WILLIS: ‘Go on, Roberts, do! or I shall die! Ah, ha, ha!’ ROBERTS, in a low voice of consternation to Willis: ‘Where was I? I can’t go on unless I know where I was.’ WILLIS, _sotto voce_ to Roberts: ‘You weren’t anywhere! For Heaven’s sake, make a start!’ ROBERTS, to the others, convulsively: ‘Ha, ha, ha! I supposed all the time, you know, that I had been robbed, and—and—’ WILLIS: ‘Go on! _go_ on!’ ROBERTS, whispering: ‘I can’t do it—’ WILLIS, whispering: ‘You’ve _got_ to! You’re the beaver that clomb the tree. Laugh naturally, now!’ ROBERTS, with a staccato groan, which he tries to make pass for a laugh: ‘And then I ran after the man—’ He stops, and regards Mr. Bemis with a ghastly stare. MRS. CRASHAW: ‘What is the matter with you, Edward? Are you sick?’ WILLIS: ‘Sick? No! Can’t you see that he can’t get over the joke of the thing? It’s killing him.’ To Roberts: ‘Brace up, old man! You’re doing it splendidly.’ ROBERTS, hopelessly: ‘And then the other man—the man that had robbed me—the man that I had pursued—ugh!’ WILLIS: ‘Well, it is too much for him. I shall have to tell it myself, I see.’ ROBERTS, making a wild effort to command himself: ‘And so—so—this man—man—ma—’ WILLIS: ‘Oh, good Lord—’ Dr. Lawton suddenly appears from the anteroom and confronts him. ‘Oh, the devil!’ LAWTON, folding his arms, and fixing his eyes upon him: ‘Which means that you forgot I was coming.’ WILLIS: ‘Doctor, you read a man’s symptoms at a glance.’ LAWTON: ‘Yes; and I can see that you are in a bad way, Mr. Campbell.’ WILLIS: ‘Why don’t you advertise, Doctor? Patients need only enclose a lock of their hair, and the colour of their eyes, with one dollar to pay the cost of materials, which will be sent, with full directions for treatment, by return mail. Seventh son of a seventh son.’ LAWTON: ‘Ah, don’t try to jest it away, my poor friend. This is one of those obscure diseases of the heart—induration of the pericardium—which, if not taken in time, result in deceitfulness above all things, and desperate wickedness.’ WILLIS: ‘Look here, Dr. Lawton, what are you up to?’ LAWTON: ‘Look here, Mr. Campbell, what is your little game?’ WILLIS: ‘_I_ don’t know what you’re up to.’ He shrugs his shoulders and walks up the room. LAWTON, shrugging his shoulders and walking up the room abreast of Campbell: ‘_I_ don’t know what your little game is.’ They return together, and stop, confronting each other. WILLIS: ‘But if you think I’m going to give myself away—’ LAWTON: ‘If you suppose I’m going to take you at your own figure—’ They walk up the room together, and return as before. WILLIS: ‘Mrs. Bemis, what is this unnatural parent of yours after?’ MRS. BEMIS, tittering: ‘Oh, I’m sure _I_ can’t tell.’ WILLIS: ‘Aunt Mary, you used to be a friend of mine. Can’t you give me some sort of clue?’ MRS. CRASHAW: ‘I should be ashamed of you, Willis, if you accepted anybody’s help.’