It was almost noon the next day before another nurse arrived.

He was lying flat on his back, half dozing, worn out by the effort of getting up to bring Amber some food, to change her bandage and bathe her hands and face. And then, slowly, he opened his eyes and found an old woman standing beside the bed, watching him with a curious, speculative look. He scowled, wondering why she had come in so silently, distrustful immediately of her manner and appearance.

She was old and filthy in her dress, her face was deeply lined and her breath stank foully. But he noticed that she wore a pair of diamond earrings that looked real and several rings on her fingers which were also of obvious value. She was either a thief or a ghoul or both.

“Good-day, sir. The parish-clerk sent me here. I’m Mrs. Maggot.”

“I’m almost well,” said Bruce, staring at her intently, hoping to make her think that he was stronger than he was. “But my wife still needs a great deal of care. I got her one meal this morning, but it’s time for another now. The last nurse left the kitchen in a mess and there’s no food, but you can send the guard for some.”

As he spoke her eyes were going over the furnishings of the room: the cloth-of-silver covering the bedstead and chairs, the marble-topped tables, the row of exquisite vases across the mantelpiece.

“Where’s the money?” she asked, not looking at him.

“There are four shillings on that table. That should buy whatever we need—the guard always takes a fee for himself.”

She got the coin and tossed it out the window, telling the guard to bring some food, already prepared, from a cook-shop. Obviously she did not intend to do anything herself. And later in the day when he asked her to change the bandages she refused, saying that every nurse she knew who had dressed an ulcer was dead now but that she intended to die another way.

Bruce was furious, but he answered her quietly. “Then, if you won’t help, you may as well go.”

She gave him an insolent grin and he was afraid that she had guessed already he was far less strong than he pretended to be. “No, m’lord. I was sent by the parish. If I don’t stay I won’t get my fee.”

For a moment they stared at each other, and then he flung the blanket about himself and got out of bed. She stood there, watching him closely as he knelt on one knee beside Amber, measuring his strength, and at last he turned with a flare of exasperated anger.

“Get out! Go in the other room!”

She grinned again but went, and closed the door. He called out to her to leave it open but she ignored him. Swearing beneath his breath he finished dressing the wound and then got back into bed to rest. There was no sound at all from the parlour. It was half-an-hour before he could get up again and then he crossed the room, opened the door quietly and found her going through the drawer of a table. There were articles scattered everywhere and she had evidently been searching methodically through each piece of furniture for secret drawers and hiding places, which were almost always built in.

“Mrs. Maggot.”

She looked up and met his stare coolly. “Sir?”

“You’ll find nothing of value hidden away. Whatever you may care to steal is in plain sight. We have no money in the house beyond a few coins for food.”

She made no reply but, after a moment, turned and went into the dining-room. Bruce found that he was sweating with rage and nervousness, for he did not doubt the old woman would murder them both without an instant’s hesitation if she learned that there was almost seventy pounds in the house. He knew that the nurses were drawn from the lowest social classes: lifelong paupers, uncaught criminals, and—in plague-time—from women like Sykes who had been forced into it through necessity and misfortune.

He did not sleep well that night, aware of her in the parlour, for when she had found evidences of Sykes’s illness she had refused to go into the nursery. And when he heard her get up, two or three times, and move about he lay tense and apprehensive. If she decides to kill us, he thought, I’ll try to strangle her. But he clenched and unclenched his fists with despair, for the fingers had but little of their usual strength.

The next morning, just before daylight, he fell deeply asleep and when he woke she was bending over him, her arm thrust beneath the mattress on which he lay. As his eyes opened she straightened slowly, unalarmed. He could not tell, by her expression, whether she had discovered the bagful of coins and jewels.

“Just smoothin’ your bed, sir.”

“I’ll take care of that myself.”

“You said yesterday, sir, that I might go. If you’ll give me fifty pound now, I will.”

