Mabel.  What do you mean?

Dancy.  That I wouldn’t be playing this game unless—­

Mabel.  Don’t!  You hurt me!

Dancy.  Yes.  You don’t know much of me, Mabel.

Mabel.  Ronny!

Dancy.  What did you say to that swine?

Mabel. [Her face averted] That he was robbing us. [Turning to him suddenly] Ronny—­you—­didn’t?  I’d rather know.

Dancy.  Ha!  I thought that was coming.

Mabel. [Covering her face] Oh!  How horrible of me—­how horrible!

Dancy.  Not at all.  The thing looks bad.

Mabel. [Dropping her hands] If I can’t believe in you, who can? [Going to him, throwing her arms round him, and looking up into his face] Ronny!  If all the world—­I’d believe in you.  You know I would.

Dancy.  That’s all right, Mabs!  That’s all right! [His face, above her head, is contorted for a moment, then hardens into a mask] Well, what shall we do?  Let’s go to that lawyer—­let’s go—­

Mabel.  Oh! at once!

Dancy.  All right.  Get your hat on.

Mabel passes him, and goes into the bedroom, Left.  Dancy, left alone, stands quite still, staring before him.  With a sudden shrug of his shoulders he moves quickly to his hat and takes it up just as Mabel returns, ready to go out.  He opens the door; and crossing him, she stops in the doorway, looking up with a clear and trustful gaze as

The curtain falls.

ACT III

SCENE I

Three months later.  Old Mr Jacob TWISDEN’s Room, at the offices of Twisden & Graviter, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, is spacious, with two large windows at back, a fine old fireplace, Right, a door below it, and two doors, Left.  Between the windows is a large table sideways to the window wall, with a chair in the middle on the right-hand side, a chair against the wall, and a client’s chair on the left-hand side.

Graviter, Twisden’s much younger partner, is standing in front of the right-hand window looking out on to the Fields, where the lamps are being lighted, and a taxi’s engine is running down below.  He turns his sanguine, shrewd face from the window towards a grandfather dock, between the doors, Left, which is striking “four.”  The door, Left Forward, is opened.

Young Clerk. [Entering] A Mr Gilman, sir, to see Mr Twisden.

Graviter.  By appointment?

Young Clerk.  No, sir.  But important, he says.

Graviter.  I’ll see him.

The Clerk goes.  Graviter sits right of table.  The Clerk returns, ushering in an oldish man, who looks what he is, the proprietor of a large modern grocery store.  He wears a dark overcoat and carries a pot hat.  His gingery-grey moustache and mutton-chop whiskers give him the expression of a cat.

Graviter. [Sizing up his social standing] Mr Gilman?  Yes.