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The Man Who Went
A Play in Four Acts
Originally produced under the title of
"The Black Feather "
By
W. A. TREMAYNE
Author of "Lost — 24 Hours" "The Dagger and the
Cross" "The Secret Warrant" etc.
NOTE
The professional and moving picture rights in this play are strictly
reserved and application for the right to produce it under these
conditions should be made to the author in care of the publishers.
Amateurs may obtain permission to produce it privately upon pay-
ment of a fee of ten dollars ($10.00) for one performance, and
$5.00 for each additional performance, payable in advance. All
payments and correspondence should be addressed to Walter H.
Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.
BOSTON
WALTER H. BAKER h CO.
1918
*.£>
■*- V
»*K*
^v
The Man Who Went
CHARACTERS
(In the order of their appearance.}
Baron Von Arnheim, in the German Secret Service.
Jack Thornton, a King s Messenger.
Evelyn Thornton, Jack s sister.
Sir George Caxton, in the British Foreign Office.
Lady Venetia Caxton, his wife.
Dick Kent, in the English Secret Service.
Hogue, a German spy.
Countess Wanda Von Holtzberg, in the Austrian Secret Service.
Barnes, a chauffeur.
PATTON, a keeper.
N. B. The action of the play takes place in the early summer
of 1914.
Copyright, 1918, by \V. A. Tremayne
As author and proprietor.
Alt stage and moving picture rights reserved.
See note on title page.
©CI.D 49157
MAR 21 1918
Copy of the Original Programme.
Grand Opera House, Toronto,
Week of September nth, 1916.
ALBERT BROWN
In a Melodramatic Comedy
"THE BLACK FEATHER"
By W. A. TREMAYNE
CHARACTERS
[I?i the order of their appearance.)
Baron Ernest Von Arnheim F. Gatenby Bell
Jack Thornton - - - Robert Richard Ranier
Evelyn Thornton, Jack's sister - - - Clemence Randolph
Sir George Caxton ----- Charles Welsh-Homer
Lady Venetia Caxton ------ Sara Perry
Dick Kent -_-_--. Albert Brown
Paul Hogue - Henry Sheruwod
Countess Wanda Von Holtzberg - - Gladys Hopetown
Barnes, a chauffeur ----- Henry K. Codd
Patton, a gamekeeper Thomas Shaw
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT I. Sitting-room of Jack's apartments, London.
Note: The curtain will be lowered for a few seconds during
Act I, to denote the lapse of a few hours.
ACT II. A corner of Sir George Caxton's Estate at Thorncliffe.
Note : The curtain will be lowered for a few seconds during
Act II, to denote the lapse of a few hours.
ACT III. Same as Act I.
ACT IV. Same as Act I.
The action of the play takes place during the summer of 1914.
Production staged under the personal direction of Mr. Brown
and the author.
For Mr. Brown.
Manager --------- L. E. Weed.
Representative Stephen March all.
3
SCENE PLOTS
Acts I, III, IV
Jack Thornton's chambers in Portman Square, No.
7, London.
Out-door backing. Hall backing-.
_^^___^ Fire place.
r Door.
Side board. Q
Arm chair.
Door.
Door. .
o
_J Couch. Chair.
Chair. f-*\\
ouL-
o
Chair,
Table.
Desk.
The room is comfortably but plainly furnished. A
door, c, leads out into hall beyond; another door, r.,
near front, leads into room occupied by the Baron ;
another door, l., leads to Jack's room. There is an open
fireplace at the back, l., and at the back r., a large win-
dow looking out onto the square; a table c, with a chair
on either side of it, a couch or sofa down r., near front,
a large armchair to r. of fireplace, a writing desk l., with
a chair to r. of it, a sideboard at back, R. c, between door
and window, with cigars, cigarettes, decanter of whiskey,
syphon of soda, etc. ; a 'phone on desk l.
SCENE PLOTS
Act II, Scenes i and 2
Retired spot on the borders of Sir George Caxton's
estate in Kent, not far from London.
Wood drop.
Tree.
Cut wood.
Hedge. Gate. vHedge
v\ v Tree.
"'Ill .oeuiiw>v \
Bridge.
//// BankN. v 3
step3. rj >^_
Stump. 1
Wing. Sign. Wing.
The back cloth and cut drop represent a wood; from
R. to l., below this, runs a hedge with a gate or opening
in the c ; to the l., running obliquely from about l. c,
is a bank about three feet high, overshadowed by weep-
ing willows. At the end of this bank nearest the audience
a sign-board with the words " Beware of the Dog " on it.
An entrance leads off to l. first entrance, and another
at R. first entrance ; at the back, just in front of hedge, a
few rough stone steps lead up to a rustic bridge, part of
which is just seen, and which leads off to r. ; a few water
lilies underneath the end of it, where the brook is dry — or
almost dry. A tree stump seat l. of c. The boughs of
the willows on bank are practical, so that they can be
moved aside.
PLEASE NOTICE
The professional stage-rights in this play are strictly reserved
by the author, to whom applications for its use should be ad-
dressed in care of the publishers, Walter H. Baker & Co.,
5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.
