Mrs. Megan.  I don’t want to go.  They’ll stare at me.

Constable. [Comforting.] Not they!  I’ll see to that.

Wellwyn. [Very upset.] Take her in a cab, Constable, if you must —­for God’s sake! [He pulls out a shilling.] Here!

Constable. [Taking the shilling.] I will, sir, certainly.  Don’t think I want to——­

Wellwyn.  No, no, I know.  You’re a good sort.

Constable. [Comfortable.] Don’t you take on, sir.  It’s her first try; they won’t be hard on ’er.  Like as not only bind ’er over in her own recogs. not to do it again.  Come, my dear.

Mrs. Megan. [Trying to free herself from the policeman’s cloak.] I want to take this off.  It looks so funny.

     [As she speaks the door is opened by Ann; behind whom is dimly
     seen the form of old Timson, still heading the curious
     persons.]

Ann. [Looking from one to the other in amazement.] What is it?  What’s happened?  Daddy!

Ferrand. [Out of the silence.] It is nothing, Ma’moiselle!  She has failed to drown herself.  They run her in a little.

Wellwyn.  Lend her your jacket, my dear; she’ll catch her death.

     [Ann, feeling Mrs. MEGAN’s arm, strips of her jacket, and helps
     her into it without a word.]

Constable. [Donning his cloak.] Thank you.  Miss—­very good of you, I’m sure.

Mrs. Megan. [Mazed.] It’s warm!

     [She gives them all a last half-smiling look, and Passes with
     the constable through the doorway.]

Ferrand.  That makes the third of us, Monsieur.  We are not in luck.  To wish us dead, it seems, is easier than to let us die.

     [He looks at Ann, who is standing with her eyes fixed on her
     father.  Wellwyn has taken from his pocket a visiting card.]

Wellwyn. [To Ferrand.] Here quick; take this, run after her!  When they’ve done with her tell her to come to us.

Ferrand. [Taking the card, and reading the address.] “No. 7, Haven House, Flight Street!” Rely on me, Monsieur—­I will bring her myself to call on you.  ‘Au revoir, mon bon Monsieur’!

[He bends over WELLWYN’s hand; then, with a bow to Ann goes out; his tattered figure can be seen through the window, passing in the wind.  Wellwyn turns back to the fire.  The figure of Timson advances into the doorway, no longer holding in either hand a waterproof leg-piece.]

Timson. [In a croaky voice.] Sir!

Wellwyn.  What—­you, Timson?

Timson.  On me larst legs, sir.  ’Ere!  You can see ’em for yerself! 
Shawn’t trouble yer long....

Wellwyn. [After a long and desperate stare.] Not now—­Timson not now!  Take this! [He takes out another card, and hands it to Timson] Some other time.