He looked at her shrewdly, aware that she had made the offer to find out whether or not he would admit to having that much money in the house. “I told you, Maggot—I have only a few shillings here.”

“How now, sir? Only a few shillin‘s—a lord, and livin’ in lodgings like this?”

“We put our money with a goldsmith. Is there any food left from yesterday?”

“No, sir. The guard stole most of it. We’ll have to send again.”

Throughout the day, whenever he got out of bed, he could feel her watching him, even though most of the time she was not in the room. She knows there’s money here, he thought, and tonight she’ll try to get it. But if there had been not a farthing in cash the furnishings alone were worth what would be a fortune to her—even if she sold them to a broker-of-the-dead.

He spent the day thinking and planning, aware that if he was to save either of their lives he must be ready for her, no matter what she might try to do. And while he lay there the dead-carts came by three times; there were now too many deaths to bury the bodies at night.

He considered every possibility.

If he asked the guard for help she would overhear him, and he had no reason to think that the guard could be trusted. There seemed no choice; he must try to handle the situation himself. She would not be likely, he thought, to use a knife, for that would leave tell-tale wounds. Strangulation with a length of cord or rope should be easy with both of them as weak as they were; and she would try to kill him first, for Amber could make no more resistance than a kitten. But having thought that far lie found himself confronted by problems that, in his state of weakness, seemed insoluble. If he closed the door and waited behind it she would know he was there, and he could not outwait her. If he locked it she could force her way in, and in any open battle he was no match for her, for though his strength might be greater he was unable to move about quickly and would soon be exhausted.

At last he decided to make a bundle of blankets in the bed and wait there next to it, concealed behind the window hangings. If she came near he could strike her over the head with a heavy pewter candlestick. But the plan was spoiled, for she refused to close the door. When he asked her to do so, just as it was growing dark, she obeyed, but a few minutes later he heard it opening, very slowly. It remained ajar just an inch or so for more than an hour, and then he called out to her again.

“Maggot! Close the door—all the way.”

She did not answer but closed it. The room grew darker as twilight settled into night. For half-an-hour he waited and then, slowly, cautiously, he got out of bed, keeping a watch on the door as he began to move about, making the bundle of bedding. It was almost done when he heard a creaking sound—and saw the door begin to swing open.

Exasperated and thoroughly worried he snapped out her name. “Mrs. Maggot!” She made no reply but he could feel her there, watching, for though no candles had been lighted there was a moon and it shone at his back. He could not see her, but she could see him. He got back into the bed and lay down, sweating with nervous rage to think that after surviving the plague itself they might both die now at the hands of a filthy greedy old woman.

But, by Jesus, we won’t! I won’t let her kill us! He felt a responsibility for Amber’s life more violent and determined even than his own will to live.

The hours went past.

Several times he heard the dead-cart, and the passing-bell tolled at least twenty separate times. Against his will he listened for the tone and counted the number of times they were struck —twelve women, eight men, had died in the parish so far tonight. He had a horror of falling asleep—for drowsiness swept over him in waves—and forced himself to recite silently every poem he had ever memorized, every song he had ever sung. He made a mental list of the books he had read, the women he had made love to, the towns he had visited. It kept him awake.

Then at last she entered the room.

He saw the door swing slowly open and after a moment he heard the creaking of a floor board. The moon was gone now and there was absolute darkness. His heart began to beat heavily and all his being was abnormally alert, his eyes straining into the black that surrounded him, his ears listening until he felt sure that he could hear the coursing of his own blood.

She approached slowly. Each time he heard a board creak there followed what seemed an interminable period of absolute silence, until he could no longer tell from where the sound had come. The suspense was an agony but he forced himself to lie motionless, breathing deeply and naturally. His nerves were raw and trembling and he had a violent impulse to leap up and try to grab her. He dared not, though, for she might get away and then they would be left helpless. He had a desperate fear that his strength would not last under such tension. It seemed to be draining away, and the muscles of his legs and arms ached painfully.