[Barthwick, holding his wine-glass to his eye, lowers it and
     passes it before his nose.]

Mrs. Barthwick.  I hate people that can’t speak the truth. [Father and son exchange a look behind their port.] It ’s just as easy to speak the truth as not.  I’ve always found it easy enough.  It makes it impossible to tell what is genuine; one feels as if one were continually being taken in.

Barthwick. [Sententiously.] The lower classes are their own enemies.  If they would only trust us, they would get on so much better.

Mrs. Barthwick.  But even then it’s so often their own fault.  Look at that Mrs. Jones this morning.

Barthwick.  I only want to do what’s right in that matter.  I had occasion to see Roper this afternoon.  I mentioned it to him.  He’s coming in this evening.  It all depends on what the detective says.  I’ve had my doubts.  I’ve been thinking it over.

Mrs. Barthwick.  The woman impressed me most unfavourably.  She seemed to have no shame.  That affair she was talking about—­she and the man when they were young, so immoral!  And before you and Jack!  I could have put her out of the room!

Barthwick.  Oh!  I don’t want to excuse them, but in looking at these matters one must consider——­

Mrs. Barthwick.  Perhaps you’ll say the man’s employer was wrong in dismissing him?

Barthwick.  Of course not.  It’s not there that I feel doubt.  What I ask myself is——­

Jack.  Port, please, Dad.

Barthwick. [Circulating the decanter in religious imitation of the rising and setting of the sun.] I ask myself whether we are sufficiently careful in making inquiries about people before we engage them, especially as regards moral conduct.

Jack.  Pass the-port, please, Mother!

Mrs. Barthwick. [Passing it.] My dear boy, are n’t you drinking too much?

     [Jack fills his glass.]

Marlow. [Entering.] Detective Snow to see you, Sir.

Barthwick. [Uneasily.] Ah! say I’ll be with him in a minute.

Mrs. Barthwick. [Without turning.] Let him come in here, Marlow.

     [Snow enters in an overcoat, his bowler hat in hand.]

Barthwick. [Half-rising.] Oh!  Good evening!

Snow.  Good evening, sir; good evening, ma’am.  I ’ve called round to report what I ’ve done, rather late, I ’m afraid—­another case took me away. [He takes the silver box out o f his pocket, causing a sensation in the Barthwick family.] This is the identical article, I believe.

Barthwick.  Certainly, certainly.

Snow.  Havin’ your crest and cypher, as you described to me, sir, I ’d no hesitation in the matter.