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. There was no one in the house, no one in the little yard behind it; but Lateefa had been there not long ago, for the clippings of his trade littered one corner, and two draggled kites, their strings still fastened to wooden pegs in the wall, lay huddled in another. Dilarâm might know; a message might be left with her. As Khôjee stumbled up the dark stairs to a balcony for the first time in her life, she tried to straighten her veil, but her hands trembled; it would not fold decorously. There were three or four drowsy women lounging in the room at the door of which she stood, beset by a sudden shyness, and three of them tittered at the unusual sight; but the fourth said severely-- 'What dost here, sister? This is no place for thy sort.' 'I--I seek Lateefa,' she faltered, and the others tittered louder. 'Peace, fools!' said Dilarâm angrily. 'Dost mean Lateefa the kitemaker?' But Khôjee had found her dignity. 'Yea! Lateef of the House of the Nawâb Jehân Aziz, on whom be peace. Tell him, courtesan, that Khôjeeya Khânum----' She paused, doubtful of her message, and, in the pause, the jingles on Dilarâm's feet clashed once more as she rose to do honour to a different life. 'Let the _Bibi sahiba_ speak,' she said in her most mellifluous tones. 'We in the freedom of vice are slaves to the prisoners of virtue.' 'Tell him,' said Khôjeeya Khânum, 'that it is well with the prison and the prisoners. That they need no service.' As she stumbled down the stairs again there was no sound of tittering. It was nearly an hour after this, and the noonday sun was flooding the courtyards, when Khôjee, having completed her preparations, closed the door between them softly, so as not to disturb Noormahal--who had already retired for the usual midday sleep--and slipped a paper through the chink of the lintel ere drawing it close and padlocking the hasp. Noormahal could not fail to see the reassuring message there when she woke, and began to wonder where Auntie Khôjee had gone. As she straightened herself from stooping to the padlock, she felt, giddily, that she had locked herself out of life. She had but a few hours left of seclusion, and then--the streets. But those few hours she might surely claim. So she closed and barred the wicket in the outer door, and dragging a string bed into the scant shade cast by the _naubut khana_, found rest for her aching limbs. And there she lay silent, taking no heed of Noormahal's knockings and appeals which, after a time, rose cautiously. When they ceased the old woman gave a sigh of relief. Thus far all had gone well. Now she had only to wait till she felt she dare wait no more.