Scene I. The library at Allen’s Chambers. Fire l. Doors r.and c. Table L.c. Big easy chair l. by fire. Peters discovered l. c. arranging and cutting papers on table and whistling.

(Enter Piffin r. Music to open.)

PIFF. Have you seen my cub about?

PETERS. (Without looking up.) No, Foxey, I ain’t. Didn’t know as you had had one.

PIFF. (c.) You know who I mean—your master. Peters. (Going to door c.) Not far off from where yours is I suppose.

(Exit Peters c.)

PIFF. Um! The master has been getting impertinent to me of late, so the servants seem to be following suit. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I shall throw this job up when I’ve made another hundred or two. I wonder how much longer he’s going to keep me waiting.

(Exit Piff. c.)

(Enter Allen r. creeping in cautiously in a mysterious and watchful manner. He has a huge pewter pot in one hand and a large church-warden clay pipe alight in the other. He looks round stealthily, listens, then crosses nervously and sits l. in easy chair. He stretches himself out as luxuriously as his tight clothes will allow—especially the collar. Takes a long pull at the pot and long puffs at the pipe. In the middle of each pull, grunts “good” in evident enjoyment.)

ALLEN. (Chuckling in a deep undertone. Crosses to c. and sits.) Ah-h-h, I’ve done un this time. He’s waiting upstairs to curl my hair. (Chuckling again.) Told un I’d come up when (grandly) I’d finished conducting my correspondence. (Chuckles, pulls at pipe, and takes a deep draught.) First time I’ve ever enjoyed myself since I came into my property. (Breaks out into some country ale-house sort of song, sings, warming as he goes on with great gusto.)

(Enter Piffin c., unseen by Allen. Piff. comes down and stands c. looking on. Allen finishes song and then buries his face in the pot. As his eyes emerge over the brim he catches sight of Piff. He remains looking at him for a while and then slowly puts the pot on the table.)

ALLEN. What do thee want? Didn’t I tell ’ee I wur going to conduct my correspondence, and that I didn’t want to be disturbed?

PIFF. (Goes up table.) I beg pardon, sir, but I thought maybe you had completed your correspondence, especially as there was only one letter this morning, and that was a circular about coals.

ALLEN. Oh, did you. Well, I ain’t you see. I’m going to write a lot of original correspondence this morning, and I’m collecting my thoughts. (Goes on smoking sulkily.)

PIFF. Yes, sir—certainly, sir—but might I be allowed to suggest, sir, that a pot of ale and a clay pipe are hardly the dolce far niente of a grand seigneur.

ALLEN. Hardly the what of my which? Look here, don’t you be so spry at calling me them jaw-breaking foreign names, because I don’t like it. It wur only yesterday you alluded to me as a bo-mo, and last week you said I ought to be in the hot tongs. I didn’t say anything at the time, but you drop it.

PIFF. I referred to you as belonging to the beau monde, sir, and I may have said your position was now among the haut ton. We always talk like that in good society, sir. Both expressions were flattering, very flattering.

ALLEN. Ah, maybe they wur and maybe they wurn’t. Next time, you call it me in English, and then I can judge for myself. And don’t worrit me to-day at all. I’ve got a trying morning before me, and I’m going to have a little quiet enjoyment to set myself up before it begins.

PIFF. Might I suggest, then, sir, that a cigarette and a little absinthe would be more de rigueur? My late lamented master the Count de Fizziani invariably took a little absinthe after breakfast and found great benefit from it.

ALLEN. Yes, I know. I tried your friend’s cough mixture before, you know. Old ale’s good enough for me.

PIFF. But, sir—

ALLEN. Don’t you worrit. I’ve been a gentleman for a month; I think I might have a morning off.

PIFF. Very well, sir. Just as you please, of course, sir; but I’ve my character to consider, sir—and—and—I am not accustomed to the service of gentlemen with pothouse proclivities.

ALLEN. (Sotto voce.) Oh, go and hang yourself.

