Fifteen minutes later, having been undressed by Matilda, she was lying in the dark on a narrow bed, hard, very hard, as hard as Mrs. Gilbert's folding contrivance--and once more, after this her second move, she was studying the items of her situation. She had daily to mix with, strive to avoid, Jack and Mary. And Jack had casually remarked that Judge Harvey would be frequently dropping in. And there was that bland, incorrigible Pyecroft, whom she seemed to have become hopelessly tied to; Pyecroft, irresistibly insisting that she should swindle herself, and whom she saw no way of denying. Suppose Pyecroft should find out? He might. Suppose Jack and Mary should find out? They might. Suppose Judge Harvey should find out? He might. And suppose all this business of her not going to Europe, but staying in her shuttered house--her flight from home--her humiliating experiences in an ordinary boarding-house where she passed as a housekeeper--her being forced into a plan to rob herself--suppose Mrs. Allistair should find out? And Mrs. Allistair, she well knew, might somehow stumble upon all this; for she remembered how Mrs. Allistair had tried, and perhaps was still trying, to get some piquant bit of evidence against her in that Duke de Crécy affair. And if Mrs. Allistair did find out-- What a scandal! And since her fate had become so inextricably tied up with the fates of others, and since the exposure of others might involve the exposure of her, there were yet further sources of danger. For-- There was that awful reporter watching the house, after Jack! There were the police, after Pyecroft! She shuddered. This was only the seventh day since her inspired idea had been born within her. And it was only that very day that she had landed at Cherbourg. Three months must pass before Olivetta, in the role of Mrs. De Peyster, would return, and she could be herself again--if they could ever, ever manage their expected re-exchange of personalities in this awful mess. Only seven days thus far. Three more months of this! Three ... more ... months!... But at length she slept; slept deeply, for she had the gift of sleep in its perfection; slept a complete and flawless oblivion. So that when she awoke Saturday, refreshed, and glanced blinking about from her thin pillow she did not at first remember where she was. This low room, four by seven feet, with a narrow bed penitentially hard, a stationary wash-basin, a row of iron clothes-hooks, a foot-high oblong window above her head--what was it? How had she come here? And had any one ever before lived in such a cell? Then memory came flooding back. This was her second maid's room. She was Angelica Simpson Jones, sister of Matilda, a poor, diffident creature with defective hearing and pitifully disfigured face. And in the house were Mr. Pyecroft, and Jack and Mary, and Judge Harvey was a frequent visitor. And besides these, there were all the other sources of danger! She was now poignantly awake.