The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tenth Man, by W. Somerset Maugham.

The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.

THE TENTH MAN

THE FIRST ACT

Lord Francis Etchingham is a man of fifty, of the middle height, rather bald, with an amiable, weak face. He is a good-natured person, anxious to do his best in all things and to all people so long as he is not bored. He wants everything to go smoothly. He has a comfortable idea of his own capacity. Reduced circumstances have drawn him into affairs, and he regards himself as a fine man of business. Lady Francis is a handsome and well-preserved woman of the same age as her husband, with dyed red hair; she has a massive, almost an imposing, presence, and she is admirably gowned. She treats her husband with good-humoured scorn, aware of his foibles, but amused rather than annoyed by them. When the curtain rises Francis Etchingham is a prey to the liveliest vexation. He is walking nervously across the room, while his wife, with a thin smile, stands quietly watching him. With a gesture of irritation he flings himself into a chair.

Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. It’s incomprehensible to me that you should have slept like a top. I couldn’t have closed my eyes the whole night.

I know. And you would have taken excellent care that I shouldn’t close mine either.

I should have thought I had enough to do without being pestered with a foolish woman’s matrimonial difficulties.

[With a laugh.] You really have a very detached way of looking at things, Frank. No one would imagine, to hear you speak, that the foolish woman in question was your daughter.

[Flying out of his chair.] Do? What do you expect me to do? You tell me that Kate came home at twelve o’clock last night without a stitch of clothing....

[Irritably correcting himself.] In a ball dress, with an opera cloak on—without her luggage, without even a dressing-case—and informs you that she’s left her husband.... It’s absurd.

You don’t suppose her husband’s going to put up with this nonsense? Has he made no sign?

Well, that shows he doesn’t look upon the matter as serious. Of course, it was a whim on Kate’s part. Luckily he’s coming here this morning....

Yes, he promised to fetch me in his car. We’re going to drive down to the City together. I’ll bring him in, and meanwhile you can talk to Kate. I dare say she’s thought better of it already. It only wants a little tact, and we can settle the whole thing. George is clever enough to have given some plausible explanation to the servants.

They say it’s a wise man who knows his own father, but it’s apparently a wiser man still who knows his own daughter.

Do you know so little of Kate as to imagine she would have taken a step of this kind without having quite made up her mind?

She gave no reasons. She merely stated the fact and asked if I could put her up.

Because a woman’s place is by her husband’s side, Angela. You know just as well as I do that I can’t afford to quarrel with George Winter. I’m chairman of half a dozen of his companies. The position would be intolerable. I should be expected to take Kate’s side if she were right or wrong.

Ah! [With a shrewd look at him and a smile.] And how much is it that you—don’t exactly owe him?

We’re mixed up together in any number of business undertakings, and naturally we have a sort of running account. If we settled up I dare say I should have to find something like fifteen thousand pounds.

Yes, I did, but the fact is, we’ve been very badly hit lately. Practically all our interests are in Central America, and we couldn’t foresee that there’d be a revolution there.

Oh, I knew you’d blame me. And I suppose you’ll blame me because a confounded earthquake smashed up one of our railways.

That’s just it. It would be devilish awkward. And George is in a confounded tight place too.

You must talk to her seriously, Angela. You must tell her that her behaviour is outrageous.

[With a fine assumption of paternal authority.] I want to talk to you. Your mother and I have sent for you.... [Breaking out.] Now what does all this mean? It’s ridiculous nonsense. You’re surely old enough to have learnt a little self-control.

[Calmly.] I’ve shown a good deal of self-control during the four years of my married life, father. I was afraid it was growing into a habit.

[Quietly.] I lived with George as long as I could. I put up with more than any woman I know would have done. But there are some things no one should suffer who has any self-respect.

Why have you never said a word to your mother about it? I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t get on with George. I don’t suppose you’ve ever expressed a whim that he hasn’t gratified. Your allowance is princely. Your pearls are the envy of every woman in London.

[Ignoring the second sentence and pouncing on the admission.] Then what have you got to complain of?

Oh, my dear, I hoped it was idle gossip. A man as much in the public eye as George Winter—the most prominent financier of the moment—is certain to be talked about.

That’s the kind of thing a tactful woman must close her eyes to. You’re a woman of the world, Kate. You know what men are. You must extend a certain degree of licence to a man of George Winter’s temperament.

You don’t understand, father. I bore my life till I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’m not the sort of woman to make scenes. I held my tongue, I closed my eyes, till something happened which I couldn’t endure. I’ve left him fully decided to divorce him. Nothing that you can say will move me.

But you can’t divorce him. You’ve accused him of nothing but infidelity. You can’t be so ignorant of the law....

[Interrupting.] I’m not at all ignorant of the law. I assure you that he has complied fully with all the conditions which are needful.

Oh, father, you’re not going to tell me that that, too, is usual in polite society, for a man to.... Oh!

I wonder if you’d go and read your Times, Frank. I should like to talk to Katie alone.

[With a look from his wife to his daughter.] Eh, very well. Perhaps you can do something with her. Tell her what it means if she persists. I suppose I shall find the Times in the library.

[With a smile.] Your father has such a power of delusion. He never looks at anything but the Daily Mail, but he’s quite convinced that he reads nothing but the Times.

[Passionately.] Oh, mother, you’ll stand by me, won’t you? You know what I’ve gone through. If you care for me at all you must have some pity.

You’ve lived a good deal apart. Like civilized people you’ve made the best of a mutual want of sympathy. I should have thought George interfered with you very little. I have an idea that no woman would care to undergo the—inconvenience of proceedings for divorce without a very good reason. You’ve got a peculiarly fastidious taste, Katie. It must be something rather out of the way that induces you to expose your private life to all and sundry.

[With a slight smile.] Your indignation is almost an answer in itself, isn’t it? I suppose you want to marry.

[Defiantly.] I haven’t. When I thought that everything was over for me and that life was meaningless, I found it was only just beginning. And I thanked God for all I’d gone through because perhaps it made me less unfit for the great love that descended upon me.

And you’ve made your arrangements, I suppose, to be married as soon as the decree is made absolute?

Your father wishes me to tell you that if you quarrel with George it will ruin him. He could hardly keep the position that George has given him on his various boards.

Do you want to cheat me again out of the little happiness that seems in store for me?

[Blandly.] My dear child, I had a business engagement with your father. It’s unreasonable to expect me not to keep it because you have temporarily abandoned the conjugal roof.

[Interrupting.] What can I do to show you that I’ve made up my mind for good and all?

Even after one’s made up one’s mind, it’s not too late to listen to reason.

My father owes you a lot of money. He’s chairman of half your companies. He thinks that if I divorce you he’ll have to pay that money....

[With his tongue in his cheek.] I know him well enough to feel certain that he would never wish to retain them.

Now look here, Kate; listen to me carefully. You know that all our interests are in Central America. The Lewishams had it all their own way out there till I came along. They owned the railways and the mines and the trams—everything that was worth having. Well, I knew I couldn’t oust them, but I thought I could make them take me in. I’ve been fighting them tooth and nail for ten years. They’ve done all they could to smash me by fair means and foul, but they haven’t succeeded. And now I’m in sight of my goal. I can force them to come to terms.

The Lewishams got on to a big thing—a mine called the Campo del Oro. But that earthquake the other day queered their pitch, and they offered bills when hard cash was the only thing to do the trick. I thought that what was good enough for the Lewishams was good enough for me. I knew that if I could get it they’d have to take me in. I had two hours to think it over. I found the cash and bought the mine last week.

And straight, straight as a die. I’m expecting his report every day. He may cable me at any moment. Then I shall get to work. I’m going to float the mine as a company with a capital of half a million. Your father will be chairman, and he ought to make close on fifty thousand out of it. For a reason I needn’t tell you, we can’t afford to wait. We must have ready money, and that means floating the company at once. My only chance is in Middlepool, where three parts of my backing have come from before. We shall soon be in the middle of a General Election. And you know how uncertain my seat in Middlepool is. I keep it only by my personal popularity. I’m at the mercy of the Nonconformists, and if there’s talk of a divorce it’s all U.P. with me. They’ll make me retire before the election, and if that happens the new company won’t stand a dog’s chance.

Because with the general public nervous, I shall have to depend on Middlepool, and there I can only float it on my personal character.

I’m afraid you’ll think it very selfish, but I haven’t any more power of self-sacrifice in me.

If the Campo del Oro is a failure, it’ll knock down all the other companies I’m connected with. The Lewishams will seize the opportunity to make a raid on me. I’m standing on the edge of a precipice, and anyone who cares to give me a shove will send me over.... It’ll mean your father’s ruin and mine—I dare say you don’t mind that—but it’ll also mean the ruin of thousands of poor investors all over the country. Three-quarters of the population of Middlepool will lose their savings.

I haven’t much sympathy with the gamblers who want to make money without working for it. If they lose, it’s their own look out.

[To Etchingham.] I think you’d better go now. The rest of our conversation doesn’t need any listeners.

Don’t be a damned fool. It’s a matter of life and death to me, and d’you think I’m going to ... [He stops.] Please, Lady Francis.

[With a twinkle in his eye.] I don’t think your elopement receives the unqualified approval of your parents.

D’you want to repeat that odious scene of last night? Surely we said all that we had to say to one another.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] You know, I wouldn’t have played the fool with other women if you hadn’t shown me very clearly that you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

[With a chuckle.] After all, it isn’t as if I cared a tinker’s cuss for the whole lot of them.

[Flushing.] And you think that makes it any better? I think I could have forgiven you if you’d had any love for those wretched women. But it wasn’t even that. You exposed me to all that humiliation merely to gratify your vanity. When I’ve seen how you’ve treated those women I, even I, have been sorry for them.

