ce introduced
himself to Hal as the Reverend Norman Hale, and went into conference
with the two women about a place for Sadie. This being settled, Hal's
mission was explained to him.

"A reporter?" said the Reverend Norman. "I wish the papers _would_ take
this thing up. A little publicity would kill it off, I believe."

"Won't the courts do anything?"

"They can't. I've talked to the judge. The concern's contract is
water-tight."

The two young men went down together through the black hallways, and
stood talking at the outer door.

"How do people live in places like this?" exclaimed Hal.

"Not very successfully. The death-rate is pretty high. Particularly of
late. There's what a friend of mine around the corner--he happens to be
a barkeeper, by the way--calls a lively trade in funerals around here."

"Is your church in this district?"

"My club is. People call it a mission, but I don't like the word. It's
got too much the flavor of reaching down from above to dispense
condescending charity."

"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 fac