battening upon the rich, rank food it finds around it, until, grown
too big to hide longer, it boldly shows its hideous head, and the
white face of Terror runs swiftly through alley and street, crying as
it runs, forces itself into John Ingerfield's counting-house, and
tells its tale. John Ingerfield sits for a while thinking. Then he
mounts his horse and rides home at as hard a pace as the condition of
the streets will allow. In the hall he meets Anne going out, and
stops her.

"Don't come too near me," he says quietly. "Typhus fever has broken
out at Limehouse, and they say one can communicate it, even without
having it oneself. You had better leave London for a few weeks. Go
down to your father's: I will come and fetch you when it is all
over."

He passes her, giving her a wide berth, and goes upstairs, where he
remains for some minutes in conversation with his valet. Then,
coming down, he remounts and rides off again.

After a little while Anne goes up into his room. His man is kneeling
in the middle of the floor, packing a valise.

"Where are you to take it?" she asks.

"Down to the wharf, ma'am," answers the man: "Mr. Ingerfield is
going to be there for a day or two."

Then Anne sits in the great empty drawing-room, and takes HER turn at
thinking.