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without waiting for an answer, Squeaky Robinson came in. He was a thin man, dried up and bent over. He was dressed in a very old velvet jacket that had lost whatever its original color had been. His trousers were thick and gray and he wore slippers. He carried a leather-bound ledger in his arms. He put it on the table, eyeing the tea and toast, and sat down in the third chair opposite Hester.
    “We cut it down,” he said with satisfaction. “But you’ll ’ave ter do better.” He had the air of a schoolmaster with a promising student who had unaccountably fallen short of expectation. “Yer can’t put out more’n you get in.”
    Hester looked at him patiently, but it required a certain effort. “You’ve balanced the books, Squeaky. What do we have left?”
    “Of course I’ve balanced the books!” he said with satisfaction, even if he was masking it by a pretense of being offended. “That’s wot I’m ’ere fer!” He was there under constant protest, because at first he had had nowhere else to go when Hester and Margaret had very neatly tricked him out of his appalling brothel business, and at a stroke gained the building for use as a clinic. But as he had busied himself with small jobs there, he had gained a certain pleasure from it, even if he would sooner have given blood than admitted it.
    “So how much have we left?” she repeated.
    He looked at her lugubriously. “Not enough, Mrs. Monk, not enough. We’ll manage food for another five or six days, if yer careful. No jam!” He pulled his lips down at the corners. “ ’Ceptin’ fer yerself, pr’aps, an’ Miss Ballinger. No jam fer these women! An’ careful wi’ the soap an’ vinegar an’ the like.” He took a breath. “An’ don’t tell me yer gotta scrub! I know that, just scrub careful. An’ boil them bandages up an’ use ’em again,” he added unnecessarily. He nodded, pleased with himself. He was becoming more and more proprietary each time they discussed the subject.
    “Carbolic?” Hester asked.
    “Oh, some,” he conceded. “But we need more money, an’ I dunno where yer gonna get it, ’less’n yer let me foller a few ideas o’ me own.”
    Margaret raised her cup to conceal a smile.
    Hester could make an educated guess as to what Squeaky’s ideas might be. “Not yet,” she said firmly. “And we don’t need to attract any attention that we could avoid. Give Bessie what she’ll need for food, but be sure to keep back at least two pounds. Tell me when we get that low.”
    “I can tell yer now,” Squeaky said, shaking his head. “It’ll be day arter termorrer.” He sniffed. “Sometimes I think yer live in a dream. Yer needs me ter wake yer up, an’ that’s a fact.” He rose to his feet slowly, clutching the book. There was an air of profound satisfaction in him, the ease of his body, the smug line of his lips, the way his hands folded over the ledger.
    Remembering his previous occupation, and his outrage at being tricked into yielding the house and all its furniture, which was his entire livelihood, Hester smiled back at him. “Of course I do,” she agreed. “That’s why I kept you.”
    His satisfaction vanished. He swallowed hard. “I know that!”
    “I’m glad you do it so diligently,” she added.
    Mollified, he turned and went out, closing the door with a snick behind him.
    Margaret put down her cup, and her face was grave. “We do need to get more money,” she agreed. “I’ve tried the usual sources, but it’s getting more difficult.” She looked rueful. “They’re all generous enough when they think it’s for missionary work in Africa or somewhere like that. Speak about lepers and they are only too willing. I began two evenings ago at a soiree. I was with”—she colored slightly—“Sir Oliver, and the opportunity presented itself to approach the subject of charitable gifts without the least awkwardness.”
    Hester bit her lip to disguise her smile. Oliver Rathbone was one of the most