Attention is called to the penalties provided by the Copyright
Law of the United States of America in force July i, 1909, for
any infringement of his rights, as follows :
Sec. 28. That any person who wilfully and for profit shall infringe any
Copyright secured by this Act, or who shall knowingly and wilfully aid
or abet such infringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and
upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not ex-
ceeding one year or by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars, or both,
at the discretion of the court.
Sec. 29. That any person who, with fraudulent intent, shall insert or
impress any notice of Copyright required by this Act, or words of the
same purport, in or upon any uncopyrighted article, or with fraudulent in-
tent shall remove or alter the copyright notice upon any article duly copy-
righted shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of not less
than one hundred dollars and not more than one thousand dollars.
The Man Who Went
ACT I
SCENE i. — Jack Thornton's apartments, No. 7, Port-
man Square, London. See Scene Plot.
{When curtain rises Baron Von Arnheim is dis-
covered in evening clothes and smoking jacket, half
lying on coach r., reading a newspaper, and smoking
a cigar. 'Phone bell rings; he rises and goes to
'phone, sitting l. of desk; takes up receiver and be-
gins conversation. He speaks with a slight foreign
accent, indicated more by a certain slozvness of de-
livery and an occasional idiom than by actual accent.)
Baron. Yes — good-evening, Countess. (As he speaks
he turns his head and glances in a peculiar way at door
l.) Ah, yes — we are leaving in a few moments
How could we dream of neglecting the call of so charm-
ing a lady? (He listens at the 'phone and gives another
glance toward door l. before answering.) No — no.
Nothing important — yet. Next week, possibly, but not
definite. Certainly, Countess — I will call him. (He
places receiver on table and goes up to door l., calling.)
Thornton ! Thornton !
(He moves away c, and Jack enters at door l. in even-
ing dress, pinning a flower in buttonhole. )
Jack. Yes?
Baron. The Countess wishes to speak to you at the
telephone.
8 THE MAN WHO WENT
Jack. Oh, thanks. (An expression of pleasure lights
tip his face and he goes to desk and sits, taking up re-
ceiver. Baron, resuming his paper on sofa, looks at
Jack with a smile, almost a sneer. Jack, at 'phone.)
Good-evening, Countess Oh, certainly. I wouldn't
miss your reception for the world No — no, that's
not a mere polite phrase — I wouldn't. (In a tender and
more earnest voice.) You know that — don't you?
(Pause.) Don't you? Ah, thank you for your belief in
me. Yes — we leave very soon. Au revoir.
(He hangs up receiver, goes to sideboard, pours him-
self out a whiskey and soda and drinks it; takes a
cigarette and lights it; Baron watching him all the
time with a curious expression.)
Baron. The Countess is a charming woman — is it
not so?
Jack. The most charming I ever met.
Baron. And born under a lucky star — only thirty or
a trifle over — her own mistress — with beauty, wit, wisdom
and wealth.
Jack (crossing up to fireplace l. c. and leaning against
it, smoking). How long has she been a widow?
Baron. About five years.
Jack. What like was the late Count Von Holtzberg?
Baron. The late Count, when he married, was over
sixty-five. He suffered from gout, and the effects of a
wound received in the Franco- Prussian War, where he
served as a volunteer. He was admired by some, feared
by all — and loved by nobody.
(He blows a cloud of smoke into the air.)
Jack. Not even his wife? (The Baron shrugs his
shoulders with an expressive gesture.) And yet he was
her choice?
Baron. Oh, no — her father's. She was only seven-
teen, so she accepted what he chose.
Jack. How damnable.
Baron. My dear Thornton
Jack. It's the only word for such a marriage.
THE MAN WHO WENT 9
Baron. But, my friend, what would you? The
Holtzbergs are noted for having the richest blood and
the poorest exchequer among the nobility of Austria.
Jack. And so she was sold to make good the deficit.
Baron. My dear Thornton, what strange words you
English use. Sold? Bah — no — she sacrificed herself
for the good of her family — she took her chance, and
God was good to her and called the Baron to the home of
his forefathers, wherever that may be, while she was
still young — and now she reaps her reward — her wealth
is enormous, and she has complete control of it.
Jack. And how about the years before he died?
When she was paying the price of her — sacrifice. Can
she ever forget?
Baron. Pardon me, my friend, but you are young
and sentimental. I have no doubt that even during her
husband's lifetime the Countess contrived to enjoy her-
self. Money can buy most things.
Jack (shrugging his shoulders impatiently) . Money — ■
bah!
Baron (rather pointedly). Exactly — in youth we
despise it — later on we learn to know its value.
(A pause ; Jack tosses his cigarette into the grate, and
comes down l. c, looking at the Baron as if to see if
his words had any ulterior meaning; then he speaks.)
Jack. Talking of money, Baron, I am sorry not to
have been able to repay that loan you made me.
Baron (protestingly). My dear Thornton
Jack. I expected to do so long ago, but my luck at
bridge has been infernal, and my allowance does not fall
due till next week.
Baron. Why speak of it ? Are we not friends ? Am
I not your debtor for saving me from the loneliness of
a hotel, and letting me share your charming apart-
ments and equally charming society? (As he speaks, he
watches Jack closely with half lowered lids.) Besides,
who knows, from the position that you hold, some day
you may be able to give me useful information.
