Jack. [Indignantly.] I did n’t, I slept on the——­

Barthwick. [Sitting on the sofa.] Who cares where you slept; what does it matter if he mentions the—­the—­a perfect disgrace?

Mrs. Barthwick.  What? [A silence.] I insist on knowing.

Jack.  Oh! nothing.

Mrs. Barthwick.  Nothing?  What do you mean by nothing, Jack? 
There’s your father in such a state about it!

Jack.  It’s only my purse.

Mrs. Barthwick.  Your purse!  You know perfectly well you have n’t got one.

Jack.  Well, it was somebody else’s—­it was all a joke—­I did n’t want the beastly thing.

Mrs. Barthwick.  Do you mean that you had another person’s purse, and that this man took it too?

Barthwick.  Tcha!  Of course he took it too!  A man like that Jones will make the most of it.  It’ll get into the papers.

Mrs. Barthwick.  I don’t understand.  What on earth is all the fuss about? [Bending over Jack, and softly.] Jack now, tell me dear!  Don’t be afraid.  What is it?  Come!

Jack.  Oh, don’t Mother!

Mrs. Barthwick.  But don’t what, dear?

Jack.  It was pure sport.  I don’t know how I got the thing.  Of course I ’d had a bit of a row—­I did n’t know what I was doing—­I was—­I Was—­well, you know—­I suppose I must have pulled the bag out of her hand.

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.