If you like I’ll give you my solemn word of honour that you shall have no cause to complain in future.

[Hesitating.] A year ago I would have said again that it wasn’t true. I didn’t know what love was.

I’d just won a seat that they’d given me because they thought I hadn’t a chance. I won it off my own bat, because I imposed myself on Middlepool and forced them to vote for me. I was in the public eye. I was a power already. The world seemed at my feet.

All that’s very harmless. You flattered me. The life you offered me seemed so large, so full, and I was very young. I was dazzled by your brilliancy and your success. I mistook it for love.

And I married you because I wanted a wife. You happened to have an uncle who’s a duke, and aristocratic connexions are devilish useful in England to a Radical politician.

It was a business arrangement on both sides, and you’ve had your full share of the profits.

You’d always lived in a pokey way and I gave you magnificence. I’ve kept even the spirit of my part of the bargain. Your father wasn’t mentioned in the settlements. But every stick of furniture in this house has been bought with my money. The very clothes on your mother’s back are paid for by me.

You don’t think your father is worth the money I give him. He’s as incompetent as all the rest of these damned fools who come from the West-End and think they can make money in the City. The nincompoop thinks himself a financial authority. The charwoman of a bucket-shop could give him points.

Nowadays even a country curate will fight shy of a title on a prospectus. The salaries he gets are merely payments for you.

Oh, you’ve said all this so often. For years you’ve bullied me with your money. I was such a fool, because you said it was dishonest of me to go, rather than that even you should have the smallest cause to blame me, I bore everything. I clenched my hands and suffered.

I thought I should have the strength to suffer to the end. But I haven’t. If you bought an article and it hasn’t turned out worth the money you gave for it, that’s your look out. You see, you’ve taught me something after all.

Now, look here; I’m willing to meet you half-way. I don’t ask you to come back to me. You can live as you like and where you like. I’ll give you five thousand a year. Your father can keep his directorships. The only thing I ask is that you shouldn’t apply for a divorce and that you should appear with me at certain public functions.

[Passionately.] I want to be free. I’ve lived in an atmosphere of lies and hypocrisy till I can hardly breathe. Your good nature is merely a pose. Your generosity is merely an advertisement. You care for nothing but your own self-advancement. And I want to be rid of the horrible feeling that all sorts of shady things are going on around me that I don’t know.

[In his rage hardly able to articulate.] Damn you, how dare you say that to me?

[Shaking herself free.] I’ll tell you what I mean. I know that if the occasion arose you wouldn’t hesitate to steal.

For years I’ve been tortured by the horror of it. Each pearl you’ve given me—and you’ve thrust them upon me—I’ve asked myself if it was honestly come by. And that’s why I want to escape from you—not only because you’ve been odiously cruel to me, even now when you’re trying to persuade me to return to you, and because you’ve flaunted before me one vulgar intrigue after another—but because I feel that all this wealth rests on lying, and swindling, and roguery.

[Banteringly.] Well, you must confess that so far I’ve been eminently successful in not getting found out.

[Taking no notice of his remark.] And now surely you have nothing more to say to me.

[With a bland smile.] My dear, knowing how important it is to me that you should return to the conjugal roof, you don’t imagine I have come without some means to persuade you.

I assure you you’re wasting your time. You’ve always told me it was valuable.

[In his most delightful manner.] You seem to be under the delusion it rests with you to make conditions.

[Taking a letter from his pocket and quietly smoothing it out on a table.] I’ve never suffered from that form of snobbishness which makes many self-made men hurl their origin in the face of a British public only too anxious to pretend it thinks them the scions of a noble house. But I have never concealed from you that mine was humble.

[Ignoring the question.] That is one of the pills you had to swallow when I married you and your excellent but impoverished family. I started life with neither friend nor money, but with exceptionally fine parts. I soon discovered that the simplest way to succeed is by blackmail. It is astonishing how many men keep a large-sized skeleton in their cupboards. If you only get a sight of those discreditable bones, you can often make a whole family your bosom friends. I’m not boring you, am I?

This is a copy of a letter which you may remember. The original was so crumpled that I can’t help thinking you were romantic enough to sleep with it under your pillow. It begins: My very dear friend....

I can never understand why people are such fools as to write love-letters. I never do. I only send telegrams.

When I made you a present of your dressing-case, I kept the duplicate key in case you lost yours.

[Indignantly.] I thought I could trust you. It never struck me that you’d pry into my private papers.

[With a chuckle.] Nonsense. You were so taken with the dramatic gesture of leaving the house in a pink satin opera cloak that you forgot all about it.

I wonder what a clever counsel would make of it. I can imagine it read in such a manner that those vague words should gather form and substance. A little irony, a grotesque emphasis here and there, and I can see the junior bar rolling with laughter. I don’t imagine a parliamentary light like your friend Robert Colby would take ridicule very well. It’s only by his entire lack of humour that he’s risen to the exalted position he now adorns.

[Good-humouredly.] My dear, I’m going to bring a counter petition, that’s all. You want to wash your dirty linen in public, let’s have an entire spring cleaning.

[Scornfully.] Oh, my dear George, if you only knew how indifferent I am to such a threat! We haven’t done anything with which we can reproach ourselves.

[Banteringly.] You astonish me, my dear Kate. Surely it can’t have slipped your memory that Robert Colby, snatching a brief and well-earned holiday from affairs of state, made a tour of North Italy last Easter, and you accompanied him.

[Flaring up.] That’s not true. You know it’s not true. I went with Barbara Herbert....

[Interrupting, with a twinkle in his eye.] And a maid. It’s always a little unsafe to trust maids, especially Scotch maids with strongly religious principles.

[Taking a paper out of his pocket.] Here is another interesting little document that I’ve been at some pains to acquire. Being, alas! aware that the wife of my bosom might—turn troublesome one day or another, I thought it safe to have a weapon in my hand for future use. It is a list of the hotels at which you stayed. Shall I read it to you?

[Hugely amused.] At Milan you stayed at the Palace, and Robert Colby at the Cavour.

But perhaps finding the Palace noisy, and trusting in Mr. Robert Colby’s better judgment, at Venice you both stayed at the Danielli.

I find in my Baedeker that there are twenty-seven hotels in Venice, but I daresay it was very natural that you should both hit upon the Danielli. And you took the precaution of arriving twenty hours after him. But at Ravenna, flinging prudence to the winds, you arrived on the same day, by the same train, and you put up at the same hotel.

There was only one vacant room on the first floor, and of course I insisted that Barbara should take it.

Unselfish in the extreme, and just like you, my dear; but don’t you think it was a little indiscreet?

I’ve often thought that was the greatest drawback of innocence. It makes one so devilish imprudent.

I went to Italy with your express consent. I wrote and told you that I’d met Robert Colby. Chance threw us together in Venice; we found we were making practically the same tour, and we joined forces. I saw no harm in it. I see no harm in it now. You can make what use of the admissions you like.

And do you think you will be able to persuade a British jury that you and Robert Colby travelled through Italy together merely to look at churches and pictures?

George, I know now that I never cared for you, but I promise you on my word of honour that I’ve never been unfaithful to you.

My dear, it’s not a question of convincing me—I am the most trusting, the most credulous of mortals—but of convincing the twelve good men and true who form a British jury.

You’re not a fool, George. You know people, and you know what I’m capable of and what I’m not. In your heart you’re certain that I’ve done nothing that can give you any cause for complaint. I’ve suffered a great deal during these four years—I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to go through what I have—I implore you not to drag me through this horror.

[Dropping his bantering tone, quickly and sternly.] You must know me very little, Kate. My whole life is at stake, and you think I’m going to be moved by entreaties or abuse? I’m at the most critical point of my career. Part of my strength is that I never deceive myself. I’m only an adventurer. My millions are paper millions, and I want to be in such a position that if I’m in need of half a million I can go to the big men and get it, and if one of them asks me for half a million I can afford to put it down. And now, if only I hold on, I shall get everything I want. And you come and whine before me and play the fool. What d’you think I care for your twopenny-halfpenny love-affairs? Do what you like. I don’t care, so long as you’re not flagrant.

That anyone can be such a fool as to let love interfere with his life! It’s so unimportant.

Well, I give you your choice. If you bring an action against me I bring a counter-petition.

[Stung into defiance.] My choice is made long ago. I’m strong in my innocence.

You don’t mean to say you’re so simple-minded as to imagine he can do anything but resign his seat if he were made co-respondent in a divorce case? They say, if we get in again, he’s to be given the Ministry of War. Humpty-Dumpty. It’s the end of his political career.

[Taking out his watch.] It’s nearly twelve now. I’ll wait. And you shall talk to him.

[With a flourish.] This is the Napoleon of Finance. He owns seventeen companies, five gold mines, two railways, a house in Portman Square, two places in the country, a yacht, five motor-cars, the family of Etchingham....

Have they interrupted you, darling? I thought you had nothing more you wanted to say.

I warned you not to eat that pâté de foie gras last night, my dear. It always disagrees with you.

[Interrupting.] And being a practical person I promptly inquired what were his worldly possessions.

They’re not only nil, they’re astonishingly nil. In point of fact, if you reckon debts they’re positively minus.

Well, I thought he might manage one of your railways or be your chauffeur, or if you didn’t think he was good enough for that you might make him director of one of your companies.

No, I didn’t mean that. But there are circumstances that you don’t understand. Mr. O’Donnell can’t ask George to do anything for him. Mr. O’Donnell....

[With a twinkle in his eye.] Then I may take it that you tried to get into the Army and failed?

When a young man of family and education tells me he wants to go into the City, I know it’s because he’s too incompetent to do anything else. Fifty years ago the fool of good family went into the Church, now he goes into the City.

