And then the door yielded.  Thomas Batchgrew and Mrs. Tarns both abandoned the knocker.  Rachel, pale as a lily, stern, with dilated eyes, stood before them.  And Mr. Batchgrew realized, as he looked at her against the dark, hushed background of the stairs, that Mrs. Maldon was indeed ill.  Mrs. Tams respectfully retired down the steps.  A mightier than she, the young, naive, ignorant girl, to whom she could have taught everything save possibly the art of washing cutlery, had relieved her of responsibility.

“You can’t see her,” said Rachel in a low tone, trembling.

“But—­but—­” Thomas Batchgrew spluttered, ineffectively.  “D’you know I’m her trustee, miss?  Let me come in.”

Rachel would not take her hand off the inner knob.

There was the thin, far-off sound of an electric bell, breaking the silence of the house.  It was the bell in Rachel’s bedroom, rung from Mrs. Maldon’s bedroom.  And at this mysterious signal from the invalid, this faint proof that the hidden sufferer had consciousness and volition, Rachel started and Thomas Batchgrew started.

“Her bell!” Rachel exclaimed, and fled upstairs.

In the large bedroom Mrs. Maldon lay apparently at ease.

“Did they waken you?” cried Rachel, distressed.

“Who is there, dear?” Mrs. Maldon asked, in a voice that had almost recovered from the weakness of the night, Rachel was astounded.

“Mr. Batchgrew.”

“I must see him,” said the old lady.

“But—­”

“I must see him at once,” Mrs. Maldon repeated.  “At once.  Kindly bring him up.”  And she added, in a curiously even and resigned tone, “I’ve lost all that money!”

II

“Nay,” said Mrs. Maldon to Thomas Batchgrew, “I’m not going to die just yet.”

Her voice was cheerful, even a little brisk, and she spoke with a benign smile in the tranquil accents of absolute conviction.  But she did not move her head; she waited to look at Thomas Batchgrew until he came within her field of vision at the foot of the bed.  This quiescence had a disconcerting effect, contradicting her voice.

She was lying on her back, in the posture customary to her, the arms being stretched down by the sides under the bed-quilt.  Her features were drawn slightly askew; the skin was shiny; the eyes stared as though Mrs. Maldon had been a hysterical subject.  It was evident that she had passed through a tremendous physical crisis.  Nevertheless, Rachel was still astounded at the change for the better in her, wrought by sleep and the force of her obstinate vitality.

The contrast between the scene which Thomas Batchgrew now saw and the scene which had met Rachel in the night was so violent as to seem nearly incredible.  Not a sign of the catastrophe remained, except in Mrs. Maldon’s face, and in some invalid gear on the dressing-table, for Rachel had gradually got the room into order.  She had even closed and locked the wardrobe.