“Right-O!” Tilda nodded.  “Well, they used to come on next turn to mine, which was the Zambra Fambly, as before the Crowned ’eads—­only there wasn’ no fambly about it, nor yet no ‘eads.  Me bein’ ‘andy an’ dressed up, with frizzy ’air, they stood me on a tub with a ‘oop, makin’ believe ‘twas for Miss Montagu to jump through; but of course she didn’, reely.  When she came round to me she’d only smile and touch me playful under the chin; and that made the sixpenny seats say, ‘’Ow womanly!’ or, ’Only think! able to ride like that and so fond of children!’ Matter of fact, she ’ad none; and her ’usband, Mike O’Halloran, used to beat her for it sometimes, when he’d had a drop of What-killed-Aunty.  He was an Irishman.”

“You didn’t start to tell me about Mr. O’Halloran.”

“No.  He wasn’ your sort at all; and besides, he’s dead.  But about Black Sultan—­Miss Montagu used to rest ’im, ’alf-way in his turn, while the clown they called Bimbo—­but his real name was Ernest Stanley—­as’t a riddle about a policeman and a red ‘errin’ in a newspaper.  She always rested alongside o’ me; and I always stood in the same place, right over a ring-bolt where they made fast one of the stays for the trapeze; and regular as Black Sultan rested, he’d up with his off hind foot and rub the pastern-bone, very soft, on the ring-bolt.  So one day I unscrewed an’ sneaked it, jus’ to see what he’d do.  When he felt for it an’ missed it, he gave me a look.  That’s all.  An’ that’s what’s the matter with ’er.”

“But what can she be missing?” asked the Second Nurse.  “She had nothing about her but an old purse, and nothing in the purse but a penny-ha’penny.”

“It don’t sound much, but we might try it.”

“Nonsense!” said the Second Nurse; but later in the evening she brought the purse, and set it on the table where the patient’s eyes might rest on it.  For aught she could detect, they expressed no thanks, gave no flicker of recognition.  But the child had been watching them too, and was quicker—­by one-fifth of a second, perhaps.

It was half-past eight, and the sister turned low the single gas-jet.  She would retire now to her own room, change her dress for the night-watching, and return in about twenty minutes.  The door had no sooner closed upon her than Tilda stretched out a hand.  The sick woman watched, panting feebly, making no sign.  The purse—­a cheap thing, stamped with forget-me-nots, and much worn at the edges where the papier-mache showed through its sham leather—­contained a penny and a halfpenny; these, and in an inner stamp-pocket a scrap of paper, folded small, and greasy with handling.

Still peering across in the dim light, Tilda undid the broken folds and scrambled up to her knees on the bed.  It cost her a twinge of pain, but only by standing upright on the bed’s edge could she reach the gas-bracket to turn the flame higher.  This meant pain sharper and more prolonged, yet she managed it, and, with that, clenched her teeth hard to keep down a cry.  The child could swear, on occasion, like a trooper; but this was a fancy accomplishment.  Just now, when an oath would have come naturally to a man, she felt only a choking in the throat, and swallowed it down with a sob.