PIFF. (Up c.) That’s never done now, sir, in good society. My late lamented master, the Count de Fizziani—

ALLEN. (Springing up, working Piff. round, from table l. to desk r.) Oh, you go to your late lamented master, the fizzing Count, and tell him to—I have had eno’ of him and I’ve had eno’ of you. Blest if I’ve had a happy moment since you came into the house. You’ve dressed me up like a tailor’s dummy, and curled my hair like a Sunday school kid; you’ve made me talk like a man in a play, and walk like a monkey on stilts. Thee’ve chivied me about from morning till night, and thee’ve rammed that old lamented corpse of yours down my throat every two minutes of the day. I’ve put up wi’ it all for a long while because I thought thee meant well, and wur a-trying to make me into a gentleman, but blest if I think thee knows much more about the genuine article than I does, and I’m going to go it in my own way now. Look here. (Takes off his tie and collar and throws them down and jumps on them, pulls off his coat and throws it in a corner, nifties his hair, unbuttons and throws back his waistcoat, kicks off his boots, and throws himself into easy chair, sticks his feet on table, takes long pull from the pot, slams it on table> again, and commences to smoke his pipe vigorously, looking defiantly at Piff.) That’s the sort o’ man I’m going to be now. (Sits l.)

PIFF. (Who has stood aghast, moving off.) Very well, sir; then I have only to say that I wash my hands of you entirely. (Pause.) You can’t make a gentleman out of a pig’s ear. (Sneeringly).

ALLEN. (Puffing quietly at pipe.) No, it ain’t the usual method.

PIFF. (By door c. muttering to himself, but meant to be heard by Allen.) Only what I might have expected from mixing myself up with such canaille. (Pauses. Allen takes no notice.) Pray understand, sir, I give you a week’s warning on the spot. My late master, the—

ALLEN. (Springing up and throwing book at him. Piff. exits r.) Yes. (Piff. again appears hurriedly at door r. and cries, “Upstart bumpkin,” and exit quickly.) I’ll give ’ee my toe on the spot if I hear any more of—(reseats himself, with a grunt of disgust; a pause, during which he smokes.) He is right, I wurn’t meant for a gentleman after all. Some of us was built for gaiters, and some on us for patent leather shoes, and I be one of the gaiter sort—all my tastes are low. I doan’t like claret and I doan’t like cigarettes. I’m uncomfortable in a collar (picking his up and fixing it) and I prefer shove-ha’penny to billiards. (Sighs, continues dreamily.) Ah, I’d gie a trifle to be going to spend this evening at the Dunkery Arms a-halping to sing a chorus with old Joe Steddles and young Jem Whalley and Jack Clouter. Ah, he’d got a fine voice, had old Jack Clouter. Never heard a man sing so loud in all my life. Lord, I shall never forget her’s doing “Rock me to sleep, mother,” round at the lodge, and a waking up mother Hammond’s three kids just as her’d got un all off to sleep. Lord, how her let us have it. (Laughing.) Ah, us went home early that night. (Chuckling.) They comed back wi’ me, old Jack and Jim, and Deb made us a veal pasty for supper. (Smiling.) Ah, her do make good—

(Enter Peters, followed by Purtwee, door c., says, “Mr. Purtwee,” takes P.‘s hat and exit. Allen rises and commences to pick up his various articles of apparel and re fix them while talking to Purt.)

PURT. (Coming forward.) Well, my boy.

ALLEN. Ah, it does me good to see thee again.

PURT. How are you?

ALLEN. (Shakes hands.) Oh, I be all right outside. (Rises, crosses to L.) Bean’t very spry inside, so I tell ’ee. (Explanatory of his dressing arrangements.) Just been having a quiet smoke, you know.

PURT. (With a smile.) And do you always undress to smoke?

ALLEN. (Laughing.) No—but I has to now when I want to sit down comfortable. (Continues to dress—brings wine down to table.) Have a glass of wine. I’m glad thee’ve come, I wur afraid from thy letter that thee wouldn’t.

PURT. (Sits in arm-chair l.) Well, it’s a very informal proceeding I’m bound to say—not at all professional.

ALLEN. Perhaps not, but it’s simple and straightforward like and maybe that’s as good. Have ’ee read the papers I sent thee?

PURT. Yes—most carefully—and they certainly make the story appear very plausible—very plausible, indeed. Have you said anything to your mother?

ALLEN. No—no, I thought I wouldn’t say a word to anybody until I was sure one way or t’other. (Sits L.)

PURT. Quite right—quite right. What sort of a man was he?

ALLEN. Blest if I could tell ’ee—I wur that taken aback I couldn’t tell ’ee what it wur, but thee’ll see him for theeself in a minute. I told Father Christmas to send him straight up when he comes.

PURT. (Looking at his watch.) Well, if he’s an impostor, he’ll hardly venture to come to a meeting of this kind.

(Enter Peters announcing Richard Hanningford, door at back.)

PET. Mr. Richard Hanningford.

