It was not much, that bare justice, but it was something; and there was still a rupee or two over from the 'Essence of Happiness,' from the unavoidable expenses of that secret burial. So she passed hurriedly to a grain-merchant's shop. Here she felt lost for a moment, lost, in the magnitude of what she needed to one whose purchases for many years had been a bare day's supply. 'It is for a wedding, likely?' asked the grain-dealer curiously. 'Likely,' she echoed softly. Her very brain felt tired, and it seemed to her confusedly as if, after all, it might be a wedding. The Lord-_sahib_ might send help, Noormahal might be saved, Jehân might come back to her. All things were possible to patience; and she, Khôjee, was patient enough, surely? '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.