[_The face of THE DEAN re-appears._ THE DEAN. [_In a deep sad voice._] Hannah Evans. HANNAH. It's 'Annah Topping, Knee Evans, wife o' the Constable what's goin' to take you to cruel Durnstone. [_Sinking weeping upon the ground at the door._] Oh, Mr. Dean, sir, what have you been up to? What have you been up to? What have you been up to? THE DEAN. Woman, I am the victim of a misfortune only partially merited. HANNAH. [_On her knees, clasping her hands._] Tell me what you've done, Master dear; give it a name, for the love of goodness THE DEAN. My poor Hannah, I fear I have placed myself in an equivocal position. HANNAH. [_With a shriek of despair._] Ah! THE DEAN. Be quiet, woman! HANNAH. Is it a change o' cooking that's brought you to such ways? I cooked for you for seven 'appy years! THE DEAN. [_Sniffing._] Alas! you seem to have lost none of your culinary skill. HANNAH. Master, are you hungry? THE DEAN. I am sorely tried by your domestic preparations. HANNAH. [_With clenched hands and a determined look._] Oh! [_Quickly locking and bolting the street door._] Noah can't put that brute of a horse to under ten minutes. The dupplikit key o' the Strong Box! [_Producing a large key, with which she unlocks the cell door._] Master, you'll give me your patrol not to cut, won't you? THE DEAN. Under any other circumstances, Hannah, I should resent that insinuation. HANNAH. Don't resent nothing! Shove! Shove your hardest, Dean dear! [_Pulling the door which opens sufficiently to let out THE DEAN._ THE DEAN. [_As he enters the room._] Good day, Hannah; you have bettered yourself, I hope? HANNAH. [_Hysterically flinging herself upon THE DEAN._] Oh, Master, Master! THE DEAN. [_Putting her from him sternly._] Hannah! Mrs. Topping! HANNAH. Oh, I know, I know, but crime levels all, dear sir! THE DEAN. You appear to misapprehend the precise degree of criminality which attaches to me, Mrs. Topping. In the eyes of that majestic, but imperfect instrument, the law, I am an innocent if not an injured man. HANNAH. Ah, stick to that, sir! Stick to it, if you think it's likely to serve your wicked ends! [_Placing bread with other things on the table._ THE DEAN. My good woman, a single word from me to those at the Deanery, would instantly restore me to home, family, and accustomed diet. HANNAH. Ah, they all tell that tale what comes here. Why don't you send word, Dean dear? THE DEAN. Because it would involve revelations of my temporary moral aberration! HANNAH. [_Putting her apron to her eyes with a howl._] Owh! THE DEAN. Because I should return to the Deanery with my dignity--that priceless possession of man's middle age!--with my dignity seriously impaired! HANNAH. Oh, don't, sir, don't! THE DEAN.