Jack (turning on him sharply, and speaking almost
indignantly) . What do you mean?
10 THE MAN WHO WENT
Baron. Eh ?
Jack. Any information I obtain through my position
is sacred — I share it with no one.
(The Baron affects surprise for a moment, then throw-
ing himself back on the sofa, bursts out laughing.)
Baron. Oh, but you are droll, you English, — you take
yourselves and your country so seriously. What use
could I, a humble man of letters, make of your " sacred
information " ? I merely meant that, as you move in
diplomatic circles and know so many political people of
note, you might give me a few hints for my work, —
European Systems of Government — that was all.
Jack (rather ashamed of himself). I — I beg your
pardon — I didn't understand — the way you put it — it
sounded rather strange.
Baron. I see ; and haunted by the ever present British
bogey of foreign spies, you perhaps did me the honor to
think that I was one ? Oh, fie, my friend, fie !
The door-bell rings; Jack goes to door c. and opens
it; Evelyn Thornton enters; she is in evening
dress and an opera wrap ; Jack looks surprised when
he sees her, and a trifle annoyed.)
dress and an opera wrap ; Jaci
he sees her, and a trifle annoy
Jack. Evelyn
(The Baron rises and bows; Eve. looks at him rather
'coldly, and returns his bow.)
Eve. Good-evening, Baron.
Baron. Good-evening, Miss Thornton.
Jack. Where did you spring from?
Eve. I am going to a reception with Sir George and
Lady Caxton — I wanted to speak to you for a few min-
utes alone, — (looking rather pointedly at the Baron) so
I asked them to pick me up here.
Baron. I will go and finish my toilet. Remember,
Thornton, we must not be late for our own reception.
(He bows to Eve. and exits door r., leaving a crack of
the door open behind him; Jack sits on end of sofa,
THE MAN WHO WENT II
r. c, Eve. sits on chair r. of table C, throwing back
her cloak and looking rather suspiciously toward
door r. )
Eve. Jack, do you know it's nearly two weeks since
you've been to see me?
Jack. Really — is it as long as that? I've been so in-
fernally busy, I haven't noticed how time passed.
(A pause.)
Eve. Jack, what's wrong?
Jack. Wrong ? Nothing.
Eve. Oh, yes, there is — you can't fool me. (She
rises, goes to him and lays her hand affectionately on his
shoulder. ) Jack, dear, I don't think you know quite how
much you mean to me; all the folks here are good and
kind, and I'm very fond of them, but they're not you;
they belong to the present, not to the past out in Canada,
with Dad, and — and Mother — where we were both
kiddies, and played and quarrelled, and were good and
naughty together; and so, when it seems as if you were
drifting from me, it makes me feel very sad and very
lonely.
(Jack is evidently touched by this, but ashamed of his
emotion, he tries to laugh it off.)
Jack. Don't be silly, Eve — you know there's no one
in the world I care for like you ; but we aren't kiddies any
longer — we are man and woman, with a man's and
woman's duties.
Eve. And a man's and woman's pleasures. Is it the
duties or the pleasures that keep us apart?
Jack (annoyed). What do you mean?
(Eve. sits beside him on the sofa and takes his hand,
speaking in a low voice and glancing toward door r.
as if afraid of being heard. )
Eve. Listen, Jack — you're very foolish in the friend-
ships you've been making lately.
Jack. You mean ? (Looks toward door r.)
12 THE MAN WHO WENT
Eve. (nodding). Yes — and the Countess.
Jack. I wish you'd leave her out of it.
Eve. I'd like to, but I can't.
Jack. What silly nonsense have you got in your
head now?
Eve. It's not my silly nonsense. Sir George was
speaking to me to-day- — that's the reason I came.
Jack. What rot ! Sir George is a nice one to talk —
isn't he having them both down to Thorncliffe next week ?
Eve. That's different. In his position Sir George is
bound to entertain people, especially those connected with
the Foreign Embassies; he can do it because
Jack. Because he's an old fogey and a Baronet — and
I can't because I'm young and a King's messenger.
Well, my private friendships are mine, and no one has
a right to dictate to me; my duty's my duty, and I'll do
it — but I'll choose my own friends.
(He rises as if the matter were settled, and walks up
to fireplace l. c. Eve. looks at him in distress, then
rises and follows him up to fireplace, and continues
speaking in a low voice.)
Eve. And you're going to risk your career and the
good-will of those who have helped and trusted you for
a boy's whim? Jack, dear, listen
Jack. I haven't time to listen; the Baron and I are
due at a reception, and we're late now.
Eve. At the Countess' ?
Jack. Yes.
Eve. How long will you be there ?
Jack. Oh, I don't know — why?
Eve. Because, if you'll slip away early, so will I, and
we'll come back here and have a talk together, — and Sir
George can fetch me later.
Jack. Oh, nonsense — can't you wait?
Eve. (in a determined tone). No I can't. I've waited
for the past two weeks, but you never came, or if you
did, you were always in a hurry, on business — or pleasure.
It's no idle whim. Don't you know me better than that?