(Exit Peters.)

HANN. Morning, gentlemen. (Allen goes r.c. Hann. goes c.)

ALLEN. Good-morning. (Motioning to Purt., who is l.) Mr. Purtwee, the gentleman I spoke of.

HANN. Good-morning, (c. and then coming r.sits L.c.) Guess I’m not a particularly welcome visitor here.

ALLEN. (r.) Well, I owns as I’ve come across folks as I’ve felt more at home wi’. (Allen sits R.) But I suppose we’ve got to get used to ’ee.

PURT. Well now, gentlemen, we’ve come for business and must not waste time. Mr. Rollitt has told you who I am, and if you are Richard Hanningford I shall be only too anxious for you to have your rights. But then, my dear sir, I shall want to be very sure that you are Richard Hanningford.

HANN. That’s right and square. I’ve got to prove it, I know, and I don’t say that it will be an easy job.

PURT. At present you see we have nothing but your bare word for it. You say this man who called himself Richard Hanningford and who died at Mrs. Rollitt’s was an impostor.

HANN. And a damned scoundrel.

PURT. Quite so, if he were not Richard Hanningford, he must have been. But then if he were Richard Hanningford—

HANN. Why then, I am the damned scoundrel.

PURT. Well—I wasn’t going to say that—but one of you must be the right Hanningford—and the other the wrong one—and if we made a mistake three months ago we don’t want to make another now.

ALLEN. (r.) You see it ain’t so much the money I care about. There was a time that I thought it would be a grand thing to be rich, but now I’ve tried it, danged if I see so much fun in it as I thought there wur. (Rises.) It ain’t only that: it’s the girl I love—if I lose the money, I loses her. I can’t expect her to have me wi’out it. She’s a lady—I’m only a country bumpkin and I know it. With this money I can win her and make her life happy—even if she doesn’t much care for me. If I were sure you were Dick Hanningford, I’d gie it up. But I ain’t sure and I’m going to fight—that’s plain. (Turns and crosses r. Sits R.c.)

HANN. (Coes to Allen r.c.) Plain and sensible, and I don’t like you any the less for it; but I am Dick Hanningford, and the money’s mine, and I’m going to have a good fight to get it. (Coes l. puts foot on chair.)

PURT. (After a pause.) You say this man who tried to—and, as he thought, did—murder you—had been a friend of yours.

HANN. (Fiercely—takes foot off chair.) He’d been my chum for over two years—the cur—and knew everything about me—I saved his life when the gang were going to hang him—he shared my diggings when we were in the mining lay, and he had half my blanket every night when we were with the cattle. And I trusted him—the skunk.

PURT. What was his name?

HANN. Cassidy—Dan Cassidy. (Sits again.)

PURT. And then he murdered you—or tried to as you say—took your papers from you, and came over here to impersonate you?

HANN. I suppose so.

ALLEN. He was uncommonly like you, too.

HANN. Like me! Not at all!

PURT. Oh, yes, my dear sir, I never saw him alive, but his features were yours one for one.

HANN. Dan Cassidy was no more like me than I’m like a colored angel out of a picture book.

(Purt. and Allen exchange glances.)

ALLEN. Well, all I know is, that if the man who called himself Richard Hanningford, and who fell down dead in my mother’s kitchen three months ago was standing beside you now, nobody would know which wur you and which wur him. .

HANN. (Rising.) I don’t know that man! (All rise and look at one another.)

(Enter Peters c.)

PURT. (Pause.) Then what has become of Dan Cassidy?

PETERS. Mr. Luke Cranbourne is downstairs, sir, and would like to see you.

ALLEN. Oh, bother Luke Cranbourne—tell him I’m out.

PETERS. Yes, sir. (Going. As he is by door.)

ALLEN. Stop! (Peters turns.) Ask Mr. Cranbourne to come back in a quarter of an hour. (Looks at watch.)

PETERS. Yes, sir. (Exit c.)

ALLEN. What sort of a man was Dan Cassidy?

HANN. A pale, dark-eyed man with a long black beard.

ALLEN. Would you know him again without the black beard, and under another name?

HANN. (Fiercely.) Know him! Will you bring me face to face with him?

ALLEN. Maybe I will.

HANN. (c.) See here! I’ve lived among a set that like to wipe off a score, no matter what the price. You put that man into my hands so that justice may be done on him, and we share the old man’s money between us. (Crosses R.)

ALLEN. Is that a bargain?

