_As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter MACAIRE, L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about_ SCENE I MACAIRE, BERTRAND MACAIRE (_calling off_). S'st! BERTRAND (_entering L.U.E._). It's creeping dark. MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job. BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold. MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys. BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You'll not kill him; let's have no bloodshed. MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you have experience: up that stair and pick me the lock of that man's door. Pick me the lock of that man's door. BERTRAND. May I take the light? MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (_BERTRAND mounts the stairs and is seen picking the lock of Number Thirteen._) The earth spins eastward, and the day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night, the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of honest people, puts off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out of house--and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool--my fool--would but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could intervene, kill both, by heaven--both!--cry murder with the best, and at one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead---- BERTRAND (_from above_). S'st, Macaire. MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (_BERTRAND descends._) Sit down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not beyond--the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the creak of a man's foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve._) What is a knife? A plain man's sword. BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife. MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number Thirteen._) BERTRAND. He's in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night! Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The night's as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear him; and then--O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It's death, and it's death, and it's death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to die? I'd rather starve, I'd rather perish, than either: I'm not fit, I'm not fit for either! Why, how's this? I want to cry. (_A stroke, and a groan from above._) God Almighty, one of them's gone! (_He falls with his head on table, R. MACAIRE appears at the top of the stairs, descends, comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder. BERTRAND, with a cry, turns, and falls upon his neck._) O, O, and I thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking._) MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes._) BERTRAND. What was it like?