Sir George spoke to me quite seriously to-day — I must
THE MAN WHO WENT 1 3
see you. Ah, Jack — for the sake of old times
{Putting her arm around his neck and looking tenderly
into his face.) For my sake?
Jack (yielding with a bad grace). Oh, well, have it
your own way; you always did doss me — only Lord
knows when I can get away without offending the Count-
ess. Here — you'd better take my latch-key — (taking
key from his pocket and handing it to her) then if you
get back first, you can come in and wait. (Eve. takes
key and slips it into her dress, then throws her arms
around Jack's neck impulsively and kisses him; he takes
the caress with rather a bad grace; the door-bell rings.)
That's Sir George, I suppose. I hope to Heaven he
hasn't any long-winded oration to deliver.
(He opens door c. and Sir George enters with Lady
Caxton ; Sir Geo. looks hot and irritable, as if he had
been having an argument; Lady C. is very placid and
calm, and carries a look of martyr-like resignation
on her face, but is evidently obstinate; the Baron
enters almost simultaneously at door r. ; he carries
a light overcoat and opera hat, which he lays on
chair at r.)
Lady C. (to Jack). Good-evening, Jack.
(She casts a look of stern disapproval at Eve., and
passes to chair r. of table, while Sir Geo. speaks to
Jack, shaking hands with him.)
Sir Geo. How are you, Jack?
(He bows to the Baron and looks at Eve., raising his
eyebrows as if to intimate that there was trouble.)
Lady C. Good-evening, Baron.
(She holds out her hand to the Baron, who takes it
and raises it in foreign fashion to his lips. )
Baron. Dear Lady Caxton.
(Lady C. sits r. of table; Eve. on chair by desk l. ;
Sir Geo. and Jack stand by fireplace talking.)
14 THE MAN WHO WENT
Lady C. My dear Baron, I hope you will not be
shocked at my niece Evelyn, visiting a bachelor's apart-
ments without a chaperon. She was brought up in the
Colonies, where things are — to put it mildly — less con-
ventional.
Sir Geo. Good Heavens, Venetia, surely a girl can
visit her own brother ?
Lady C. In bachelor apartments shared with another
bachelor — when she might run the risk of finding her
brother out and the other bachelor inf (She shudders
slightly.) In my young days, a woman's reputation has
been shattered for less than that.
Sir Geo. (half to himself). It must have been d d
brittle then.
Lady C. (after a glance of indignation at Sir Geo.).
In those days we cherished our reputations like delicate
flowers, that the icy wind of scandal must never blow
upon. I remember a cousin of mine was almost ostra-
cized for riding alone in a hansom.
Sir Geo. How the devil could she lose her reputation
when she was alone ?
Eve. (mischievously). Perhaps the cabby Avas fas-
cinating.
Lady C. Evelyn! (Eve. turns away to hide a smile,
and Lady C. turns to the Baron again.) On the Con-
tinent, I believe they manage things much better — the
chaperon still exists there.
Baron (on couch r. c). Assuredly.
Lady C. Young girls are not allowed a freedom that
degenerates into license?
Baron. Never, unless they are English or Americans.
Lady C. And then?
Baron. We think them charming, but, pardon me, a
little mad — and make allowances.
Sir Geo. Well, I'll be
Lady C. (severely). George!
Sir Geo. Well, I will if I like !
Baron. You understand I do not speak my personal
sentiments, only the view-point of my country'
Lady C. And a very proper point of view, too.
Home life in England is going, and, after all, home is a
THE MAN WHO WENT 1 5
woman's proper sphere; her place is with her husband
and children.
Eve. But suppose she hasn't any?
Lady C. Then she ought to have.
Eve. But, Aunty, there aren't enough men to go
round. Surely you wouldn't suggest polygamy?
Lady C. I wouldn't even mention the word; when I
was a girl, we knew nothing of such things.
Eve. Not even as a man's prerogative?
(Sir Geo. emits a half chuckle and then tries to
stifle it.)
Lady C. Ahem! Well, we were taught, delicately,
that men were very often very bad, but that good women
should look leniently upon their faults, and bring about
their reform by marrying them.
Sir Geo. Good Lord ! Some poor devils found the
cure worse than the disease, I'll wager.
Lady C. George!
Eve. And wasn't it rather rough on the woman to
have to start her honeymoon as a social reformer?
Lady C. If she accomplished her purpose, Virtue had
its own reward.
Eve. {quietly). And if she failed?
Lady C. {rather nonplussed for the moment). Why,
then — ahem — then
Baron {stepping into the breach). If she were as
charming and virtuous as Lady Caxton, surely there
could be no such word as " fail."
(Sir Geo. looks at the Baron with an expression of
disgust as much as to say, " What a liar!' and com-
ing down to Eve., l., speaks to her in a low voice,
while the Baron and Lady C. converse; Jack at the
fireplace shows signs of impatience, and looks at his
watch. )
Sir Geo. {to Eve.). Did you speak to him?
Eve. Only for a moment — we're going to thrash it
out to-night. {Raising her voice.) Aunt Venetia
Lady C. Yes, dear.
l6 THE MAN WHO WENT
(She turns from the Baron with a well pleased smile,
as if she had found his conversation pleasant.)