I can’t imagine why everybody’s so afraid of you, George. You’re an old dear.

A heart of gold, that’s what I always tell Kate. [To O’Donnell.] Come and see me to-morrow morning, and we’ll have a talk about things.

Of course you look upon me as a damned bounder. I know that. I wasn’t educated at Harrow. My father was a hatter at Middlepool, a Nonconformist, and an aitchless one at that. I went to sea when I was fourteen, and when I was your age I was earning twenty-five bob a week as clerk in a bucket shop. Of course I’m a damned bounder.

Well, you see, father’s sure to kick up a bit of a row because Teddie’s so absolutely stony, but if you say you’ve given him a job....

George, you’re not going to take Teddie O’Donnell in your service. You must understand it’s impossible.

Anne will have to be told the facts, and she’ll see at once that it’s out of the question for Teddie to accept favours from you.

Do you think she’ll be pleased when she’s told that, owing to your unreasonableness, her marriage can’t take place? Are you sure she won’t say that she has no quarrel with me?

It seems rather selfish on your part, doesn’t it? If Anne’s heart is set upon marrying this rather foolish boy, have you the heart to prevent her?

You’ll find self-sacrifice one of the forms of self-indulgence in which people are never wildly anxious to take turn and turn about.

I’m not sure. I like dealing with gentlemen. When they go into the City they take to dirty work with an alacrity which you often don’t find in the City man born and bred.

Even if there was nothing else, I would do all I could to prevent a decent boy from being exposed to your influence.

Well, you may try yours on Anne. Tell her that I’ll start her young man on four hundred a year, and I’ll allow her a couple of hundred more, so that they can marry next week if they want to. And add that you are divorcing me, and it would be monstrous if either of them accepted my offer.

Oh, I know well enough that you didn’t make him pretty speeches because you took any interest in doing a kindness. It was merely another coil of the chain you’ve twisted round me. Oh, it’s fiendish. Each way I turn I find that you bar my way.

I’ve shown him in the morning-room. He said he would wait till you were disengaged, ma’am.

With my best wishes. I’ll go and discuss the weather and the crops with your excellent father, and you shall discuss the situation with Robert Colby.

Suggest a counter-petition and see how he takes it. My own impression is that he’ll run like a rabbit.

And if he does, you know whose arms are open to receive you. Whose 60 Mercedes is panting to take you to whose sheltering roof.

Of course I know you wouldn’t really let me interfere with anything serious, but it’s very pleasant to flatter myself that the whole country is waiting while you’re wasting your time with me. D’you know what I’ve done?

I suspected what your note meant, but I’m anxious to hear it from your own lips.

I’ve crossed the Rubicon. I’m seeing my solicitor to-day, and the petition will be filed as soon as ever it’s possible.

I want you to assure me again that I’m right. I’m so weak. I feel so utterly defenceless.

[With the tenderest of smiles.] D’you think it’s needful? I’m so glad to think you’ve never made love to me. There was all the love I wanted in the look of your eyes, and your voice, though you said quite commonplace things, told me that you cared for me.

I’m very grateful to you. Now more than ever I want to feel quite sure that we have nothing to reproach ourselves with.

Do you think I find it any easier? Sometimes when I’ve been dreadfully lonely, dreadfully wretched, I’ve longed to be able to rest my head on your shoulder, and I’ve thought I might have loved my tears if you could have kissed them away.

I was dreadfully unhappy then. Everything I tried seemed to go wrong. I was utterly dispirited, and I couldn’t help writing.

I read the letter till I knew every word by heart. Sometimes I wonder how I could have borne my life at all except for the knowledge that you cared for me.

D’you want me to say it in so many words? Why else d’you think I’m exposing myself to all the humiliation, all the horrors that are before me? Yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.

You’ve meant so much to me, Kate. All the success I’ve had I feel that I owe to you. Sometimes I’ve hated the intrigues and the littleness of politics. I’ve been tempted to give the whole thing up. But you put fresh courage into me. It’s because of you that I’ve been able to ignore the rest and just keep my eyes fixed always on the greatness of the aim.

[Gaily.] Wretched woman! And every jack one of the papers has given a leader on it.

[Laughing.] What nonsense! Of course you’ve had much more important things to think about.

Yes, I burnt my ships behind me. I said I thought some form of compulsory service was essential. Perigal’s going to the country at once. I think we shall get in. And if we do ... I wish to goodness they’d give me the War Office. Of course, after six years in office we can only hope for a small majority, and every seat will count. I wonder what will happen at Middlepool.

Yes, that’s just it. As long as he was there the seat was safe. I wonder if anyone else will be able to hold it.

Quite. And rightly. No man’s obliged to go into Parliament. If he does it’s his duty to keep clear of scandal.

That might be very difficult. A man might be an object of scandal, and yet be perfectly innocent. Supposing—a malicious person brought an action for divorce against him. It might be merely an attempt at blackmail. It would be monstrous to punish him for something that wasn’t his fault.

D’you honestly think that’s a possible case? If a man is shot at—it’s true he may not be technically guilty—but he can hardly be blameless. If a case can be made out at all against him he must have done something very foolish.

George Winter only went into the House for his private ambition. He contested a seat in order to give himself a stronger financial position, and now he wants to use his money to force himself into some sort of job. We’ve got no use for people like that.

[As if she were changing the conversation.] I wonder what you’d do if you were beaten at the General Election?

[With a laugh.] I don’t think my constituents will throw me out as long as I behave myself.

[After a little pause.] It would just about break me up. Politics are my whole life. I can’t imagine existence without the House of Commons. And I have so much to do. If they’ll only give me a chance I want to.... [Suddenly stopping himself.] But, good heavens, I’m just going to make a speech.

[With an affectionate smile.] You dear.... Now you must go. I’ve got ever so much to do, and I’m sure you ought to have.

Certainly not. I think nine men out of ten are rogues or fools. That’s why I make money.

And what’ll you do when you come across the tenth man, who’s neither rogue nor fool?

I shall. But I’ve looked for him so long that I can’t help thinking he doesn’t move in my set.... Now and then I’ve thought I’d really got him. But while I was scratching my head and wondering how the deuce I was going to manage, I’ve seen an itching palm steal softly out, and I knew it wasn’t the tenth man after all.

No, let him come up. Perhaps it’s something important, and he’ll want to see me too.

He’s the secretary of two or three of our companies. He manages the office and that sort of thing.

I went round to Portman Square, Governor, and they told me you were here; I thought I’d better come on at once.

What the devil’s the matter, Fred? You’re looking like a dying duck in a thunderstorm.

Why the deuce didn’t you ring me up? I’d have come down to the office at once. Now we’ve got that we can fire away.

Why, there’s nothing there. We’ve been done in the eye. The mine’s worthless.

If that’s true, the hundred thousand we paid for it might as well have been thrown down a drain-pipe.

THE SECOND ACT

[With a sigh.] I can’t understand that with such a father and such a mother, you should be such a monster of determination.

[After a quick look at her.] Dr. O’Farrell says your father will be well enough to come downstairs to-morrow.

Aren’t you tired of staring at the house opposite? You’re not expecting anyone, are you?

You’re dreadfully restless. [With a faint smile.] I’m growing quite exhausted.

They mustn’t let him up. I won’t see him. It’s monstrous that I should have to put up with this.

My dear, don’t worry. George hasn’t made any attempt to see you for a fortnight.

[Indignantly.] What d’you want? You’ve got no right to force yourself upon me.

I can’t help what father said. It’s my business. I can allow no one to interfere with me.

Surely you must see that from now all communications between us must pass through our lawyers.

My dear, your husband is six feet high, and broad in proportion. I’ll tell Thompson to kick him downstairs if you like....

Oh, Thompson, I’m expecting three gentlemen here at five o’clock. You’ll show them into the library, and let me know the moment they come.

That’s precisely what I came to tell you.... I suppose you’ve been talking. There’ve been references to a dispute between us in the Middlepool papers, and the Herald, the Conservative rag, has stated in the current issue that you are divorcing me.

That’s where you’re mistaken. The Argus is printing a special edition with a complete and authoritative denial of the whole story. I’ve issued a writ for libel against the Herald.

[With a chuckle.] The day after Kate left Portman Square I came to the conclusion that the house needed re-decorating. I’m having it papered and painted from cellar to attic. When it’s finished I shall start again.

But that’s not enough. The Middlepool people are nervous about the whole thing. You know Swalecliffe—he’s the Nonconformist minister—one of those confounded busybodies who go poking their noses into everybody’s private life. He’s on my committee. He and Ford control the dissenting interest between them.... They’ve got it into their heads that they want the truth from you.

Oh, he’s the richest man in Middlepool. He’s one of my directors on the Middlepool Investment Trust. Hard as nails! Shrewd as they make ’em! But a Nonconformist to the tips of his fingers. He’s just built a Congregational church out of his own pocket. He’s a corker to deal with.

They’re coming here at five o’clock with Boyce, my agent, to ask Kate if there’s any truth in the rumours.

Of course it’s outrageous! But what d’you expect from a parcel of sneaking Middlepool dissenters?

She’s going to say it’s the first she’s heard of it. Then they’re going to ask her if she’s divorcing me, and she’s going to—repudiate the suggestion with all the scorn at her command.

[Satirically.] Or do you want me to tell them before your face that every word they’ve heard is true? Yes, I’ll see them. I’ll settle the whole thing. And then I shall be rid of this persecution. But I shall tell them the exact truth.

It’s a delusion of the public that the Prime Minister has nothing to do but pay afternoon calls. [He turns to George Winter.] I’m very glad to see you here.

[Making himself comfortable in an arm-chair.] I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to read the papers for some days. What do they say about it?

