The Dust of Death: The Story of the Great
Plague of the Twentieth Century
THE front door bell
tinkled impatiently; evidently somebody was in a hurry. Alan Hubert
answered the call, a thing that even a distinguished physician
might do, seeing that it was on the stroke of midnight. The tall,
graceful figure of a woman in evening dress stumbled into the hall.
The diamonds in her hair shimmered and trembled, her face was full
of terror.
"You are Dr. Hubert," she gasped. "I am Mrs. Fillingham, the
artist's wife, you know. Will you come with me at once… My husband…
I had been dining out. In the studio… Oh, please come!"
Hubert asked no unnecessary questions. He knew Fillingham, the
great portrait painter, well enough by repute and by sight also,
for Fillingham's house and studio we