PURT. You don’t suspect—(goes to r.of l. table.)

ALLEN. (Crosses to Purt. Hann. goes R.) Yes I do. He’s been no friend of mine. Is it a bargain?

HANN. Yes. Without Dan Cassidy my case might be hard to prove. With him it would be easy. £100,000 and my revenge are good enough for me. You give me that. (Goes to extreme R.)

(Enter Dexter from door c. He draws back on seeing strangers, and stands r.c.)

DEX. Beg pardon, my dear boy. Found the door open (Allen goes up c. to Dex.) and took the liberty of an old friend to walk in. Thought I should find you alone.

ALLEN. (Crosses up c.) Shall be in a minute, Colonel, if you will excuse me. (Draws the two men together near fireplace, Allen nearest, Purt. next, Hann. r.) Can thee play billiards?

HANN. I can, but I don’t crave for them at this particular moment.

ALLEN. You’ll just have time to play fifty up afore the man as I takes to be Dan Cassidy is here.

PURT. How will you let us know?

ALLEN. (Looks round thinking, then catches sight of glasses on table l.; takes one up and holds it over hearth.) Keep thee, ears open, and when thee hears this glass fall and break, open the door and come in. (All go up c. speaking low.)

(Exit Purt. and Hann. Dex. goes L.)

ALLEN. (Returning c.) Well, Colonel Dexter, what do thee want? Glad to see thee, thee know.

DEX. (l.c.) Nothing, dear boy—nothing for myself. I have only brought a letter from my little girl, and am to take back an answer. (Produces letter and hands to Allen.) I’m only Cupid to you young folks. Ha! Hat Only Cupid.

ALLEN. Ah, they usen’t to wrap ’em up so much when I wur young. (Crosses R., opens and reads letter.)

DEX. (Who is very much wrapped and buttoned up, laughs with much ostentation.) Ha! Ha! Very good, very good. We really must bring you out more, Allen. Ha! Ha! Ha!

ALLEN. (Who has sat r.in front of desk, reading.) “My darling Popsy-wopsy.” (Looks up puzzled and round at Dex. Aside.) That ain’t Clara’s usual style. (Reads.) “I am so terribly sorry to worry my own darling boy, but I am in such fearful trouble—I want £100 to pay some debts owing to a wicked man having cheated us. Would my own darling lend it to his broken-hearted little blossom, and don’t say anything to me afterwards until I pay you back, as I shall be so ashamed of it. I send papa with this. He knows nothing about it, so please don’t tell him—he is so proud.—(Allen looks at Dex., who turns away and tries to assume airy unconsciousness)—and would be so angry with me, but you are the only friend I have. Oh, my darling, do let me have the money or I shall go mad. A million, million kisses to my own sweet, precious lubby-dubby from his ever loving little birdie, Clara.” (Dex. sits c.) “P. S.—Please don’t cross the cheque.”

(Takes cheque-book from desk and begins to write.) Was Clara ill when she wrote this?

DEX. (Who is sitting at table L.c. having wine.) No, my dear boy—oh, no.

ALLEN. Oh, because the writing seems a bit shaky like, and the letter so funny—thought maybe she wur a bit queer.

DEX. (Confused.) Oh—ah—yes. She was a little queer—very shaky indeed—and she seemed very much worried, too, she wouldn’t tell me what about. She tries to keep all her trouble away from her old father, dear child. (Enter Clara unseen by either.) Ah, I know how anxiously she’s waiting for me now. “Come back soon, dear, dear papa,” she said—“and bring it with you.” (Crying r.c.)

(Allen having put the cheque in an envelope rises and crosses and holds it to Dex. Clara steps forward and takes it.)

CLARA. Thank you! (c. of the two men.)

ALLEN. Miss Dexter!

DEX. Clara!

CLARA. This letter is addressed to me, I believe. (Opens it and takes out cheque, which she returns to Allen.) It’s very kind of you, Mr. Rollitt, but I do not require it.

ALLEN. (r.) Didn’t thee write for it? (Showing letter to her.) Isn’t this thy letter?

CLARA. (Looking at it.) It is the first time I have seen it. It has the appearance of having been written by someone who was drunk over night—possibly my father—imitating other people’s handwriting is one of the few things at which he has attained eminence. (Looks at Dex.)

DEX. Clara, my dear!

CLARA. And perhaps it will be better, Mr. Rollitt, for me to take this opportunity of ending our relationship by telling you that I am already married. (Crosses l.)

ALLEN. (Starts hack.) Married!