Eve. You won't be angry if I slip away early from
the reception to-night?
Lady C. Early — by yourself?
Eve. Yes, Jack and I have a little business to talk
over, and
Lady C. Where?
Eve. Here.
(Lady C. looks at the Baron with a pleading glance as
if asking for sympathy, then raises her eyes toward
heaven and shudders; she speaks in a voice of
resignation.)
Lady C. Sir George is your guardian, not I ; if he
approves, it is not for me to oppose, but when I was a
girl
Sir Geo. Yes, but you're not a girl now, Venetia.
Lady C. No, thank Heaven !
Sir Geo. Times have changed.
Lady C. (with a deep sigh). They have.
Sir Geo. Evelyn's business is important. (With a
meaning glance at Jack, who is so irritated at the delay
that he scarcely notices it.) I see no harm
Lady C. That is sufficient, George — I have nothing
more to say. (Sir Geo. breathes a sigh of relief, and
Lady C. at once continues.) Only, the liberty you are
giving Evelyn is the thin end of the wedge — the next
thing she'll be wanting is a vote, and when she doesn't
get it, she'll be pouring things into letter boxes, and burn-
ing up houses and furniture. I wash my hands of the
affair, but when you see her in a Police Court, don't say
I didn't warn you.
Sir Geo. I won't — I couldn't without lying.
Jack (looking at his zvatch). I — I don't want to ap-
pear inhospitable but aren't you folks almost due
Eve. (rising). And you other folks, too; we won't
keep you waiting any longer, Jack.
Lady C. I thought the ending of a visit was generally
left to a married lady, but doubtless I am old fashioned in
THE MAN WHO WENT I'J
my ideas. {Rising and holding out her hand to Baron.)
We shall see you and the dear Countess at Thorncliffe
next week?
Baron. I am looking forward to my visit with the
greatest pleasure — I have pleasant memories of former
ones. (He bows over her hand.)
Eve. (up; to Jack). Good-bye, Jack — and don't keep
me waiting — there's a dear boy.
Sir Geo. (to Jack, in a rather low voice). Good-
bye, Jack — and take good advice when you get it.
(Speaking louder.) Good-bye, Baron, — see you next
week.
(The Baron bows with a smile; Eve. bows to Baron
coldly, and says "Good-night " ; Baron bows in re-
turn. Exeunt Lady C, Sir Geo. and Eve., door c,
followed by Jack, who sees them out; the Baron
glances after them sharply, then moves quickly to the
desk and 'phone l. ; the door outside slams; the
Baron stops with a look of annoyance, and moves
back to r. ; Jack enters c.)
Jack. Confound women's tongues ! If I were mar-
ried to Lady Venetia I think I'd strangle her. (He looks
at his ivatch.) The Countess will think we're never
coming. (He hurries out at door l. ; the Baron stands
glancing at 'phone rather anxiously ; he picks up his coat
and hat and puts them on; takes out a cigarette and
starts to light it; Jack enters door l. in light overcoat
and hat.) Come on, Baron, and put the lights out.
(He hurries impatiently out at door c. ; the Baron at
once crosses quickly to 'phone, and taking up re-
ceiver, speaks in a low voice.)
Baron. Give me 2 double 0-6, Gerard. Yes — yes
(A pause.) Are you there? Ah, Countess — is
that you? Just a moment — detain Thornton at the re-
ception as long as possible — it's important.
Jack (off c). Baron — Baron — aren't you coming?
(Appearing at door c. ) What the
Baron. So sorry. (Hanging up the receiver hastily.)
A wrong call on the 'phone.
1 8 THE MAN WHO WENT
(Jack goes away from door; Baron switches off lights,
leaving stage in darkness, then he goes out door c.
and door off stage slams as tableau curtain descends
in darkness. A minute's interval only to indicate
lapse of a few hours.)
SCENE 2. — The same as Scene i. The curtain ascends
on a dark stage except for faint pwonlight through
window r. c. As it rises, church chime, outside, strikes
eleven; a pause — then a door slants, and some one
fumbles with the lock of the door c. as if having dif-
ficulty with the key; then the door opens and Dick
Kent enters; he gropes round in the darkness, and at
last finds the switch; he turns on the lights, then looks
around the room with a sharp, quick glance, as if tak-
ing in everything ; he takes off coat and hat, and places
them on chair r. at back; crosses to sideboard, looks at
decanter of whiskey doubtfully, as if debating whether
he should steal a drink, then pours himself out a
whiskey and soda and drinks it off ; then he goes to
door r. and looks into room as if getting the lay of the
place; he then crosses to door l. and does the same
business; at that moment the 'phone bell rings; he
pauses and looks tozvard the 'phone; it rings again; he
comes quickly down, sits at desk, picks up receiver and
listens; as he does so, a strange look comes into his
face; then he speaks.)
Dick. Oui — le Baron? Oui — e'est moi — oui — e'est
vrais Semaine prochaine Chez Sir George
Caxton Oh oui Loin dela maison .
