“Why should I? Out of your own dairy, where everything is managed in the very best way—the perfection of cleanliness in every detail.”
“You ought to have analysed the milk, all the same,” said Greswold thoughtfully. “The strength of a chain is its weakest link. There may be some weak link here, though we cannot put our fingers upon it—yet. Are there many cases?”
“Let me see. There’s Johnny Giles, and Mrs. Peter and her children, and Janet Dawson, and there’s Andrew Rogers, and there’s Mary Rainbow,” began Mr. Porter, counting on his fingers as he went on, until the list of sufferers came to eleven. “Mostly youngsters,” he said in conclusion.
“They ought to have been isolated,” said Greswold. “I will get out plans for an infirmary to-morrow. There is the willow-field, on the other side of the village, a ridge of high ground sloping down towards the parish drain, with a southern exposure, a capital site for a hospital. It is dreadful to think of fever-poison spreading from half-a-dozen different cottages. Which was the first case?”
“Little Rainbow.”
“That fair-haired child whom I used to see from my dressing-room window every morning as she went away from the dairy, tottering under a pitcher of milk? Poor little Polly! She was a favourite with us all. Is she very ill?”
“Yes, I think hers is about the best case,” answered the doctor unctuously; “the others are a little vague; but there’s no doubt about her, all the symptoms strongly marked—a very clear case.”
“Is there any danger of a fatal termination?”
“I’m afraid there is.”
“Poor little Polly—poor pretty little girl! I used to know it was seven o’clock when I saw that bright little flaxen head flit by the yew hedge yonder. Polly was as good a timekeeper as any clock in the village. And you think she may die? You have not told Lola, I hope?”