My dear, a wise Prime Minister looks upon it as a privilege to fulfil the intelligent anticipations of the press.

I hope it’s not true that you’re going to give Emily Lascelles the Home Office?

Good heavens, you talk as if your sex were already comfortably installed in the House.

You know perfectly what I mean. It doesn’t matter about the men, because all the work is done by the permanent officials. But their wives are quite another matter. I tell you frankly it will be a great mistake if Emily Lascelles goes to the Home Office.

She can’t entertain. She doesn’t know a word of French. She dresses abominably.

[Ironically.] That settles it. Emily Lascelles shall not go to the Home Office.

Oh, George, Frank bought a print of Napoleon the other day that he wants to show you. Do come up, will you?

I’m up to my eyes in work! I’m afraid I could hardly find time for a chat in the middle of the afternoon without a rather special object.

But your husband’s presence leads me to suppose that your common sense has made my errand unnecessary.

I make a point of never believing the disagreeable things that are said about a man who subscribes so handsomely to the Party funds as your husband.

My dear child, I’ve known you all your life. Your mother is my first cousin. We all desire nothing more than your happiness.

Ah!... It appears that two prominent supporters of your husband are coming up from Middlepool this afternoon to get from your own lips a denial of the rumours that have been circulating in the constituency.

We’ve been in for six years. We’re dissolving Parliament at once. I don’t know if we shall get in again. It’ll be a very close shave. We can’t afford to risk a couple of seats....

Yes, yes, of course. Neither you nor Robert Colby has anything to reproach himself with. That is obvious. But ... well, I gather that the evidence is such that a prima facie case could be made out. It would be awkward just at this moment, for all of us—I myself could wish that my relationship to your dear mother weren’t quite so close. The British people for some reason always judge moral delinquencies on the Radical side with great severity. I have always thought it a hardship that the Tories should have a sort of prescriptive right to the more amusing forms of immorality.

Let us understand one another plainly. Do you mean that if my husband drags Robert Colby through the Divorce Court, you’ll throw Robert overboard, even if his innocence is proved through and through?

My dear, no one is so innocent that there’s not occasion for many people to shake their heads and say: One never knows. I don’t suppose any Prime Minister would invite a man to enter his cabinet who’d been co-respondent in a divorce suit.

Oh, you drive me mad. My whole happiness is at stake, and you can pause to smile at that odious cynicism.... You’ve known Robert and me all our lives. Won’t you believe in us? Won’t you stand by us?

[Very kindly.] My dear, in the position entrusted to me I can’t take risks.... I dare say you know that one of the items in our programme is a modified form of compulsory service. I don’t know that I altogether like it myself, but it’ll take the wind out of the Tory sails, and we’ve got to do something. Robert has enthusiasm and he believes in the measure. He’s just the man to pilot it through the House.

[After a moment’s reflection.] Robert and I have never hidden anything from one another. He wouldn’t wish me to decide on a matter that concerns us both so nearly without consulting him. Do you object to my putting the whole thing before him?

Not a bit! But I can tell you at once what his answer will be. He’ll say that he loves you, and if he must choose between you and everything that has seemed to make his life worth living, he chooses you without a moment’s hesitation.

But while he’s in the very act of renouncing the world for your sake, look into his eyes, and perhaps you’ll see in them—oh, only for a moment, and you’ll have to look sharply—the shadow, the merest shadow of regret.... And perhaps in ten years, when I bring an ill-spent life to a close, you’ll say to yourself: If I hadn’t sacrificed him, he might be standing now in the shoes of that poor old incompetent Perigal.

[Hoarsely, more moved than she wishes to show.] I don’t believe Robert is ambitious.

You have to be a shrewd observer always to know the difference between ambition and patriotism.

I asked Colby to fetch me in it so that we might run down to the House together.

I’ll do my best to entertain you while Mr. Perigal is gone. [Mr. Perigal leaves them, and Colby goes up to her gaily.] I jumped for joy when he sent me a note asking me to call for him here.

I’m always afraid that I shall bore you if I come too often. I rack my brains for plausible excuses to present myself at your front door.... What’s the matter, Kate?

Oh no, don’t. I don’t beg for.... [She breaks off.] If you didn’t think of it of your own accord, it’s too late.

Good heavens, it’s on the tip of my tongue every moment of the day! I have to hold myself in to prevent falling at your feet and telling you how much I care.

Oh, it’s too hard to restrain myself always. Have I been peevish and horrible?

[Hiding her face and beginning to cry on his shoulder.] You’re all I have in the world. I don’t know what I should do if I lost you.

[Looking up, withdrawing herself a little and looking into his eyes.] I wonder how much you love me?

Nothing. I’m being silly and sentimental. [Smiling.] Let’s be wise and as well behaved as we generally are.

I shall frighten you. You’ve never realized that I’m a creature of moods. Are you sure it’s wise to link your life to a woman who’s capable of making almost a scene without any provocation?

[Quite cheerfully, as if she were bantering.] I want to put a purely hypothetical case to you. Supposing you had to choose between me and your career—which would you choose?

Because I’m nervous and restless and rather bored. I wanted to hear you say that you wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice the world for my sake.

I thought Dr. O’Farrell said you were to stay upstairs till to-morrow, father.

[Smiling.] It certainly looks as if you were better when you start abusing your doctor.

[Settling himself heavily into an armchair.] That little joke of Angela’s didn’t quite come off.

I looked at it blankly, and then she said: Don’t you remember? It’s so-and-so. It gave me quite a start. It was the photograph of a young lady I’d been so madly in love with that I asked her to bolt with me—married woman and all that sort of thing—and, would you believe it? thirty years have passed since then, and upon my soul I didn’t know her from Adam!

Well, my friends, I do. I’m not a high-minded, quixotic fellow like you, and I don’t mind telling you that I find it very agreeable to be Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Prime Minister. And yet, at the time, if anyone had given me the choice between my present position and a trip across Europe with the object of my affections, I wouldn’t have hesitated.

Well, we must be off. We mustn’t let even this charming lady interfere too much with the working of the British Empire.

You must get your mother to show you that photograph. Thirty years ago I thought the little hussy much more attractive than that. [Turning to Etchingham.] Good-bye, Frank. I hope your foot’ll be all right in a day or two.

I remember that little woman quite well. Not much to look at. I wondered at the time what Perigal saw in her.

[Interrupting.] Ah yes, of course. George didn’t mention it. I suppose he wants me to sign cheques. I can do it just as well here as at the office. I expect Mr. Winter is in. Would you mind ringing?

I’ve given orders that no one is to be let up until those people arrive from Middlepool.

By Jove, I’d forgotten all about them. I say, George, you made a mistake in letting them come.

And I’ve told Lady Francis that we shall want this room to ourselves, and no one’s to come in without knocking at the door.

It was. Your gout has come in very handy. Sit down, Fred. We’d better make ourselves cosy. Quite comfortable, Etchingham?

I thought you might like to know at once that Macdonald’s report on the mine has come.

Yes, hand it over, Bennett. This is really a thrilling moment. I believe I’m going to make my fortune at last.

[Somewhat irritably.] Upon my soul, I don’t know why Macdonald can’t put it into plain English?

I thought you wouldn’t. The long and the short of it can be told in two words.

The mine was practically worked out when we bought it. There’s no gold there worth speaking of. We’ve been done in the eye, and we’re eighty thousand pounds to the bad.

[Hardly able to speak, his tongue sticking to his throat.] You’re—you’re joking!

With things in their present state a loss like that is about as much as we can stand.

George, don’t play the fool now. I’ve put all my eggs in this basket. I thought I was going to be rich at last. I wanted to get out of the whole thing. I wanted to live quietly and comfortably.

Go ahead as if we believed in the mine. We’ve got the Government expert’s report on which we bought the thing. We’ll put that in the prospectus.

It’s an axiom in mining circles that when you’ve got hold of a rotten thing the proper course is to pass it on to the British public.

Oh, we’ll pay dividends for a year or two. By then we shall have turned the corner, and we’ll find another carrot for the British public.

We’re in exactly the same position as the shop-boy who sneaks five bob from his master’s till to put it on a horse. If the horse comes in he puts it back, and if it doesn’t, he gets a month’s hard labour.... We shall get seven years.

Has it escaped your memory that you and I are Directors of the Middlepool Investment Trust?

We had to plank down eighty thousand pounds within twenty-four hours or lose the mine.

At that moment it was impossible for us to raise anything like that sum. The bank held a hundred thousand pounds of bearer bonds for the Middlepool Investment Trust. They delivered them on an order signed by you, me, and Bennett. We borrowed on them and completed the purchase of a worthless mine.

Don’t you remember one day, after an excellent luncheon at Pym’s, you were just off to a wedding, and I asked you to come up into the office and sign some papers?

D’you think you’ve got a plausible story to tell them? It sounds devilish improbable that a business man, a chairman of half a dozen companies, should sign documents without looking at them. Bennett and I will swear that you carefully read everything that was put before you—as, indeed, was your duty, my dear friend—and fully understood the nature of your act.

Mr. Bennett, you’ll testify that I never realized for a moment what I was doing. You told me they were purely formal documents. I saw George sign them. I added my signature without hesitation.

I think Mr. Bennett would be more than human if he cleared you at his own expense.

I should have to say that you agreed with us in the necessity of borrowing the bonds with the idea of putting them back as soon as we’d floated the company, and that you signed the order to the bank with full knowledge of the seriousness of your act.

You’ve tricked me. You’re a common swindler. In a month we may all be in prison.

Well, I see my duty before me. I didn’t know, but now there can be no excuse for me. I must go to Scotland Yard at once. I shall make a clean breast of the whole thing.

Don’t be a silly fool. Listen to me. We’ve got you tight. If we go under, you go under too. Let there be no doubt in your mind about that.

