'Thou must send it in an hour's time,' she said to the corn-dealer, her head being still clear enough for that one single purpose of hers, 'then I shall be back. And, look you! I have paid coolie hire. There must be no asking for more.'
That was a necessary warning, since, when she reached home, every farthing would have been spent.
All but one was spent, when she paused beside the public scribe who had set up his desk at a corner where two bazaars met.
'Is it a letter, mother?' he asked of the old woman who put out a hand against the wooden pillar of the neighbouring shop as if for support. 'To the house-master, likely.'
She shook her head this time. 'Nay, meean! There is no house-master,' she said softly, as before, 'and it is not even a letter. But a pice-worth of words on a scrap of paper. Listen! "There is food enough. Tarry the Lord's coming without fear or noise. I have locked the door." Canst do that for a pice, meean? And write clear, 'tis for a woman's eyes.' As she repeated the message, swaying to and fro as if she were reciting the Koran, the scribe smiled at a bystander and touched his forehead significantly.
'If beauty lie behind the door, the locking of it is a pice-worth in itself,' he said with a grin, 'and I give the rest!'
'If beauty lay behind it!' she thought as she went on, with the paper folded in her hands. Yes! it was beauty, for the safety of which her ugliness was responsible. Had she done all? Had she forgotten nothing? Nothing that would ensure Noormahal from intrusion until she, Khôjee the plague-stricken, had died in the streets. For that was her plan. When death came close, as it surely must come soon, as it had done to Khôjee, she would unbolt the doors and wander away--like a tailor-bird luring a snake from its nest--into the outskirts of the city, right away from the old house. And then what stranger was to know that Khâdjee had died of plague, and was buried by the naubut khana stairs?
When death came close! but not till then. Surely there was no need till then to face the world--surely she might claim that much!
And when she was dead no one would know the lame old woman was Khôjeeya Khânum, Daughter of Kings. Not even Lateefa.
The thought of him brought her a sudden fear. He was the only one who, having the right to claim it, might, by chance, seek entrance to the courtyard in the next day or two. She might on her way home see him, or leave a message to reassure him, at the house next Dilarâm's, whither she had fled with the news of Sobrai's escape.