Cyrus.  I shall mind what I’m about.  And what’s this?

Carve.  That’s a typewriter.

Cyrus.  I always thought artists couldn’t stand typewriting machines.

Carve.  That was—­his servant’s.

Cyrus.  Yours, you mean?

Carve.  Yes, I mean mine.

Cyrus.  Then why don’t you say so?  What do you want a typewriter for?

Carve. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?

Cyrus. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head I’ll pitch you down the front-door steps and your things after you.

Carve.  I’ve got something to tell you——­

Cyrus.  Silence, and answer my questions!  Are his papers in this dispatch box?

Carve.  Yes.

Cyrus.  Where are his keys?

Carve. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here.

Cyrus. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys?

Carve.  Yes.

Cyrus. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say!

(Carve sits down negligently and smiles.)

Cyrus. (As he is examining papers in box.) What are you laughing at?

Carve.  I’m not laughing.  I’m smiling. (Rising and looking curiously at box.) There’s nothing there except lists of securities and pictures and a few oddments—­passports and so on.

Cyrus.  There appears to be some money.  I’m glad you’ve left that.  Quite a lot, in fact. (Showing notes.)

Carve.  Here, steady!  There’s twelve thousand francs there besides some
English notes.  That’s mine.

Cyrus.  Yours, eh?  He was taking care of it for you, no doubt?

Carve. (Hesitating.) Yes.

Cyrus.  When you can furnish me with his receipt for the deposit, my man, it shall be handed to you.  Till then it forms part of the estate.  (Looking at a packet of letters.) “Alice Rowfant.”

Carve.  And those letters are mine too.

Cyrus. (Reading.) “My dearest boy”—­Were you Lady Alice Rowfant’s dearest boy?  Anyhow, we’ll burn them.

Carve.  So long as you burn them I don’t mind.

Cyrus.  Indeed! (Continues to examine papers, cheque foils, etc.  Then opens a document.)

Carve.  Oh!  Is that still there?  I thought it was destroyed.

Cyrus.  Do you know what it is?

Carve.  Yes.  It’s a will that was made in Venice I don’t know how long ago—­just after your aunt died and you had that appalling and final shindy by correspondence about the lease of this house.  Everything is left for the establishment of an International Gallery of Painting and Sculpture in London, and you’re the sole executor, and you get a legacy of five pounds for your trouble.