Cyrus.  Yes....  So I see.  No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy me.

Carve.  He did.

Cyrus.  He told you so?

Carve.  He said it would be one in the eye for you—­and he wondered whether you’d decline the executorship.

Cyrus.  Well, my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce probate.  I never expected a penny from my cousin.  I always assumed he’d do something silly with his money, and I’m relieved to find it’s no worse.  In fact, the idea of a great public institution in London being associated with my family is rather pleasant.

Carve.  But he meant to destroy that will long since.

Cyrus. (As he cons the will.) How do you know?  Has he made a later will?

Carve.  No.

Cyrus.  Well, then!  Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed.  You come into eighty pounds a year under it.

Carve.  I was forgetting that.

Cyrus. (Reading.) “I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier, and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death.”

     (Carve laughs shortly.)

You don’t want to lose that, do you?  Of course, if the term “thorough rascal” is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. (Folds up will and puts it in his pocket—­carve walks about.) Now where’s the doctor?

Carve.  He’s left his card.  There it is.

Cyrus.  He might have waited.

Carve.  Yes.  But he didn’t.  His house is only three doors off.

Cyrus. (Looking at his watch.) I’ll go in and see him about the certificate.  Now you haven’t begun to put your things together, and you’ve only got a bit over half an hour.  In less than that time I shall be back.  I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave.

Carve. (Lightly.) Shall you?

Cyrus.  By the way, you have a latchkey? (Carve nods.) Give it me, please.

     (Carve surrenders latchkey.)

     (Cyrus turns to go—­As he is disappearing through the door, L.,
     Carve starts forward.)

Carve.  I say.

Cyrus.  What now?

Carve. (Subsiding weakly.) Nothing.

     (Exit Cyrus.  Sound of front door opening and of voices in
     hall.)

     (Then re-enter Cyrus with Janet cannot.)

Cyrus.  This is Mr. Albert Shawn.  Shawn, a friend of yours.

     (Exit L.)

Carve. (Pleased.) Oh!  You!

Janet.  Good-morning.  D’you know, I had a suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. Shawn?