But nothing can be done. The mine’s worthless. How are we to raise eighty thousand pounds?

We’ve got six weeks before we need replace the bonds. If we can do it by then no one will ever know they’ve left the cellars of the bank.

There’s no more chance of replacing them in six weeks than there is the day after to-morrow.

Yes, there is, if we can float the company. That’s where you come in. I’ve got to keep my seat. I want all my prestige. I can’t have a divorce. You must go to Kate at once, and tell her that the only way she can save you from prison is by telling these men who are coming from Middlepool that she has no cause for complaint against me.

It’s only by going on now that we can save ourselves and the money that’s invested in our companies.

[Irritably.] You wouldn’t have got into such a mess with Kate if you hadn’t made such a damned fool of yourself. Why couldn’t you leave these women alone?

[With a chuckle.] My dear fellow, you speak as if I were to blame. They simply flung themselves into my arms. It would have been very rude if I hadn’t occasionally pressed them to my bosom.

To go and tell my daughter that I’m a thief and a swindler, and throw myself on her mercy!

The alternative is prison.... It’s not very nice, penal servitude—is it, Fred? You know all about it. You can tell him.

Fred’s a solicitor who was struck off the rolls. He was sentenced to three years for misappropriating a client’s money.

Of course you didn’t. It’s not the kind of thing you’d expect him to brag about, is it? But it’ll go worse with him if we’re found out, because he’s been at it before. Tell him what it’s like, Fred.

I knew him before he went in. His name was Feltman then. And when they let him out I took him because I felt sure he had everything to gain by sticking to me, and everything to lose by giving me away.

He can tell you what you’re in for. What the broad arrow’s like to wear, and what the food’s like to eat. And the work—it’s a healthy life, regular hours—you’re strong for your age. I don’t see why you shouldn’t break stones in the quarries with the rest of us. Hour after hour with your back feeling as if it were going to break, and your arms aching, aching, but not so badly as your heart.

And you count the days, three hundred and sixty-five in a year, and you wonder if they’ll ever come to an end. And your mind keeps on working. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were a brainless hulk like the man who’s sweating away beside you; but you think, and you can’t help thinking. And you curse yourself. And you think of the people outside who are free to do as they like, and you think of the spring-time and the flowers, and you think of the pleasant streets of London. And then there’s the regret which wrings your heart day after day, and you wish—you wish a thousand times you were dead. You sleep, you’re too tired not to, even though you’ve got hunger gnawing at your vitals, for you’re hungry, always hungry—and in your sleep you dream that you’re back again in your home, happy and comfortable; and when you wake up and feel your hard prison bed, you cry like a child.

And then when you come out, it’s not over. You slink along the streets, feeling that it’s written on your forehead for every one to see, and your heart beats when you catch sight of a policeman. And at night it all comes back to you. You see it again, the warders, the convict gang, the prison food, and your back aches with the labour. And you wake shrieking with terror, shrieking, shrieking!

[Abruptly.] Now go to Kate, tell her what I’ve told you, and say the only way she can save you is by giving in.

[Gathering strength and courage.] I tell you I won’t. And you can go to Hell!

[Hardly able to believe his ears.] D’you mean to say you refuse to speak to Kate?

If I speak to her it’ll only be to tell her that you’re a rotten scoundrel, and it’s worth her while to put up with anything to be rid of you.

You think you can get off by turning on us, but you can’t. We’ve got you tight.

[With angry impatience.] It’s tomfoolery. We haven’t got time for highfalutin now. Those fellows can’t be kept waiting all night. Kate’s the only person who can save us, and you....

[Throwing the words at him.] I tell you I won’t. You’ve made a catspaw of me. And you thought you’d only got to say the word and I’d come to heel.

Don’t expect any mercy from him, my lord. He’ll do you in as sure as eggs is eggs.

I don’t want any mercy. You think you’ve got me tight. Don’t you know that I’ve got a way of escape whenever I choose to take it.

[Understanding.] Ah!... I tried it once, but I couldn’t do it. My hand shook. I let them take me.

[With a grim smile.] It is plain that you don’t think there’s anything more to be got out of me.

My dear fellow, our sex would be at an impossible disadvantage in its dealings with the other, if it were not for the most obstinate of all their passions.... Self-sacrifice.

You’ve given Kate such a training in it that I can’t help thinking it has become a habit.

[The Butler ushers in Mr. Swalecliffe, James Ford and Colonel Boyce. Mr. Swalecliffe is a Nonconformist Minister, clean shaven, with a sallow grave face. James Ford is a wealthy man, a pillar of the Nonconformist church in Middlepool and a local politician of importance; he is a large man, stout, oldish, badly dressed, with a slight North Country accent; he gives the impression of shrewdness, but also of complete honesty and straightforwardness. Colonel Boyce, who is George Winter’s agent, is spare and tall, bronzed, with grey hair and a grey waxed moustache; alert, neatly dressed and dapper. He is the kind of retired military man who may be seen by the score in Bath, Tunbridge Wells or Cheltenham.

How d’you do? I’m delighted to see you! I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?

Let me introduce you to my father-in-law. Mr. Swalecliffe—Lord Francis Etchingham.

When I suggested to Lord Francis that it would be more convenient for you to come here, he put his house at my disposal. My wife is staying here, you know. We’re doing up the house in Portman Square, and she can’t stand the smell of paint.

Will you have a drink? I can recommend my father-in-law’s whisky. I know it’s no good offering you one, Mr. Swalecliffe?

[Clearing his throat.] I should like to say, before we go any further, that it is with the greatest regret that Mr. Ford and I have come up to London on such an errand.

There’s been a lot of gossip in Middlepool, and, well, we thought the shortest way to settle it was....

I personally don’t think this is a matter of which the committee ought to take any notice. A man’s private life is his private life, and....

That’s all very well, Colonel. Winter’s an old friend of mine. We’ve had business dealings together for the past twenty years. But ... well, it’s a question of winning the election or losing it. There’s never been much in it one way or another, and fifty votes more or less will make all the difference.

I want to tell you frankly, Mr. Winter, that I should feel it my duty to vote against you, if there were any truth in the reports that have been going about. And I should feel it my duty to advise my congregation to follow my example.

That’s clear enough in all conscience. Gentlemen, the best answer I can make to you is that I receive you in my father-in-law’s house. My wife is upstairs in her mother’s boudoir. I give you my word of honour that there is not the smallest shadow of truth in any single syllable that you have heard. I have issued a writ for libel against the Herald, and....

Perhaps you would like my father-in-law to tell you that every word I say is scrupulously true?

We don’t doubt your word, Mr. Winter, but we came to London with a particular object.

[Rising.] Of course, of course, Etchingham, will you give these gentlemen the assurance?

[After a moment’s hesitation.] I think the whole thing’s damned impertinent.

We made up our minds that we must have a certain assurance from the lips of Mrs. Winter. Then we can go back to Middlepool with comfortable minds.

I merely wish her to answer the questions that were put to you in Colonel Boyce’s letter on behalf of the committee.

[Pretending to fly into a violent passion.] No decent woman would stand it. I refuse to ask my wife to expose herself to such a degradation.

That means that you don’t represent Middlepool in the next Parliament, George Winter.

I’d sooner lose my seat than expose a defenceless woman to such humiliation. You can go and tell that to your committee and be damned to you!

But we came up from Middlepool on the understanding that we were to see your wife, Mr. Winter.

We shan’t keep her more than five minutes. You’d be wise to let common sense get the better of your pretty sentiments.

But if my wife refuses to answer I warn you that I shall not say a word to persuade her. I think the whole thing’s a perfect scandal.

Tell Mrs. Winter that Lord Francis and I would be very much obliged if she’d come to the drawing-room for one moment.

I wish you to know that I have expressed myself very strongly all through against this proceeding.

[To George Winter.] Will you put the question to Mrs. Winter that we set in our letter to you of the day before yesterday?

It’s no use making any bones about it, Swalecliffe. Mrs. Winter, I’m sorry to put you in this position, but there it is, and it can’t be helped. There are busybodies everywhere, and Middlepool has its fair share of them. There’s been a lot of gossip about you and your good man, and if we don’t look out it’ll lose him the election.

Well, we want to be able to go back to Middlepool and tell them we’ve had it from your own lips that there’s no truth in these reports.

[Kindly.] Yes, yes, we won’t bother you any more. Thank you, very much! And I’m glad that you’ve put our minds at rest. George Winter, shake hands.

I’ll shake hands with you, but I can’t help saying that I could have expected more charity, more confidence in me from men who make a practice of belief in the Christian Church.

I can understand your vexation, Mr. Winter. But we were in a very difficult position.

Anyhow, we must get along, and if we look sharp we’ll catch the 5.40 back to Middlepool. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Winter. Good afternoon, gentlemen.

Mr. Bennett will show you out. Good-bye. Good-bye, Boyce. I shall be up at Middlepool in a day or two.... [As they are going out.] Oh, by the way, Boyce, a little bit of information for you—Robert Colby’s going to the War Office in the New Cabinet.

THE THIRD ACT

The scene is a spacious sitting-room in the Palace Hotel at Middlepool. It is sumptuously furnished with the lack of taste peculiar to such apartments. Everything is large and rich and rather stiff. It is obvious that the decorations have been carried out on contract by a first-rate firm. They are calculated to give the business man who engages the room the impression that he is getting his money’s worth.

On the left is a large French window, opening to the floor and looking on the square in front of the hotel. At the back is a door leading into George Winter’s bedroom. On the right are two doors; one leads into the passage, and the other is that of Catherine’s room. There is a telephone on the table.

It is some weeks later, between ten and eleven on the morning of the election.

