"The doctor's right, of course," he answered. "I wish my wife weren't
coming back."

"Dey are a remember," ventured Wutzler, timidly. "A warnung."

The others, as though it had been a point of custom, ignored him. All
stared down, musing, at the vacant stones.

"Then the concert's off to-morrow night," mocked Heywood, with an
unpleasant laugh.

"On the contrary." Gilly caught him up, prompt and decided. "We shall
need all possible amusements; also to meet and plan our campaign.
Meantime,--what do you say, Doctor?--chloride of lime in pots?"

"That, evidently," smiled the handsome man. "Yes, and charcoal burnt in
braziers, perhaps, as Père Fenouil advises. Fumigate."--Satirical and
debonair, he shrugged his shoulders.--"What use, among these thousands
of yellow pigs?"

"I wish she weren't coming," repeated Gilly.

Rudolph, left outside this conference, could bear the uncertainty no
longer.

"I am a new arrival," he confided to his young host. "I do not
understand. What is it?"

"The plague, old chap," replied Heywood, curtly. "These playful little