anding and
comfort or reassure Steptoe, who sat on the attic stairs like a
grief-stricken dog.

Letty was the first to consent to go and lie down. She did so about
nine o'clock, extracting a promise that whatever happened she would be
called at twelve. If there was any change in the meantime--but that,
Miss Moines assured her, was understood in all such ride-and-tie
arrangements. At twelve Letty was to return and Barbara lie down till
three, with the same proviso in case of the unexpected. But, so to put
it, the unexpected seemed improbable, in view of that rigid form, and
the white, upturned face.

"And yet," Miss Moines confided to Barbara, "I don't think he's as far
gone as they think. Miss Gallifer only changed her mind when they
talked her round. A doctor just sees the patient in glimpses, whereas
a nurse lives with him, and knows what he can stand."

About eleven Miss Moines closed _Keith Macdermot's Destiny_, and took
the pulse. She nodded as she did so, with a slight exclamation of
triumph. "Ah, ha! Fifty-eight! That's the first good sign. It may not
mean anything, but----"

Barbara was too exhausted to feel more than a gleam of comfort. The
lassitude being emotional rather than physical Miss Moines detected it
easily enough, and sent her to rest before the hour agreed upon. She
went the more willingly, since the pulse had risen and hope could
begin once more.

On the stairs Steptoe raised his bowed head, with a dazed stare.
Seeing Miss Walbrook he stumbled to his feet.

"'Ow is 'e now, miss?"

She told him the good news.

"Ah, thank God! Perhaps after all 'E'll spare 'im."

Steptoe informed Letty, who right on the stroke of midnight returned
to her post. "Pulse gone up two of them degrees, madam. 'E's goin' to
pull through!"

To Letty this was a signal. On going to rest in the little back
spare room she had thrown off her street things, worn during all
the hours of watching, and put on the dressing gown she had left
there a few nights earlier. She was still wearing it, but at
Steptoe's news she went back again. On passing him the second time
she was clad in the old gray rag and the battered hat in which it
would be easier to escape. Steptoe said nothing; but he nodded to
himself comprehendingly.

A clock struck two. Miss Moines was hungry. Expecting to be hungry she
had had a small tray, with what she called a "lunch," placed for her
in the dining-room. Had there been immediate danger she would