Pres un affiche, avec les mots Prenez Garde du
Chien C'est hien. Au revoir. (He hangs up the
receiver, takes a note-book from his pocket and makes a
hasty note — "Beware of the dog!"; the door outside
slams; he stops and listens, puts note-book in his pocket,
springs up, goes quickly up to back and switches off the
lights; he crosses to sofa R. c, throws himself on it,
covering himself with the rug, closing his eyes and
assuming an attitude of sleep; the door c. opens, and
THE MAN WHO WENT iO,
Eve. enters; she switches-on the lights, and turning round
faces the sofa and sees Dick; she utters a cry, half of
surprise, half of fear; Dick starts and sits up, rubbing
his eyes, and simulating drowsiness, but as soon as his
eyes light on Eve., all signs of sleep disappear, and he
stares at her in astonishment, and at the same time zvith
pleasure, and speaks with a gasp.) The Girl in the
Mackintosh !
(A look of surprise and recognition conies into Eve.'s
face.)
Eve. The Man in the Blue Pajamas!
(Dick springs up and rushes toward her with out-
stretched hands, but Eve. regards him rather doubt-
fully, and does not move to take his hand; he stops,
rather embarrassed. )
Dick. I say, how on earth did you get here?
Eve. Just the question I was going to ask you.
Dick. Eh? — er — oh — I — I belong here.
Eve. Then the last time we met you were a good way
from your belongings.
Dick. That's an idiosyncrasy of mine — I'm always
turning up in out-of-the-way places. One of those clever
Club Johnnies who always says the thing you'd have
liked to have said yourself, if you'd only thought of it in
time — told me that if he ever helped to discover the North
Pole, he'd expect to find me sitting on the top of it.
Eve. But you say you belong here?
Dick. Yes.
Eve. In this room?
Dick. Well, yes — er — that is temporarily.
Eve. Temporarily ? Oh, then you know my brother ?
Dick. Never even knew you had a brother.
Eve. Then how
Dick (as if struck zvith a sudden idea). Oh, I say —
by Jove — you're not old Chipman's sister? That would
be ripping!
Eve. I'm not old who's sister ?
Dick. Old Chipman's.
Eve. I never heard of him.
20 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick. Well, that's odd, you know, because these are
his " digs."
Eve. His "digs"?
Dick. Yes — er — where he hangs out, don't you know.
Eve. Oh, I'm not so horridly Colonial as not to know
perfectly well what " digs " are — but these particular
ones do not belong to Mr. Chipman.
Dick. Oh, really, you know — there's something aw-
fully funny about this. I can't have been such an ass
as to No, this is No. 7 Portman Square, isn't it ?
Eve. It is.
Dick. Right oh, — now we're on the track. Please sit
down; it looks so inhospitable standing up. (Eve., look-
ing still rather doubtful, sits on chair l. of table c. ;
Dick on chair r. of table.) You see, I got back to-day
from one of my little jaunts.
Eve. To the North Pole?
Dick. No, not quite so far this time, but when I went
to my old lodgings, I found they'd let 'em. Bally nui-
sance, you know. I was used to the place, and hated to
move. I tell you I was saying things, when just outside
the door who should I run into but old Chipman, and
when he heard about it, he said, " Why not share my
' digs ' for a few days — I'm going out of town on busi-
ness to-night, but here's my key. Go to No. 7 Portman
Square, and make yourself at home." This is No. 7
Portman Square, and here I am.
Eve. Well, these are not Mr. Chipman's diggings.
Dick. Oh, but I say, you just said
Eve. {interrupting). Did Mr. Chipman say which
side of the Square his house was on?
Dick. No.
Eve. Well, you see there are two No. 7's on Port-
man Square — one on the east, and one on the west.
Dick. And this is ?
Eve. The west.
Dick. And old Chipman is in the east?
Eve. Most probably.
Dick. Oh, I say you know — but the key fitted.
Eve. Keys sometimes do.
Dick. And these really are not Chipman's " digs " ?
THE MAN WHO WENT 21
Eve. Certainly not — they belong to my brother, Mr.
John Thornton.
Dick. Phew ! And — and there are two No. 7's —
east and west ! Really, you know, it's quite serious ;
that sort of thing should be suppressed by act of Parlia-
ment, or some one ought to write to the papers. It might
cause a devil of a row in married families! (He sits
shaking his head meditatively, Eve. regarding him with a
queer expression; suddenly he looks up with a smile as if
a bright idea had struck him.) By Jove ! I say, do you
know what this is ?
Eve. What what is?
Dick. The whole thing — the east and west sevens,
and the universal latch-key and all that. What would
you call it?
Eve. A chapter of accidents.
Dick. Wrong — it's the Finger of Fate! (Eve.
stares at him surprised.) Sounds awfully like Oppen-
heim or Charles Garvice, doesn't it, but I've known it
and felt it ever since
Eve. (almost exasperated). Known what — felt what —
ever since when?
Dick. Ever since that night we parted in the rain,
I've known and felt that we should meet again. By Jove,
that's poetry. I'm dropping into it — just like that Johnny
in Dickens with the wooden leg. See what a jolly effect
you are having on me — haven't you felt that way?
Eve. (shaking her head). No
Dick (disappointed). No? Then I must be a sort
of clairvoyant or something of that sort without knowing
it, don't you know — because I really have, every time I've
thought about you — and that's been pretty often. Oh,
do tell me everything that's happened since then, and how
long you've been in England.
