"And what is your diagnosis, Doctor?" inquired the old quack professionally of the younger ignoramus.
Again De Vito shrugged. "For public, malignant malaria. How you call it? Pernicious. For me, I do' know. Maybe—" he leaned forward and spoke a low word.
"Meningitis?" repeated the other. "Possibly. I've never seen much of the infectious kind. What are you giving for it?"
"Certina, mostly."
Dr. Surtaine looked at him sharply, but the Italian's face was innocent of any sardonic expression.
"As well that as anything," muttered its proprietor. "By the way, you might get testimonials from any of 'em that get well. Can you find O'Farrell?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him I want to see him at my office at two o'clock."
"Ver' good. What do you think it is, Doctor?"
Dr. Surtaine waved a profound hand. "Very obscure. Demands consideration. But get those cases out of the city. There's no occasion to risk the Board of Health seeing them."