(Exit CYRUS, L.)
I think I"d prefer to leave you to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that"s necessary. You might give him my card, and tell him I"m at his service as regards signing the death certificate and so on.
(Handing card.)
CARVE. (Taking card perfunctorily.) Very well. Then you"re going?
PASCOE. Yes. (Moves away and then suddenly puts out his hand, which CARVE takes.) Want a word of advice?
CARVE. I--I ought----
PASCOE. If I were you I should try to get something better than valeting. It"s not your line. You may have suited Ilam Carve, but you"d never suit an ordinary employer. You aren"t a fool--not by any means.
(CARVE shrugs his shoulders.)
(Exit PASCOE, L. Door shuts off.)
(Re-enter CYRUS immediately after the door shuts.)
CARVE. (To himself.) Now for it! (To CYRUS). Well?
CYRUS. Well what?
CARVE. Recognize your cousin?
CYRUS. Of course a man of forty-five isn"t like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should have recognized him anywhere.
CARVE. (Taken aback.) Should you indeed. (A pause.) And so you"re Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of thirty years ago.
CYRUS. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable services?
CARVE. What salary?
CYRUS. What salary?
CARVE. Eighty pounds a year.
CYRUS. When were you last paid?
CARVE. I--I----
CYRUS. When were you last paid?
CARVE. The day before yesterday.
CYRUS. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.) Here"s seven pounds--a month"s wages in lieu of notice. It"s rather more than a month"s wages, but I can"t do sums in my head just now. (Holding out money.)
CARVE. But listen----
CYRUS. (Commandingly.) Take it.
(CARVE obeys.)
Pack up and be out of this house within an hour.
CARVE. I----
CYRUS. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers and so on in England or somewhere on the Continent--what bank?
CARVE. What bank? He didn"t keep them in any bank.
CYRUS. Where did he keep them then?
CARVE. He kept them himself.
CYRUS. What--travelling?
CARVE. Yes. Why not?
CYRUS. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the business man"s mild scorn of the artist"s method"s.) Whose is this luggage?
CARVE. Mine.
CYRUS. All of it?
CARVE. That is----
CYRUS. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.
CARVE. His. (Angrily, as CYRUS roughly handles a box.) Now then, mind what you"re about! Those are etching things.
CYRUS. I shall mind what I"m about. And what"s this?
CARVE. That"s a typewriter.
CYRUS. I always thought artists couldn"t stand typewriting machines.
CARVE. That was--his servant"s.
CYRUS. Yours, you mean?
CARVE. Yes, I mean mine.
CYRUS. Then why don"t you say so? What do you want a typewriter for?
CARVE. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?
CYRUS. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.) If you can"t keep a civil tongue in your head I"ll pitch you down the front-door steps and your things after you.
CARVE. I"ve got something to tell you----