Eve. Well, there's not very much to tell. I came to
England about four years ago.
Dick. A year after we met.
Eve. Yes, because just a year after I lost my father
and mother. (A slight pause.)
Dick (in a serious manner and speaking in a low
voice). I'm — I'm sorry — very sorry.
22 THE MAN WHO WENT
Eve. You remember my telling you about my father,
don't you ?
Dick. Oh, rather — and the ranches and farms he
owned through the Canadian West, where you used to
spend your holidays. I remember it as if it were yester-
day. I can almost feel the rain dripping down my back,
almost see
Eve. My hair coming out of curl — —
Dick. Eh — it wasn't really?
Eve. Nobody but a man would ask that question.
My brother was already here, entering a diplomatic career
under Sir George Caxton, who was also chosen by my
father as a trustee — so, the old ties being broken, I came
to England.
Dick. And — er — how do you like it?
Eve. Oh, very much.
Dick. As well as Canada?
Eve. Oh, I can't tell — they're so different. You have
things over here that we couldn't have — the beauties of
age, the work of centuries — but to compensate, we have
things that you couldn't have — the enthusiasm and fresh-
ness of youth.
Dick. By Jove, that's awfully well put, you know —
but don't you find us — some of us — a little trying — some-
times ?
Eve. Um — occasionally. You seem to me — some of
you — to worry unnecessarily over trifles.
Dick. Right, oh— that's another result of our being
an old country. We settled most of our big social
worries centuries ago — but it became a habit to worry
about something— we're not happy without it — and so
we had to take to the trifles.
Eve. I see.
Dick. That's the reason why people who don't under-
stand us, when they read our Parliamentary debates,
think we are having such awful rows. We're really
not — we're just indulging our propensity for worrying.
You'll get used to it in time.
Eve. Oh, I don't mind it much now — I've a sense of
humor ; but you've had " the story of my life " — what
about you?
THE MAN WHO WENT 23
Dick. Oh, nothing special. I've been wandering to
and fro on the face of the earth — like — who was the
Johnny ?
Eve. The Devil, I believe.
Dick. By Jove — so it was.
Eve. Seeking whom you may devour ?
Dick. Not exactly — just killing time.
Eve. That doesn't sound very interesting.
Dick. Well, it's more interesting than you might ex-
pect— there are so many ways of committing the crime.
Eve. (in a rather disappointed tone). And is that all
you've been doing?
Dick. Urn — yes — that is, systematically.
(The door-bell rings.)
Eve. (starting up). I expect that is my brother.
(She goes to door c. and opens it; Lady C. and Sir
Geo. enter; they pause a moment in surprise at see-
ing Dick, who rises.)
Sir Geo. Where's Jack?
Eve. (slightly confused). He hasn't come back yet.
Sir Geo. Not come back yet?
Lady C. And you are talking with a strange man ?
(She casts a look of horror at Eve., and crossing down
to chair by desk l., sits.)
Eve. No, Aunt Venetia, he's not a stranger — he's an
old acquaintance.
Sir Geo. I see, a friend of Jack's.
Eve. (embarrassed) . No — no, he doesn't know Jack.
Lady C. Then he is
Dick. I — I'm an accident.
Lady C. (glaring at him). An accident?
Dick. Yes, and accidents will happen, you know, in
the best regulated families
Eve. He's a friend of mine
Sir Geo. Oh! (Looking at Dick rather doubtfully.
A pause. ) Introduce me.
24 THE MAN WHO WENT
Eve. Why, certainly. Lady Caxton, Sir George —
allow me to present (She pauses, and stands star-
ing at the smiling Dick with a look of horror.) Why — ■
I — I don't know your name
Lady C. Good Heavens!
(She litters a half -stifled groan, and closes her eyes
as if quite overcome.)
Sir Geo. (looking with disapproval at Eve.). Well,
upon my word, Evelyn, this is most extraordinary.
Dick. Not at all when you know the circumstance.
Sir Geo. Well, at present I don't.
(Lady C. glances for a moment at Dick, and then
shudders as if she anticipated horrible revelations.)
Dick. No, but I'm going to tell you — it's just like a
jolly short story by Guy de Maupassant, or one of those
other literary Johnnies.
(Lady C., on hearing the name of de Maupassant,
looks troubled.)
Lady C. Evelyn, do you think that Jack has any
salts of lavender in the place?
Eve. I'm afraid not, Aunt — why?
Lady C. I feel that I may need them.
Sir Geo. (sitting r. of table c). Well, sir
Dick. Yes, let's sit down — it's so much more home-
like and comfortable. (He sits on sofa r. ; Eve. l. of
table.) Well, once upon a time — four years ago — I was
travelling from Winnipeg to Edmonton in a Pullman, —
have you ever been in a Pullman?
Sir Geo. No, sir, I have not.
Dick. Well, you don't want to get the habit at your
time of life, because if you want to undress, you've got
to be an acrobat, and I don't think a man of your build
could do it. Well, there I was — in my pajamas (Lady
C. looks at him in consternation at the mention of the
word), sleeping peacefully, when there was a bump and
a jolt and a variety of unpleasant noises, and somebody
said the bally train was on fire and we'd better get out.
