(Bell rings.)

Pascoe. (Firmly.) Listen to me, my man.  There’s been no sort of mistake.  Everything has been done that could be done.  Don’t you get ideas into your head.  Lie down and rest.  You’re done up, and if you aren’t careful you’ll be ill.  I’ll communicate with Cyrus Carve.  I can telephone, and while I’m about it I’ll ring up the registrar too—­he’ll probably send a clerk round.

Carve.  Registrar?

Pascoe.  Registrar of deaths.  There’ll be all kinds of things to attend to. (Moving to go out.)

     (Bell rings again.)

Carve. (As if dazed.) Is that the front door bell?

Pascoe. (Drily.) Quite possibly!  I’ll open it.

     (Exit.)

     (Carve, alone, makes a gesture of despair.  Re-enter Pascoe with
     Cyrus carve.)

Pascoe. (As they enter.) Yes, very sudden, very sudden.  There were three of us—­a nurse, my assistant, and myself.  This is Mr. Shawn, the deceased’s valet.

Cyrus.  Morning. (Looks round at disorder of room contemptuously.) Pigstye!...  My name is Cyrus Carve.  I’m your late master’s cousin and his only relative.  You’ve possibly never heard of me.

Carve. (Curtly.) Oh yes, I have!  You got up a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you and he.

Cyrus.  Your manner isn’t very respectful, my friend.  However you may have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember you’re not my valet.

Carve.  How did you get to know about it?

Cyrus.  I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? (Pause.) Eh?

Carve. (Jumping at this suggestion.) Yes.

Pascoe.  So that was it.

Cyrus. (Ignoring Pascoe.) Ha!  Well, since you’re so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag; I was on my way to the office. (Showing paper.) Here you are!  The Evening Courier.  Quite a full account of the illness.  You couldn’t send for me, but you could chatter to some journalist.

Carve.  I’ve never spoken to a journalist in my life.

Cyrus.  Then how——?

Pascoe.  It’s probably my assistant.  His brother is something rather important on the Courier, and he may have telephoned to him.  It’s a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve.

Cyrus. (Drily.) I imagine so.  Where is the body?

Pascoe.  Upstairs. (Moving towards door.)

Cyrus.  Thanks.  I will go alone.

Pascoe.  Large room at back—­first floor.

     (Exit Cyrus, L.)

I think I’d prefer to leave you to yourselves now.  Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that’s necessary.  You might give him my card, and tell him I’m at his service as regards signing the death certificate and so on.  (Handing card.)