Lord Francis Etchingham, Fred Bennett, James Ford, Colonel Boyce, and Mr. Swalecliffe. Mr. Swalecliffe is standing at the window.

When the curtain rises there is an excited buzz of conversation. Boyce is at the telephone.

[Speaking into the receiver.] Yes, Colonel Boyce. Be sure you don’t make a mistake.

They worried me a bit last night. And when I did get to sleep I heard them whistling away through my dreams.

[Nodding in the direction of George Winter’s room.] He sleeps next door, doesn’t he?

Yes, it is. You just walk down a flight of steps into the garden, and there you are within twenty feet of the line.

Worst place in Middlepool for a hotel. I told them so when they came to me about it. Wanted me to put money in it. Not me.

[Breaking in before James Ford has finished.] Surely Mr. Winter ought to be here by now.

He was booked to speak to the men at Parker and Gibbons at 10.30. But you know what he is. Half a dozen places at once. He’s about the most difficult person to catch I know.

Yes, of course I have; I’ve sent a dozen fellows after him to tell him to come to the hotel at once.

He’s not made him understand. When Winter’s told he’s expected at the Palace at once he’ll guess something’s in the wind.

If he does he’ll be sent on. I thought it would cause a lot of gossip if we had a meeting there. That’s why I suggested the hotel.

[Interrupting.] I wish to goodness you wouldn’t look so depressed, Mr. Swalecliffe.

You’re a business man, Mr. Ford. D’you think there’s any truth in this article?

You’d better ask Lord Francis. He’s chairman of the new company; I’m only an investor.

I’ve applied for ten thousand shares. You don’t suppose I like it when an article comes out in a financial paper on the day of issue that the mine’s practically worked out, and Winter’s expert has reported that the ore’s not worth the cost of crushing.

I don’t say he’s let me down. But he told me to put my shirt on it, and ... I don’t want ten thousand worthless shares.

It would be monstrous if people didn’t vote for him because of an article in a London newspaper.

You know what people are. They lose their heads. The seat has always been won and lost on the wobblers.

Well, we shan’t do that unless Mr. Winter comes at once and we make up our minds what to do.

I was never so taken aback as when Boyce showed me the telephone message from London.

[At the telephone.] I say, is that you, Masters? Has Mr. Winter been there? Well, send Rogers. Here. No, here, confound you! The Palace. [Putting down the receiver.] No, nothing’s been seen of him since early this morning.

It seems to me the whole thing has been about as disgracefully mismanaged as it could be.

If you’d ever tried to run an election you’d know it wasn’t so easy as all that.

Of course there’ll be some slackening off just now. A lot of working men voted when the polling stations opened.

I should think I did know. They’re going to set up the article as soon as it comes in.

And placard the streets with it. They’ve made arrangements to print off a thousand, and they’ve got their bill stickers all ready and waiting.

Nonsense! It’s business. We’d have done the same if we’d had the luck to get such a stick as this to beat Morrison with the very morning of the election.

I don’t know what the devil you mean by that. You seem to forget that you’re speaking of my son-in-law.

If you’ll wait a minute or two he’ll be here himself and you can say to him anything you want to.

What I can’t make out is why he chose this particular day to bring out his company.

[Speaking through.] Of course he could. It was only his obstinacy. I told him it was a bad time to give an American issue to the public.

I dare say he’s sent his car to take some one to the poll and he’s had to walk.

I wish to goodness I’d never thought of stocks and shares. I knew it was wrong. Oh, what a punishment!

The whole thing’s a pack of lies. It’s scandalous that such methods should be used to influence an election.

Hang it all, we can’t go on waiting, and waiting, and waiting. Isn’t there one of you who can do something?

I told him to hurry up. He was just going to speak to some fellows in a factory.

There was no time for him to ask. And he was talking to a whole crowd when I found him.

That’s just it. They say you’re floating it on the report the owners gave you when you bought it, and you’re holding back Macdonald’s.

[Looking over the article.] It’s extraordinary what a lot the papers know. [The telephone rings.] What is it? [He listens for a moment.] London call. You’d better go and speak to them, Fred. [Down the receiver.] No, don’t connect with me. Mr. Bennett will come along. [Bennett goes out.] It’s one of my brokers. Now let’s go on. As abuse I don’t really think very much of it. I could have said much unpleasanter things about myself.

I’ve not been fighting the Lewishams for ten years without getting some pretty hard words broken on my back.

I’ll read it you, shall I? [Reading.] “It is stated that Mr. Winter paid eighty thousand pounds for this precious mine. It would perhaps be interesting to inquire how he was able to raise such a sum at a time not only of general stringency, but of peculiar difficulty in the Central American market. Perhaps Mr. Winter, like King Midas, is able to turn into gold everything he touches and he may have been able to change his office furniture into precious metal. Perhaps not.” Childish, isn’t it? Do they think I’m going to let out my little trade secrets to please them?

My dear fellow, you don’t suppose I stole it, do you? That’s where the born financier comes in. He makes money as a conjurer makes a white rabbit appear out of a silk handkerchief.

[With a chuckle.] Like playing with loaded dice? How many shares have you applied for?

I didn’t mean to take them up, you understand. I haven’t got more than five hundred pounds in the world. I thought they were bound to go up half a crown and....

It’s been a lesson to me. I’ll never do anything like it again. I shan’t have the chance. If I have to pay for the shares....

I don’t want anyone to come into this concern who doesn’t believe in it. Make out a cheque for five hundred pounds to Mr. Swalecliffe.

Generous? Not a bit of it. You don’t think I mind having five hundred shares more, do you?

[Handing the cheque to Swalecliffe.] Here you are. [To James Ford.] D’you want me to buy your shares off you?

Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff. The Lewishams were willing to give their eyes for the mine, but I was too much for them. Now they’re crabbing it. That’s all.

I’ve no doubt of it. I dare say the five hundred half-crowns will be just as useful to me as to you. But I shall hold on. I want a bigger profit than that.

There’s your cheque. You can have it back again. I’m going to keep the shares.

[Good-humouredly.] Well, I don’t mind. It won’t make much difference to me. But don’t sell them, whatever you read in the papers. What’s a profit of half a crown? Wait till you’ve got a profit of five pounds, and then you can think of selling them.

Is that the Exchange? Give me 703, will you? That is Bishop and Jones, the printers, isn’t it?

Tell them to have everything ready to print off a couple of thousand posters at once. You’re just coming round in the car.

Hulloa? Will you get everything ready to print off a couple of thousand posters at once. I’m just coming round. Colonel Boyce. Yes. That’s it.

[Speaking through Colonel Boyce’s instructions to the printers.] What d’you think of this, Ford?

You see we’ve got the advantage that they have to print a whole article. And we only need a couple of sentences.

[Handing O’Donnell a second copy.] Teddie, jump into a cab and go round to the newspaper offices. And tell them to put that in their next edition. Biggest type they’ve got. Then go to the Committee Rooms and wait. I’ll ring you up there or come round.

What do you expect me to do; bang my head on the floor and tear out my hair? Can’t afford it. Takes me all my time to keep my hair on.

Yes. Look here, Ford. I’m due to speak in the Cattle Market now. I wish you’d go down and keep them going till I turn up. I shall only be ten minutes. You’ve got the line all right, Fred?

You must go up to London, Fred. There’s no one there with a head on his shoulders.

I thought that was the best thing myself. I’ve looked out the trains. I can just catch the express. I shall be there soon after one.

It’s not a matter of can. It must be stopped. And wire reassuring messages. We must hang on to the telephone for all we’re worth.

They’ve found out the truth. It’s there in black and white that the wretched mine’s worthless.

Ever since I knew I’ve scarcely closed my eyes at night. I wish I’d shot myself when you first told me.

My dear fellow, you’re much more comfortable here than you would be at Kensal Green.

And the worst of it is.... [He breaks off.] At first I was overcome with the horror of it. But little by little I’ve got used to it, used to your being a thief and a swindler.

And Bennett was a convict. It all seems quite natural now. And I can talk and laugh with you. And I eat by your side every day.

No one can make inquiries for three weeks. By that time we shall have gone to allotment, and the bonds will be safely back in the black box.

Of course we shall. This article isn’t going to do us any harm. I shall win the seat. That’ll give these Middlepool people confidence.

George, I believe Ford is uneasy. I don’t trust him. Supposing he found out about the bonds?

I never met the man yet who hadn’t his price. Flattery if he’s a fool, hard cash if he’s a wise man. But a price of some sort. There’s always a price.

Sometimes I’m afraid, you’re so confident. It’s impossible a thing like this can end well.

I believe in my star. I’ve been in tight corners before, but I’ve wriggled out of them. I’m stronger than ever I was. I’ve got ten times more brains than any of my competitors. The ball is at my feet and I’ve only got to set it rolling. What d’you think difficulties are to me? I’ve never been in better spirits, so alert, so buoyant, as during these last weeks when my neck has been in a noose and every policeman I passed might have a warrant in his pocket for my arrest. If there were ten times more difficulties I’d overcome them all. In ten years I shall be the richest man in London. In fifteen I shall be a peer. My God, I feel as if the world were an orange and I’d got my teeth into it, and I shall suck it dry.

I wonder how many ruined lives will be sacrificed to give you all you want. You walk over dead bodies and broken hearts.

Rot! I flutter the will-o’-the-wisp of gain before the covetous, and they follow. They want to make money without working for it. Well, I’m cleverer than they are. Swalecliffe gambles with his five hundred pounds. His five hundred pounds will find its way into my pocket. It’s his own look out. Each for himself and the devil take the hindmost. [With a start.] By George, I’ve got an idea.... The Lewishams can’t attack my stocks without weakening their own. We’re in the same boat, and if one of us shakes it both’ll topple out.

