‘I’m afraid Mrs West is considerably worse,’ she said.

Collis set down his razor beside the china basin. He saw his face in the small rosewood-framed mirror on the wall, and his eyes were dark and worried. He saw his mouth say, ‘How long do you think she has left?’

‘I don’t know. The vómito negro has not begun yet. There is still a little hope.’

‘May I see her?’

‘She is very ill, Mr Edmonds. It would serve no purpose, and it would increase your own chances of catching it.’

‘I don’t want her to die alone, Sister Agnes.’

Sister Agnes touched her pale forehead as if she had a headache. ‘She isn’t alone, Mr Edmonds. Our Lady the Queen of Heaven is with her.’

Collis wiped his face with the small rough towel that the nuns had given him and picked up his shirt from the back of his chair. At least his linen was all freshly cleaned and pressed, now that the hospital laundry was taking care of it. But in the watery sunlight which shone through the open window of his cottage, he still looked tired and thin, and he would have done almost anything for a New York steak and fried onions, and twelve hours’ sleep in his own bed on Twenty-first Street.

‘Do you think she’ll last the week?’ he said.

‘She may,’ said Sister Agnes. ‘As I said, there’s a little hope. But the fever is very high, and I have to warn you that anything could happen. She could die tonight.’

‘I see. Does she know herself? Is she conscious?’

‘No. She hasn’t been conscious for almost eight hours now.’

Collis nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Sister Agnes waited for a moment, and then announced, ‘I’ve come for another reason, too.’

Collis looked up.

‘The California dropped anchor off the bay this morning. She’s due to sail for San Francisco on Monday morning. I believe that you are probably free of the fever, and that you will be able to sail with her.’

‘That’s four days from now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Supposing — well, supposing Mrs West is still alive in four days?’

Sister Agnes was silent. Collis paced around the tiled floor of the cottage and then turned and looked at her straight.

‘You don’t think she will be, is that it?’

‘The chances are not good, Mr Edmonds.’

He rubbed the back of his neck. He was so tired that he didn’t know what he felt any more. The days were nothing but waiting in his cottage, writing and staring out of the window; and the nights were hot and sweaty and plagued with insects. Whole years could have passed, and he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. The heat and the boredom of the equator seemed to drain away any will to do anything active or useful, and sometimes he stood for half an hour at a time, incapable of deciding whether he wanted to remain standing or whether he wanted to sit down again.