pickers on the Mount Dunstan estate. Some poor creature was evidently
sickening for it when he came from London. Three people died last
night."

CHAPTER XLI

SHE WOULD DO SOMETHING

Sir Nigel's face was not a good thing to see when he appeared at the
dinner table in the evening. As he took his seat the two footmen glanced
quickly at each other, and the butler at the sideboard furtively thrust
out his underlip. Not a man or woman in the household but had learned
the signal denoting the moment when no service would please, no word
or movement be unobjectionable. Lady Anstruthers' face unconsciously
assumed its propitiatory expression, and she glanced at her sister more
than once when Betty was unaware that she did so.

Until the soup had been removed, Sir Nigel scarcely spoke, merely making
curt replies to any casual remark. This was one of his simple and most
engaging methods of at once enjoying an ill-humour and making his wife
feel that she was in some way to blame for it.

"Mount Dunstan is in a deucedly unpleasant position," he condescended at
last. "I should not care to stand in his shoes."

He had not returned to the Court until late in the afternoon, but having
heard in the village the rumour of the outbreak of fever, he had made
inquiries and gathered detail.

"You are thinking of the outbreak of typhoid among the hop pickers?"
said Lady Anstruthers. "Mrs. Brent thinks it threatens to be very
serious."

"An epidemic, without a doubt," he answered. "In a wretched unsanitary
place like Dunstan village, the wretches will die like flies."

"What will be done?" inquired Betty.

He gave her one of the unpleasant personal glances and laughed
derisively.

"Done? The county authorities, who call themselves 'guardians,' will be
frightened to death and will potter about and fuss like old women, and
profess to examine and protect and lay restrictions, but everyone will
manage to kee