Mrs. Barthwick.  Out of her hand?  Whose hand?  What bag—­whose bag?

Jack.  Oh!  I don’t know—­her bag—­it belonged to—­[in a desperate and rising voice] a woman.

Mrs. Barthwick.  A woman?  Oh!  Jack!  No!

Jack. [Jumping up.] You would have it.  I did n’t want to tell you.  It’s not my fault.

[The door opens and Marlow ushers in a man of middle age, inclined to corpulence, in evening dress.  He has a ruddy, thin moustache, and dark, quick-moving little eyes.  His eyebrows aye Chinese.]

Marlow.  Mr. Roper, Sir. [He leaves the room.]

Roper. [With a quick look round.] How do you do?

     [But neither jack nor Mrs. Barthwick make a sign.]

Barthwick. [Hurrying.] Thank goodness you’ve come, Roper.  You remember what I told you this afternoon; we’ve just had the detective here.

Roper.  Got the box?

Barthwick.  Yes, yes, but look here—­it was n’t the charwoman at all; her drunken loafer of a husband took the things—­he says that fellow there [he waves his hand at jack, who with his shoulder raised, seems trying to ward off a blow] let him into the house last night.  Can you imagine such a thing.

     [Roper laughs. ]

Barthwick. [With excited emphasis.].  It’s no laughing matter, Roper.  I told you about that business of Jack’s too—­don’t you see the brute took both the things—­took that infernal purse.  It’ll get into the papers.

Roper. [Raising his eyebrows.] H’m!  The purse!  Depravity in high life!  What does your son say?

Barthwick.  He remembers nothing.  D—­n!  Did you ever see such a mess?  It ’ll get into the papers.

Mrs. Barthwick. [With her hand across hey eyes.] Oh! it’s not that——­

     [Barthwick and Roper turn and look at her.]

Barthwick.  It’s the idea of that woman—­she’s just heard——­

     [Roper nods.  And Mrs. Barthwick, setting her lips, gives a
     slow look at jack, and sits down at the table.]

What on earth’s to be done, Roper?  A ruffian like this Jones will make all the capital he can out of that purse.

Mrs. Barthwick.  I don’t believe that Jack took that purse.

Barthwick.  What—­when the woman came here for it this morning?

Mrs. Barthwick.  Here?  She had the impudence?  Why was n’t I told?

     [She looks round from face to face—­no one answers hey, there
     is a pause.]

Barthwick. [Suddenly.] What’s to be done, Roper?

Roper. [Quietly to jack.] I suppose you did n’t leave your latch-key in the door?