Well, we’ll attack the Lewishams. I’ll get on to MacLaren’s at once. Go to the post office and wire to Bennett. He’s sure to call at the office. Sell Lewishams. He’ll twig. By George, that’s the ticket. Why didn’t I think of it before? We’ll make the Lewishams sorry they started this game.

Good God, man, don’t suppose, do as I tell you. Don’t you see we’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain? I know my luck’s in. And I follow my luck. That’s genius.

SCENE II

I haven’t been sleeping very well here. We’re so near the trains, and they seem to run all night.

Thank heaven, it’s over. We shall know the result in half an hour, and to-morrow we can go.

I wish I could think so. I gave up my divorce because—because I was afraid. I couldn’t risk the regret that Robert might feel later. I should always have been looking for it.... One must never forget that love is a woman’s whole life, but it’s never more than part of a man’s, never.

I wrote and said I found it impossible to go on with my action. I begged him not to try to move me. I told him I was very unhappy.

He wrote very kindly. He made it as easy for me as he could. And now it’s all over. I’ve lost my last chance of happiness. I’m bound to my husband for the rest of my life.

[Smiling.] Yes. And I’m glad of what I’ve done. The only thing that helps me is the pride I take in all the great things he’s going to do. And it will have been me. I gave him the opportunity.

Well! You are strange people. How on earth can you sit there and sew while the counting’s going on? I’ve never been so excited in my life.

Well, it’s nearly finished now. Teddie said there’d be rather a scrummage when the result was known, and I’d better get out of the way.

It rather amuses me to be ordered about. Besides, I couldn’t help seeing that nobody wanted me. Teddie promised he’d bolt round as soon as the result was out. I say, let’s have some light, shall we?

I love an election. I’ve never had such a time in my life. I’ve enjoyed every minute of these three weeks. I hope Teddie’ll go into Parliament.

Oh, George will give us a rise. He says Teddie’s awfully useful. George is good, isn’t he?

[Abruptly, after a little, quick look at her.] You’re not angry with us, Kate?

You know, it’s so dreadfully hard to pretend I haven’t got eyes in my head.... Why don’t you make it up with George, Katie?

If you knew how things were between George and myself, and you were willing to accept his favours what do you expect me to say? I didn’t ask you not to. I knew if I had you would only have refused. I’m cynical enough to know that in this world each of us takes care of his own interests.

One has to take people as one finds them; George has always been charming to me. If you’d only make allowances for him....

[Interrupting vehemently.] Oh, my dear, don’t. I’m not in the humour to stand that. Leave me to lead my own life without interference. Surely it’s enough that to bind me to him George should give you an income to marry on. You can’t want more from me than that.

Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything that would hurt you.

[Recovering herself.] You haven’t. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make a scene, but my nerves are a little upset. I’m a very weak, selfish woman, audit’s dreadfully hard to be half as angelic as you think me. I’m very glad that you’re going to marry Teddie. You’re in love with one another, and if you haven’t much money, what does it matter? I’m sure you’ll be tremendously happy.

Winter, Morrison, Winter, Morrison. One vote on one side, one vote on the other. It seemed interminable.

Who can tell the effect of all these rumours and suspicions and attacks? They may just have made the difference. Oh, it’s maddening.

Even George is anxious. I know his face so well. He’s trying to appear as if he were certain.

Oh, father, don’t. It was very noble of you not to tell me anything before I decided. Now that I know the whole truth....

The only hope we’ve got is to go on. If he gets in, if we can pull things together, we may get out of the muddle. He’s positive of it. The only thing that held me up was the thought of all of you. If I’d gone to the police there and then—or made away with myself, it would have meant the ruin of all of you.

You think I was right, Kate, don’t you? It wasn’t just cowardice on my part?

But if it was all in vain? If he’s not able to float the company and the truth comes out, then I shall have sacrificed you for nothing.

I believe if he wins the election he’ll be strong enough to force the issue on them.

We’re going to buy the shares in when the tide turns in Central America. Things are looking brighter already. He’s promised me that no one shall lose a farthing. When that’s done I go. Oh, how thankful I shall be!

If it’s all right, then we’re safe. I’m sure it’s the beginning of the turn.

Just at the end I thought we were beaten. It was Morrison, Morrison, Morrison, until I almost screamed.

By Jove, it was a moment to live for when the figures were read out. You never heard such shouting.

When I left he was making a speech to the crowd. But one couldn’t hear a word, because every one was shouting at the top of his voice. I simply bellowed.

Yes. I forgot to give you his message. He sent his love to Kate, and said he’d be here in two twos.

He’s the greatest man I’ve ever known. He’s a perfect stunner. I don’t know what there is about him, but you can’t help believing in him. And he was so splendid this morning about those confounded lies in the paper. All the rest of them were as frightened as rabbits, but he never turned a hair.

How jolly of him to come quickly! [She runs to the door and opens it.] George, George!

You haven’t been worried about it? I knew I’d get in. I never had a moment’s doubt about it.

Hang it all, if you don’t believe in yourself, how can you expect other people to believe in you? Drinks, gentlemen!

I told the waiter on my way up. Here they are. [A couple of waiters come in with glasses and bottles of champagne.] No teetotalism to-night, Mr. Swalecliffe. By Jove, I’m thirsty. Pour it out. Pour it out.

Poor is the heart that never rejoices. Have you all got glasses, gentlemen? Come on, Lady Francis. Don’t be backward, Anne.

That’s right. Now then, Teddie. All ready? Gentlemen, I give you my wife, to whom this glorious victory is due.

Gentlemen, we’ve won a great fight. We’ve won in face of a campaign of lies, of misrepresentation, and of scandal. Truth always prevails. Honesty is the best policy. A glorious victory, gentlemen, and a triumph for English honesty, English plain dealing, and English integrity. Gentlemen, I drink your health.

Well, if I can’t persuade you, I suppose I can’t. I hope you’ll all have as good a night as I mean to.

Don’t you worry your head. It’s as right as rain. I tell you that nothing I touch can fail.

No. If you don’t mind I’d like to have a word with you when you can spare me a few minutes.

Tired? I don’t know what it is to be tired. When you write my biography, young man, you can say that after the hardest fought battle of the election, when the cheers of the multitude were still ringing in his ears, he sat down at midnight, fresh as paint, and talked business with the shrewdest man in Middlepool till break of day.

[Laughing.] Nonsense. I could drink a gallon, and be as sober as a judge at the end of it.

[To O’Donnell.] And you can add that I enveloped my mother-in-law in my arms.

[With a smile, warding off his attempt to embrace her.] I congratulate you. It’s been a great triumph.

Oh, it’s only the beginning. I’ve got the world at my feet. In ten years I shall be crying like Alexander because there are no more worlds to conquer.

No, go to bed. You’re young, and you want your beauty sleep. I’ll be bound you’re not worried by the trains. Where’s your room?

I won’t say good-night to you just yet. If Mr. Ford is not going to keep you long I should like to speak to you afterwards.

[With exaggerated gallantry.] I’m at your disposal, darling, now and always.

I told you I was justified in trusting my luck. Everything is coming out right. The Lewishams won’t be able to stand against me much longer. They’ll have to take me in. We’ll combine our interests, and then we shall hold Central America in the hollow of our hands. You’ll be in it too, James. You’re going to be a richer man than you guess. And when I’m in with the Lewishams I shall bide my time. Manny Lewisham can’t last much longer, and his sons are fools. When he’s gone I shall get the whole business in my hands. I’ve got ten times more brains than anyone in that market. There’s no one who can stand against me.

[Gaily.] Oh, is that what you want to talk to me about? I tell you that shan’t disturb my night’s rest. By the way, that reminds me: if I have won the election it was through no help of yours. I asked you to go down and speak in the Cattle Market, and when I got there I found there’d been no sign of you. It might have been devilish awkward.

[Very quietly, almost diffidently.] I was struck by one of the paragraphs in the article. The one about where you got the money from.

It struck me that the Middlepool Investment Trust had got a large batch of bonds lying in the bank.

They showed me an order for delivery of the bonds signed by you, Etchingham, and Bennett.

If they’re in their place when the auditor makes his examination no one has any question to ask.

[More sternly.] You had no more right to touch them than my office boy has the right to take a sovereign from the petty cash.

I’m a director of the Middlepool Investment Trust. I insist on the bonds being produced at once.

[Impatiently.] Don’t be a fool, James, you know as well as I do that business is business.

It’s no good trying to bluster with me, George. I’ve seen you do it at shareholders’ meetings and very effective it is sometimes, but this isn’t the time for it.

All right then.... I knew the mine was a good thing. I pledged the bonds to pay for it. I shall get them back as soon as the money comes in from the issue. Now you’ve got it.

[Insolently.] I suppose you want to come in with me. [He does not notice James Ford’s instinctive movement of repulsion.] I’ll give you your shares for nothing. That means ten thousand pounds, and if you hold on to them they’ll be worth fifty thousand in a year.

Thank you. I’m not going to risk a lifetime’s honest work for a few thousand pounds.

[With a slight smile.] You’ve been Mayor of Middlepool twice, and you’ve done a lot of work for the party. I can’t help thinking it’s almost time the Government showed some appreciation of your services.

You’ve mistaken your man, George Winter. I’ve worked like a nigger for thirty years. I’ve not let any chance slip by me, but I’ve never done anything that a man need be ashamed of. I’ve built up an honest business to leave to my sons, and an honest name. I’m too old to start being a rogue now.

Right’s right, and wrong’s wrong. You can’t get over that. I couldn’t rest for a moment if I thought any act of mine wasn’t above board. It’s no credit of mine, I’m just made that way.

[As if he were talking to a child.] Come, James, we’ve been good friends for twenty years.