DEX. (c. frantic and jumping about and screaming and hissing the words out.) She ain’t. It’s a lie. Don’t believe her. She ain’t. She ain’t. (Goes c. Clara to l.) It’s only a trick to try your love. Ah, you hussy! It’s all been planned. This is all part of it. She ain’t married. We planned it to test your love for her. Ah, you beast! I’ll strangle you. I’ll murder you. She’s only trying it on to see what you say. It’s a trick. Don’t believe her. Don’t believe her.

CLARA. And have been for the last three years.

DEX. (As before.) No, she ain’t been, Mr. Rollitt. It’s a lie—it’s a lie. It’s a lie. She says it to spite her old father. Ah you devil, you—

ALLEN. Silence!

DEX. (Cowed, but continuing in nervous undertone.) She’s not married. I’m her father.

ALLEN. (Pointing to door c.) And leave the room—afore I forget thee art an old man. (Turns him r.Backs Dex. up to c. door.)

DEX. (Slinks out muttering.) She ain’t married! It’s a lie. It’s a lie. (Repeats.)

(Exit Dex. c.)

ALLEN. (Turning to Clara.) What does it all mean?

CLARA. (Defiantly.) That I’ve been playing with you only for the sake of sponging on you. And to get money out of you for my father and husband—I haven’t had much myself—and that at last I’m grown tired of it. (Crosses R.)

ALLEN. (l.c. after a pause.) Thee might have had all the money thee wanted, lass, wi’out deceiving me.

CLARA. (Falling on her knees before him.) Forgive me, Allen, you don’t know what my life has been. Dragged up among thieves and sharpers, taught to trick and lie before I could speak plainly, I have never know what truth and honor meant except as a dim longing. All the humanity—all the womanhood—has been dried out of me till I am only the thing you see me—a vulture—a human beast of prey. Ah, Allen, thank God for your sake that I am married and that you have escaped me—forget me—it is the only thing you can do. You can never hate me as I loathe myself—you can never despise me as I shudder at my own life.

ALLEN. (Puts his hand to his own forehead ) Poor lass! Poor lass!

CLARA. (Takes’ Allen’s hand, left.) You are the only man that has been good to me, and I have brought you only pain and shame.

ALLEN. (Raising her.) Ah, never mind that, lass. Thee didn’t mean to do it. Come! I be more sorry for thee than for myself. I could see what sort of life thee had got around thee, and I wanted to take thee away from it all. I can do so little for thee now. (Both at cabinet, Allen r.)

CLARA. You have taught me, Allen, that there are good men in the world; forgive me for having taught you that there are bad women. (Clara crosses in front of Allen to r.door.)

ALLEN. Not bad, Clara. I guess thee’s been more sinned against than sinning. Thy life has been very dark and thee’s stumbled here and there. God grant that it may grow brighter for thee one day.

Clara, (l.) Ah, Allen, don’t keep speaking kindly to me. Don’t think kindly of me. Despise me—I can bear that—I am used to it. (Sits at cabinet.)

ALLEN. (r.c. next to Clara.) No, lass, I can’t do that. I shall alius think kindly of thee. I’ve loved thee too well to change now—because I knows thy lot’s harder than I thought it wur.

CLARA. (Turns and looks at Allen.) Try not to think of me at all, Allen—I am not worth it—forget me. There is one who loves you better than I could ever do, and who is good and pure. (Rises.) You men never see the love that is under your feet—you reach only for what is beyond you. Go back to her, Allen. She will make you a better wife than I could ever have done. (Allen at back of Clara up stage R.)

ALLEN. (After a pause.) Who—who is this man—your husband?

CLARA. Luke Cranbourne! (She does not look at Allen.)

ALLEN. Luke Cranbourne! (Looks nervously at door c. and then at clock—then crosses to door and stands near it. He assumes to do this naturally and not to let Clara notice his anxiety.)

CLARA. We were married secretly before he left for America. Not even my father knew it until a day or two ago.

ALLEN. And do you care for him? (Allen at door c.)

CLARA. With such love as a woman can feel without respect. He was the first that I can remember ever speaking a kind word to me. He is the only human being I have to cling to—and he is good to me in his way. (Looks up at Allen.) I don’t expect we shall ever see each other again. For your sake, I wish we had never met—for myself, my life will always seem a bit brighter for the love that an honest man once had for me.

