COTTONTAIL (_sinking helplessly in his chair_)--My dear, I was just sitting quietly, reading _The Evening Post_-- MRS. COTTONTAIL--You brute! I always had a feeling you were too good to be true. COTTONTAIL (_feebly and hopelessly_)--I was just sitting, reading _The Evening Post_ (_his voice trails off into nothingness. He sits motionless, huddled up in the chair. Suddenly he speaks again, but it is a new voice, strangely altered._) Mopsy, give me _The Sun_. MRS. COTTONTAIL (_looking at him in amazement_)--What do you say? COTTONTAIL (_His muscles relax. His eyes stare stupidly. He speaks without sense or expression_)--_The Sun! The Sun! The Evening Sun!_ (_He is quite mad_.) (_Curtain_.) Death Says It Isn't So THE scene is a sickroom. It is probably in a hospital, for the walls are plain and all the corners are eliminated in that peculiar circular construction which is supposed to annoy germs. The shades are down and the room is almost dark. A doctor who has been examining the sick man turns to go. The nurse at his side looks at him questioningly. THE DOCTOR (_briskly_)--I don't believe he'll last out the day. If he wakes or seems unusually restless, let me know. There's nothing to do. He goes out quietly, but quickly, for there is another man down at the end of the corridor who is almost as sick. The nurse potters about the room for a moment or two, arranging whatever things it is that nurses arrange. She exits l. c., or, in other words, goes out the door. There is just a short pause in the dark, quiet room shut out from all outside noises and most outside light. When the steam pipes are not clanking only the slow breathing of the man on the bed can be heard. Suddenly a strange thing happens. The door does not open or the windows, but there is unquestionably another man in the room. It couldn't have been the chimney, because there isn't any. Possibly it is an optical illusion, but the newcomer seems just a bit indistinct for a moment or so in the darkened room. Quickly he raises both the window shades, and in the rush of bright sunlight he is definite enough in appearance. Upon better acquaintance it becomes evident that it couldn't have been the chimney, even if there had been one. The visitor is undeniably bulky, although extraordinarily brisk in his movements. He has a trick which will develop later in the scene of blushing on the slightest provocation. At that his color is habitually high. But this round, red, little man, peculiarly enough, has thin white hands and long tapering fingers, like an artist or a newspaper cartoonist. Very possibly his touch would be lighter than that of the nurse herself. At any rate, it is evident that he walks much more quietly. This is strange, for he does not rise on his toes, but puts his feet squarely on the ground. They are large feet, shod in heavy hobnail boots. No one but a golfer or a day laborer would wear such shoes.