[In a low voice.] This afternoon, when I found out what you’d done—well, I could have cried.

[Desperately.] How can I make you understand? You don’t seem to see that now I know what you’ve done I’m just filled with horror and loathing. If you’ve done this God knows what else you haven’t done. I don’t want to be hard on you. I must do my duty. I’m a director of the company. I put all my friends in it. I put my sister into it. And this mine. Is it true what that paper says? For all I know that’s a swindle too.

[With sudden anxiety.] You’re not going to push me down now that I’m almost at the top of the tree? I’ve got the world at my feet. If you’ll only give me a month I can put everything straight.

Five minutes ago it was a fortnight. I don’t believe it. These things don’t come right. When a man has crossed the line that separates honesty from dishonesty he never gets back.

If you give me away now it’ll mean a general smash. The only chance of saving things is to go on. The money’s gone. You won’t get it back by giving me up to the police.

I must take my chance of that. After all, if I don’t speak it makes me a party to the crime. It can be proved that I went to the bank to-day.

Now you’re saying something I can understand. If I show you by plain figures that I can put everything right if you’ll only give me time....

I tell you I can’t. I’ve got my wife to think of, and my boys. It’s theft, it’s the money of orphans and widows that you’ve taken, and there’s only one course open to me.

[Brokenly.] My God, what can I do? I trusted you as I would have trusted my sons.

You wouldn’t do that? You don’t seriously mean that you’d go to the police? It’s madness. It’s so impractical. It’s stupid.

I could never respect myself again if I.... It’s a matter between my conscience and myself.... Oh, George, why have you put me in this position?

Look here, old man, I’ve done wrong. I admit it. I’ve done something that other men have done before me and it’s come out all right. At the time I thought the slump would only last a few days, and I thought I should be able to replace the bonds in a week. It’s the only slip I’ve made. Don’t be too hard on me.... [With a break in his voice.] Have mercy as you hope in your turn to have mercy shown to you. Don’t ruin me for this one mistake. Let it mean something to you that I’m humiliating myself before you.... It wasn’t a crime. It was only thoughtlessness. Give me another chance.

We’ve gone through bad times and good together. I’ve been a good friend to you. You’ve never had anything to reproach me with till now.

Will it satisfy you if I give up the directorship of the Middlepool Trust? Give me six months to save my face and I’ll resign.

I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If the bonds are in their place by four o’clock to-morrow I’ll say nothing.

[Hardly knowing what he is saying.] But no one could get it. You know it’s impossible. Even if you gave me a week I couldn’t do it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. With the attack on us to-day we’re—we’re tottering. It’s as much as we shall be able to do to hold out till the tide turns. That’s not giving me a chance. Not a chance. To-morrow! It’s absurd!

If the money is not there by the time the bank closes I shall apply for a warrant.

Oh, it’s infamous. It’s damned hypocrisy. You don’t care if I’ve taken the money or not. You’re afraid of your own skin. And you’re jealous of me. It’s envy. I knew you envied me all the time. D’you think I’ve been taken in by you? You were a little tin god in Middlepool till I came along. You didn’t fight me like a man. You just sided with me, waiting for your chance to trip me up. You think when I’m gone you’ll have the field to yourself. Why shouldn’t you be the member as well as I? It’s mean. It’s mean. You with your damned Christianity, your parrot cries of honesty. Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!

[Quietly.] You see, you’ve gone too far. I shall never make you understand. You can’t realize that a man may be honest, even if he loses by it, just because he can’t help it, because he’s made straight as some men are made crooked.

You’ve got through the world by knowing that nine men out of ten are rascals. You’ve forgotten that the tenth man must cross your path at last.

[Bitterly.] It’s no good to me. I’m like a rat in a trap. You can get what fun you like out of seeing me wriggle.

Now that the election is over you can have no further use for me. I’ve carried out my part of the bargain scrupulously.

[Putting his hand in a dazed way to his head.] I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I understand that I’ve condoned all your offences towards me, and I’m helpless now to do anything. So you need have no fear that I shall interfere with you in any way. [He turns round and looks at her. He takes in at last what she is saying.] But there’s no reason that I should expose myself any longer to a humiliation that I found unbearable. I’ve come to tell you that now I’ve done all you exacted I’m going to leave you, this time for good. I’m starting early to-morrow morning for the Continent with my friend Barbara Herbert, and I shall not return. You can devise whatever explanation you think necessary, and you may be quite sure I shan’t contradict it. I shall be gone by the time you get up. You will find in my room all the trinkets you’ve given me. I wish to take nothing with me that I have received from you.

[With a shrug of the shoulders.] I think there is nothing more to be said. Good-bye. I trust you to leave me in peace. I promise on my side to do nothing that can inconvenience you.

Your going away doesn’t matter a damn to me. It means that I’ve been done in the eye. Those swindling rogues, the Lewishams, have got me at last. That article’s done the trick and I’m dished. You can go your own way now, Kate. You’ve got the better of me after all.

Oh, I can’t worry about your father now. He must look after his own skin. I’ve got enough to do to think of myself.

He’ll give me till to-morrow to replace them, but I can’t. It’s impossible. And he knows I can’t. Damned hypocrite! I shouldn’t complain if I’d been beaten fairly; but it’s so childish. And just when I’d got the reins in my hand. He can’t countenance dishonesty. It’s childish. I always distrusted him. Sanctimonious prig! He’s jealous of me. He wants to kick me off my perch, so that he can take my place. And I know him. I know him inside out. He’ll do what he says. [With angry scorn.] It’s his duty.

[With a dull roar, like a wild beast at bay.] No. D’you think I’m going to stand that, and a trial, and—and all the rest?

Bennett would give me away to save himself. I know him. There’s not a man I can trust. The only thing’s to have done with it at once. I must get out of it while I have the chance.

What else d’you expect me to do? D’you think I’m going to bolt to America, to be brought back in six months by a couple of detectives? Not much.

Wouldn’t it be better to stay and face it? If you’ve done wrong, can’t you accept your punishment? You’re young still.

They won’t have mercy on me. It’ll mean ten years. And when I come out, it’ll mean hiding, doing odd jobs, like Bennett, dirty work for other men who won’t risk their own skins. And what d’you suppose a life like that is worth to me? I want the power, and the notoriety, and the glamour. I wanted men to point me out in the street. I’ve aimed too high to be content with anything but the highest.

Come, Kate—honestly—if you loved me, wouldn’t you wish me to make an end of it?

I want half an hour to myself. You must let no one come to me under any pretext whatever.

I don’t trust James Ford. He may have gone to Scotland Yard already. Perhaps the detectives are already on their way.

Oh, I’m frightened. And what’s the good? I’m dead beat. Perhaps to-morrow I shouldn’t have the nerve.

I’m mixing my liquors. Bad habit, isn’t it? You’ll be ravishing in black, darling. It always suited you.

In half an hour you can go to bed.... I hope you’ll sleep as soundly as I shall.

[Going to the window.] Oh, it’s closing time. Enthusiastic politicians who’ve been turned out of the public-houses.

[Opening the window and calling out.] Mr. Winter has gone to bed, gentlemen, and I strongly recommend you to follow his example.

[Taking a book from the table.] All right. I dare say we shall have a busy day to-morrow.... I really think this is the happiest day I’ve ever had. Life is jolly, isn’t it?

I didn’t. The hotel’s as still as death, for a wonder. I hope the trains won’t disturb you to-night.

I beg your pardon. I didn’t expect to find any one here. Where’s the Governor?

Oh, but you don’t know what’s happened. The mine’s all right. For goodness’ sake, let me go to him.

[The words tumbling over one another in his hurry.] The manager had taken Macdonald in, hadn’t shown him a new shaft they’d sunk. The place is crammed full of gold. It was only a dodge of the Lewishams. I did what the Governor told me. I just flooded the market with selling orders of their stocks, and at closing time Manny Lewisham sent for me. I smelt a rat. I was too clever for him. He’s offered to take the Governor in. He’ll buy a huge block of shares to-morrow at par. He’s going to pay on the nail. And we’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.

[Interrupting.] It’s what the Governor’s been fighting for for ten years. At last he’s got there. The shares’ll be worth anything you like in a month. It means wealth, safety, everything.

He’s at the top of the tree. He’s where he ought to be. In ten years he’ll be in the House of Lords. Would you like to tell him yourself?

George! It’s all right. Open the door, for God’s sake. [To Bennett.] Oh, can’t you open the door?

There’s nowhere to go. There’s only about two yards of garden and then the line. Call out.

I say, what the devil’s all this row? It’s bad enough to have the trains banging under one’s window all night long. Upon my soul.

I say, I’ve just seen a most awful accident. A man’s been run over on the line.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
seizes her her by the shoulders=> seizes her by the shoulders {pg 27}
he get’s a month’s hard labour=> he gets a month’s hard labour {pg 101}
rapidily run their eyes=> rapidly run their eyes {pg 141}
He say’s Teddie’s awfully useful=> He says Teddie’s awfully useful {pg 167}

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George Winter	Arthur Bourchier
Lord Francis Etchingham	Edmund Maurice
Mr. Perigal	A. Holmes Gore
James Ford	A. E. George
Robert Colby, M.P.	Godfrey Tearle
Frederick Bennett	Michael Sherbroke
Colonel Boyce	Frank Atherley
Rev. William Swalecliffe	George Beally
Edward O’Donnell	Douglas Imbert
Butler	Dallas Cairns
Lady Francis Etchingham	Kate Sergeantson
Catherine Winter	Francis Dillon
Anne	Daisy Markham

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tenth Man: A Tragic Comedy in Three Acts

THE TENTH MAN

THE TENTH MAN

CHARACTERS

THE TENTH MAN

THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

SCENE II

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