ALLEN. (Taking her hand in his.) Good-bye—if ever thee wants a friend, Allen Rollitt, Woodbarrow Farm, Exmoor, will find him. (Kissing her on the forehead.) God bless thee, Clara!

CLARA. Good-bye! (She goes without a word r.After a few seconds enter Luke c. announced by Pet.)

LUKE. (Coming down.) How de do, dear boy? (Shaking hands. Allen does so listlessly and almost unconsciously.) I wanted to see you particularly this morning, before I went to the city. I’ve come across something that will just double your fortune. Here. (Laying papers on table l. and taking up and pouring out a glass of wine.) You do have such capital wine, Rollitt, I really must help myself to a glass. It is a splendid scheme.

ALLEN. (r.c.) Very like, but we won’t discuss it now. (Taking notes from his pocket-book.) I want thee to leave by the noon train for the Continent.

LUKE. (Turns round, face to audience, glass in left hand.) What’s up?

ALLEN. (Crosses l. c., hands him the notes.) Thy wife can join thee there afterwards. (Luke starts and looks hard at Allen.) And thee can get away to Australia, or somewhere in that direction.

LUKE. (Defiantly.) And why, pray?

ALLEN. Because there is a man in the next room who be more anxious to see thee than thee may be to see him.

LUKE. What man?

ALLEN. Richard Hanningford.

(Luke lets fall the glass.)

ALLEN. Good God! Thee’ve given the signal to call him in! Quick! (Luke rushes in terror to door at back.) Not that way. (Luke bewildered and helpless with fright, turns wildly about like a hunted thing not knowing which way to fly. Is about to make for other door, when handle of door at back is heard to move.) Too late—keep where thee art.

LUKE. (Clinging to Allen’s arm.) Save me! (Allen thrusts him behind door at c. as it opens and enter Hann. and Purt. following. Allen goes r. Hann. comes down and stands c. Purt. remains near door and is about to close it.)

ALLEN. (Who has moved down to r.c., nervously, with effort to appear calm and careless.) Leave the door, Mr. Purtwee, leave the door.

PURT. Wide open? (Surprised.)

ALLEN. Yes, yes, it’s fearfully hot in here! (Wiping his brow.)

HANN. (Looking at him suspiciously.) I don’t find it so. I think we’ll have it shut over this job. (Turns to door.)

ALLEN. (Eagerly.) No, no! Don’t shut it—don’t shut it.

HANN. Why not? (Looks hard at Allen.)

ALLEN. Why—why—don’t I tell you. It’s so close—so—

(Hann. crosses, goes to door c. and locks it, then returns, eyeing Allen sternly. Luke has crept behind the curtain, which hangs like a pillar by the side of the door. Allen watches with intense suspense.)

HANN. (c.) Well—you gave the signal!

(Allen r.c. a little to front of Hann. He keeps in front of Hann. all through the scene until Luke has got away and prevents his turning round—he is very excited but tries to appear careless—the result being a slightly hysterical manner. When Luke comes from behind the curtain and while he is crossing Allen catches Hann. by the lapels of his coat and holds and works him round so that his back is to Luke. He grows more and more eager and intense until Luke is off, when he gradually subsides into a quieter manner, but not too suddenly. At Hann’s hint that he has had too much brandy, he catches at the idea to cover his excitement, to account for his conduct.)

ALLEN. Yes, my dear fellow—but—but—I wur going to explain to thee—it wurn’t the signal—it wur an accident. I dropped the glass by accident. Thee see I had just had a glass of brandy.

HANN. More than one glass, cousin?

ALLEN. (Laughs loudly.) Ha! ha! Perhaps it wur two. (First movement of Luke.) (At this point Luke creeps from behind curtain, Purt. sees him and is about to make an exclamation, when Allen, covering his action by assumed drunkenness, lunges half round and catches Purt. on his shoulder, clutching it tightly with his left hand while holding Hann. with his right—laughing boisterously all the time. Purt. understands and remains silent. Allen grows more and more excited. Laughs.) Well, now, look’ee here.

Hanningford. Cousin Dick—my long lost—(laughs as before and slaps him on the shoulder. Hann. impatient half turns round—Allen seises his coat with both hands and keeps him round.) No—no—look thee here, Cousin Dick. Now you say this Cassidy, this creeping, crawling, lying cur, Dan Cassidy, tried to murder thee—(Hann. again seems as though he would turn round)—and these papers—these papers that you sent me. Well, I sent ’em on to Purtwee. Ah, he’s a sharp one. (Door clicks after Luke’s exit.) Purtwee, he’ll know who’s who. He’ll put us right. Won’t ’ee, Purtwee, old friend? Won’t ’ee—won’t ’ee?

