Sue! Mrs Sucksby breathes heavily, evenly. Where might she have put the keys? Her taffeta gown is hanging from the horse-hair screen: I go silently to it and pat the pockets of its skirt. Empty. I stand and study the shelves, the chest of drawers, the mantelpiece— no keys; but many places, I suppose, where they might be concealed.
Then she stirs—does not wake, but moves her head; and I think I know—think I begin to remember . . . She has the keys beneath her pillow: I recall the crafty movement of her hand, the muffled ringing of the metal. I take a step. Her lips are parted, her white hair loose upon her cheek. I step again, and the floorboards creak. I stand at her side—wait a moment, uncertain; then put my fingers beneath the edge of pillow and slowly, slowly, reach.
She opens her eyes. She takes my wrist, and smiles. She coughs.
''My dear, I loves you for trying,'' she says, wiping her mouth. ''But the girl ain''t been born that''s got the touch that will get past me, when I''ve a mind to something.'' Her grip is strong about my arm; though turns to a caress. I shudder. ''Lord, ain''t you cold!'' she says then. ''Here, sweetheart, let us cover you up.'' She pulls the knitted quilt from the bed and puts it about me. ''Better, dear girl?''