Man:  You bet!  Very odd!  Frightfully rich, you know!  Yet he died in a wretched hovel of a place down off the Fulham Road.  And his valet’s disappeared.  We had the first news of the death, through our arrangement with all the registrars’ clerks in London.  By the bye, don’t give that away—­it’s our speciality.  Nasing sent me off at once to write up the story.

Woman:  Story?

Man:  The particulars.  We always call it a story in Fleet Street.

Woman:  What a good name!  Well, did you find out anything interesting?

Man:  Not very much.  I saw his cousin, Duncan Farll, a money-lending lawyer in Clement’s Lane—­he only heard of it because we telephoned to him.  But the fellow would scarcely tell me anything at all.

Woman:  Really!  I do hope there’s something terrible.

Man:  Why?

Woman:  So that I can go to the inquest or the police court or whatever it is.  That’s why I always keep friendly with magistrates.  It’s so frightfully thrilling, sitting on the bench with them.

Man:  There won’t be any inquest.  But there’s something queer in it.  You see, Priam Farll was never in England.  Always abroad; at those foreign hotels, wandering up and down.

Woman (after a pause):  I know.

Man:  What do you know?

Woman:  Will you promise not to chatter?

Man:  Yes.

Woman:  I met him once at an hotel at Ostend.  He—­well, he wanted most tremendously to paint my portrait.  But I wouldn’t let him.

Man:  Why not?

Woman:  If you knew what sort of man he was you wouldn’t ask.

Man:  Oh!  But look here, I say!  You must let me use that in my story.  Tell me all about it.

Woman:  Not for worlds.

Man:  He—­he made up to you?

Woman:  Rather!

Priam Farll (to himself):  What a barefaced lie!  Never was at Ostend in my life.

Man:  Can’t I use it if I don’t print your name—­just say a distinguished actress.

Woman:  Oh yes, you can do that.  You might say, of the musical comedy stage.

Man:  I will.  I’ll run something together.  Trust me.  Thanks awfully.

At this point a young and emaciated priest passed up the room.

Woman:  Oh!  Father Luke, is that you?  Do come and sit here and be nice.  This is Father Luke Widgery—­Mr. Docksey, of the Record.

Man:  Delighted.

Priest:  Delighted.

Woman:  Now, Father Luke, I’ve just got to come to your sermon to-morrow.  What’s it about?

Priest:  Modern vice.

Woman:  How charming!  I read the last one—­it was lovely.

Priest:  Unless you have a ticket you’ll never be able to get in.