(He slaps Purt. on back, laughing boisterously and half staggering forward into Purt.‘s arms. Luke has got away by door r., and from now Allen’s excitement gradually subsides, and an air of exhaustion follows. Sits l.c.)

HANN. (c.) Say! Are you drunk or playing the fool? Where’s this man Cassidy?

ALLEN. (Pause.) I don’t know.

HANN. Isn’t he coming here?

ALLEN. No!

HANN. (Angrily.) Didn’t you lead me to believe—

ALLEN. That you should be brought face to face wi’ him? Yes—but I’ve changed my mind since then.

HANN. (After a pause.) I understand: it was only a trick to give you time to get him out of the way. You thought that without him I should not be able to prove my case. I thought I was dealing with an honest man and a friend, and I offered to share the money with you. (With tierce anger.)

ALLEN. (Fiercely, rising.) And I tell you to take the whole of it! (A pause—Hann. steps back and stares at him.) I have learnt enough within the last few minutes to believe that you are the man you say you are, and if so, take it all. You offered me £100,000 to give thee Dan Cassidy, I offer thee £200,000 to let him go his way in peace. (Pause.) Come, you may find it hard to prove thee art Hanningford afore the law. Prove it to me and Mr. Purtwee, and give me thy hand on it that thee’ll never seek to find Dan Cassidy or harm him, and thee art old Hanningford’s heir, and I, Allen Rollitt, farmer and yeoman.

HANN. (After a pause.) Your secrets are your own, cousin. I’d dearly have loved to have my revenge upon the hound, but if Dan Cassidy is worth £100,000 to you, you can have him—I shouldn’t have thought he was.

ALLEN. He goes free, so far as you are concerned, for ever?

HANN. For ever.

ALLEN. Right, Dick Hanningford! (They grasp hands.) And now we’ll say good-bye for to-day if you don’t mind. Mr. Purtwee will see thee to-morrow, and arrange things. I’d like to be quiet a bit just now.

HANN. You’ve had a rough morning, cousin, and I guess the kindest thing I can do is to take myself off. Good-bye. (Shakes hands.) Good-bye, Mr. Purtwee.

PURT. Good-bye, Mr. Hanningford; I will write to you to-morrow.

HANN. (Goes to door c.) No hurry. Good-bye.

(Exit c.)

PURT. Well, I can’t understand you, my boy. It’s really a very Quixotic thing to do. Why shouldn’t the man suffer for his crime?

ALLEN. (l.) Because he can’t suffer without bringing suffering to them as I’d rather spare—because he’s the husband of the woman I have been calling Clara Dexter.

PURT. (Astonished.) You don’t say that, lad! When did you learn it?

ALLEN. About five minutes ago. (Crosses to r.; leans on chair.)

PURT. (After a pause.) Hanningford said true; it’s been a rough morning for you. (Going up to Allen and laying his hand on his shoulder.) Would you rather that I stopped with you a bit, lad, or left you alone?

ALLEN. Leave me alone, old friend. (Purt. goes to c. door.) I shall be off soon.

PURT. (At door c.) Where are you going to?

ALLEN. I’m going back to Woodbarrow Farm. I’ve had eno’ of the big world. I’ve had enough of fine folks and their ways. I’m going back to my own people—I’m going back to see the faces of them as I know loves me, to feel the hands of them as I know thinks well of me—I’m going back home.

(Purt. exit R., Allen stands l. by fire, stage darkens, and scene changes. Slow tableau. Music plays till change of scene and through Scene 2.) </p

Scene 2. Same as Act I.

Time: evening, fire burning brightly, and lamp lit on table, where supper is laid. Deb. discovered by fire, attending to cooking operations; Mrs. R. by fire, laying supper.

MRS. R. Be it done, lass?

DEB. (Who is kneeling down, looking into oven.) Yes, aunt, just to a turn.

MRS. R. (Crossing and looking over Deb’s shoulder.) Ah, that be just right. Thee’s a good cook, lass. (Crossing back to table.) Ah, how un used to like a veal pasty. (Sighs.)

DEB. It’s a bad thing going to bed, though, ain’t it, aunt?

MRS. R. Ah, anything be bad for them as ain’t got no stomachs, and underdone bricks be all right for them as has. (Gets dishes from dresser; lays table.) Besides, we bain’t going to bed yet. Us’ll sit and have a chat after supper.

