STRAIGHT. Pardon me. One moment. I was told there was a danger of my being inconvenienced in London by one of these military raids for rounding up slackers, and as I happen to have a rather youthful appearance, I took the precaution of bringing with me my birth-certificate and registration card. (_Produces them_.) TRANTO (_glancing at the card_). And it's really you who write those brilliant articles in _The Echo_? STRAIGHT. 'Brilliant'--I won't say. But I do write them. TRANTO. Well, this is the most remarkable instance of survival after death that I ever came across. STRAIGHT. I beg your pardon. TRANTO. You're dead, my fine fellow. Your place isn't here. You ought to be in the next world. You're a humbug. STRAIGHT (_to_ Mrs. Culver). I'm not quite sure that I understand. Will you kindly introduce me? MRS. CULVER. I'm so sorry. This is Mr. Tranto, proprietor and editor of _The Echo_--(_apologetically, with an uneasy smile_) a great humourist. STRAIGHT (_thunderstruck; aside_). Well, I'm damned! (_His whole demeanour changes. Nevertheless, while tacitly admitting that he is found out, he at once resumes his mild calmness. To_ Culver.) I've just remembered an appointment of vital importance. I'm afraid our little talk about the syndicate must be adjourned. CULVER. I feared you might have to hurry away. (Straight _bows as a preliminary to departure_.) (John, _deeply humiliated, averts his glance from everybody_.) TRANTO. Here! But you can't go off like this. STRAIGHT. Why? Have you anything against me? TRANTO. Nothing (_casually_) except that you're an impostor. STRAIGHT. I fail to see it. TRANTO. But haven't you just said that you write those articles in my paper? STRAIGHT. Oh! _That_! Well, of course, if I'd known who you were I shouldn't have dreamed of saying any such thing. I always try to suit my talk to my company. TRANTO. This time you didn't quite bring it off. STRAIGHT. Perhaps I owe you some slight explanation (_looking round blandly_). CULVER. Do you really think so? STRAIGHT. The explanation is simplicity itself. (_A sudden impulse_.) Nothing but that. Put yourselves in my place. I come to London. I hear a vast deal of chatter about some articles in a paper called _The Echo_ by some one calling himself 'Sampson Straight.' I also hear that nobody in London knows who Sampson Straight is. As I happen to _be_ Sampson Straight, and as I have need of all possible personal prestige for the success of my purely patriotic mission, it occurs to me--in a flash!--to assert that I am the author of the famous articles.... Well, what more natural? CULVER. What indeed? STRAIGHT (_to_ Tranto). And may I say that I'm the only genuine Sampson Straight in the United Kingdom, and that in my opinion it was a gross impertinence on the part of your contributor to steal my name? Why did you let him do it?