Twisden. [Pouring some tea into the saucer] Without knowing, I can’t tell you.

     Winsor and Margaret exchange looks, and Twisden drinks from the
     saucer.  Margaret.  Tell him, Charles.

Winsor.  Well!  It rained that evening at Meldon.  The General happened to put his hand on Dancy’s shoulder, and it was damp.

     Twisden puts the saucer down and replaces the cup in it.  They both
     look intently at him.

Twisden.  I take it that General Canynge won’t say anything he’s not compelled to say.

Margaret.  No, of course; but, Mr Jacob, they might ask; they know it rained.  And he is such a George Washington.

Twisden. [Toying with a pair of tortoise-shell glasses] They didn’t ask either of you.  Still-no harm in your telling Dancy.

Winsor.  I’d rather you did it, Margaret.

Margaret.  I daresay. [She mechanically takes out her cigarette-case, catches the lift of Twisden’s eyebrows, and puts it back].

Winsor.  Well, we’ll go together.  I don’t want Mrs Dancy to hear.

Margaret.  Do tell me, Mr Jacob; is he going to win?

Twisden.  I think so, Margaret; I think so.

Margaret.  It’ll be too—­frightful if he doesn’t get a verdict, after all this.  But I don’t know what we shall do when it’s over.  I’ve been sitting in that Court all these three days, watching, and it’s made me feel there’s nothing we like better than seeing people skinned.  Well, bye-bye, bless you!

     Twisden rises and pats her hand.

Winsor.  Half a second, Margaret.  Wait for me.  She nods and goes out.  Mr Twisden, what do you really think?

Twisden.  I am Dancy’s lawyer, my dear Charles, as well as yours.

Winsor.  Well, can I go and see Canynge?

Twisden.  Better not.

Winsor.  If they get that out of him, and recall me, am I to say he told me of it at the time?

Twisden.  You didn’t feel the coat yourself?  And Dancy wasn’t present? 
Then what Canynge told you is not evidence—­he’ll stop your being asked.

Winsor.  Thank goodness.  Good-bye!

     Winsor goes out.

Twisden, behind his table, motionless, taps his teeth with the eyeglasses in his narrow, well-kept hand.  After a long shake of his head and a shrug of his rather high shoulders he snips, goes to the window and opens it.  Then crossing to the door, Left Back, he throws it open and says

Twisden.  At your service, sir.

     Gilman comes forth, nursing his pot hat.

Be seated.

     Twisden closes the window behind him, and takes his seat.

Gilman. [Taking the client’s chair, to the left of the table] Mr Twisden, I believe?  My name’s Gilman, head of Gilman’s Department Stores.  You have my card.