DEB. It seems so lonely of an evening here now. (Looking into fire.)

MRS. R. (In front of table r.c.) So it do, lass. (Crossing L.) Ah, the lads bean’t so big to look at, but they leaves a rare space behind ’em when they goes away.

DEB. (After a pause, still gazing dreamily into fire.) I wonder if he’ll ever come back.

MRS. R. Aye, aye; he’ll come back, never fear.

DEB. (Turns.) What, to stop?

MRS. R. (l. sits on settle.) Ah, to stop.

DEB. What makes you think so, aunt?

MRS. R. I dunno. It’s never seemed real to me, any on it. I’m awaiting every day to hear un lift the latch and walk in to find as it had all been a dream. So I alius lays for three (l.)

(Enter Allen c. He is dressed much as in Act 1. He shuts the door and stands by it.)

ALLEN. Well, mother, (c.)

MRS. R. (l. staring at him.) Allen, lad! (Bewildered, not grasping it. Deb. having risen, stands with the hot pie that she has that moment taken from the oven, transfixed R.)

ALLEN. (At door c.) I’ve come home, you see, to stop—for good. Are thee glad to see me, mother?

MRS. R. (l.) Come home! To stop! For good! Ah! (Rushes across with a cry of joy and hugs him up c.) I said he would—I said he would—I said he would. My boy! My boy! (After a pause.) And—and all the money, and—and Miss Dexter?

ALLEN. (Taking off his hat and throwing it down at hack.) Shadows, mother, that have passed away, out of my life, for ever. I’ll tell thee all about it later on, never mind to-night. Let’s think only about ourselves. (Going to Deb. r.) Are thee glad to see me?

(Mrs. R. pushes them together from behind r. Deb. still with pie in her hands, puts her face up. Allen bends and kisses it. Mrs. R. catches the two in her arms, and embraces both at once, laughing. Deb. holds pie out at arm’s length to save it.)

ALLEN. Mind the pie, mother.

MRS. R. (Still embracing them.) Are thee hungry, lad?

ALLEN. Rather.

MRS. R. Bless un, and thee’ve come back just in time for supper, as thee alius used to. (Laughs, sits up stage, top of table.) Can thee eat veal pasty?

ALLEN. Can I eat veal—(taking off overcoat and throwing it on chair r. c.) Let me get at un, that’s all.

MRS. R. Poor boy! Come and sit ’ee down. (Pushing him in chair l. of table.) Where be the potatoes, Deb.?

DEB. (Bewildered, turns round and round.) I don’t know. (Laughs.)

MRS. R. Well, have a look in the saucepan, then. (Sits back of table r. c. Allen l. Deb. r.) Thee won’t find ‘em by turning round and round. Now come lad, and get a bit inside thee. Us’ll do the talking afterwards.

(Deb. potters about between fire and table in a bewildered manner. She brings potatoes, and puts them in front of Allen.)

ALLEN. Ah, it do smell lovely, don’t it? (Sniffing at pie.)

MRS. R. Never thee mind smelling it, thee taste it. Lud, how thin thee art looking, lad. (To Deb. who is almost doing so.) Don’t pour the beer into the pie, child, and look where thee’s put the potatoes! (Takes jug away from her.)

DEB. (Sitting down, laughing.) I don’t know what I’m doing. (Takes saucepan off table.)

MRS. R. Well, us can see that.

ALLEN. And how’s everything been going on? How’s the colt?

MRS. R. Kicked Parsons clean into the ditch yestermorning, the little dear! (All are now seated.)

ALLEN. No, did un? (Laughs.)

DEB. One of the guinea hens is dead, the little one of all.

ALLEN. What, the one as used to squint?

DEB. Yes, Parsons left his shot on the pigstye wall, and she ate two ounces. Oh, and you remember Jim?

ALLEN. What, the bantam?

DEB. Yes. He’s given his own father such a licking, and won’t let him come near the yard.

ALLEN. (Laughing heartily.) Plucky little beggar! Serve the old ‘un right. He wur always a bully. Now, mother—(about to hand her the pie.) Why, mother, thee art crying!

MRS. R. (Crying.) No, I ain’t. Go on with thee supper, lad.

ALLEN. (Looking at Deb.) And—why, here be Deb. crying too!

(The two women laugh through their tears. Allen joins them as curtain descends.)

MRS. R. It’s wi’ joy, lad; it’s wi’ joy!

SLOW CURTAIN.