Lady C. In your pajamas !
THE MAN WHO WENT 1$
Dick. Yes, there wasn't time for a toilet. Well, with
an Englishman's instinct, I grabbed my mackintosh and
my umbrella, and, as they say in America, " I scooted."
I found myself on the platform of a wayside station in a
pouring rain-storm, — my only companion a young lady
in a kimono.
Eve. That was me.
Dick. Yes, that was she.
Lady C. Evelyn, weren't you ashamed of yourself !
Eve. No, Aunty, only very uncomfortable.
Dick. You see, it was a very pretty kimono — one of
those fluffy lacey things with bows all over it — but totally
inadequate in a rain-storm.
Lady C. Totally inadequate at any time.
Dick. Well, you see I'm naturally of a bashful dis-
position
Lady C. {sarcastically). Really?
Sir Geo. You don't say so !
Dick. Oh, yes — bashful and diffident — and I hated to
speak to a lady without an introduction, but as the kimono
was gradually becoming more and more — er — clinging,
you know (Lady C. exhibits horror; Sir Geo. chuckles),
my chivalry got the better of my bashfulness and I offered
her the mackintosh.
Eve. I declined.
Dick. I insisted.
Eve. I told him he would catch his death of rheu-
matism.
Dick. I asked her if she took a cold shower every
morning
Lady C. Good Heavens ! What are we coming to !
Eve. I said I didn't.
Dick. I said / did, therefore I was much more used
to it than she was. She yielded and took the mackintosh,
and we shared the umbrella between us, and till a relief
train came we had one of the coziest little pow-wows
you ever heard of.
Eve. But we never told each other our names.
Dick. That — that's just it, you know — under those
circumstances you get so jolly intimate all at once that
you don't bother about names
26 THE MAN WHO WENf
(Lady C. rises, and casting a look of indignation at
Dick and Eve., moves up to fireplace.)
Sir Geo. Well, the circumstances being altered now —
there being less rain and more wardrobe, I don't suppose
you object to the formality of telling us who you are?
Dick. Oh, certainly not — delighted — Kent — Richard
Kent.
{Takes a card-case from pocket and hands a card to
Sir Geo.)
Sir Geo. Not a son of the celebrated diplomatist —
the late William Kent ?
Dick (in a tone of resignation) . Yes.
Sir Geo. You should be proud of the fact, sir.
Dick (in the same tone). That's what every one
says.
Sir Geo. And aren't you?
Dick. Well, do you know, I've almost come to regard
my paternity in the light of a misfortune.
Sir Geo. Misfortune What the devil
Dick. Oh, no reflections on the Dad ; he was all
right ; but it's so destructive to one's individuality to go
through life known only as the son of your father.
Sir Geo. And whose fault is that, sir?
Dick. Mine, I suppose.
Sir Geo. Exactly. As your father's son, scores of
paths in life were opened to you that are closed to other
men, if you had chosen to take them. But you didn't —
you chose to devote yourself — at least, I have heard so —
to a life of idleness. Why?
Dick. Because it seemed to me what I was best fitted
for. Don't you believe in a chap's following his voca-
tion?
Sir Geo. Idleness isn't a vocation, sir.
Dick. Oh, I say — I don't know about that. I think
it's a science. Anyhow, I'm afraid I've got the habit,
and I shall be known all my life as the son of my father,
unless — yes, by Jove, that might happen.
Eve. (who has been listening to this zvith interest).
What?
THE MAN WHO WENT 27
Dick. I might marry some day, and have a clever
Johnny for a son.
Sir Geo. {emphatically ; with a look of doubt). Pos-
sibly.
Dick. In that case, in my old age I'd be known as the
father of my son.
(Eve. looks disappointed, and Sir Geo. rises, looking
at Dick as if he thought him a born fool; the slam
of an outside door is heard, then door c. opens and
Jack enters, followed by Baron.)
Jack. Awfully sorry, Eve, but I couldn't
Oh {Seeing Dick. ) I beg your pardon ( To
Sir Geo.) A friend of yours?
Sir Geo. A friend of your sister's.
Lady C. An acquaintance.
Eve. {rising). A gentleman, Jack, who was once very
kind to me in Canada — Mr. Richard Kent.
Jack. Oh, a son of
Dick. Exactly.
{They shake hands; the Baron crosses down to side-
board r. and lights a cigarette, eyeing Dick closely
all the time with a curious expression.)
Jack. You met my sister in Canada ?
Dick. Yes.
Jack. And renewed the acquaintance at the reception
to-night ?
Dick. Not exactly — we renewed the acquaintance
here.
Jack. Here? {Looking puzzled.)
Dick. Yes — you see I'm sharing digs with a chap at
No. 7 Portman Square on the east side ; didn't know there
was a No. 7 on the west side, but the bally latch-key fitted,
and I walked in, and as he'd told me to make myself at
home, your sister found me comfortably asleep on the
sofa — almost took me for a burglar.
Lady C. Do burglars generally go to sleep on the
sofa ? If so, even they are changing with the times.
Jack. Well, upon my word! Really, Sir George, in
28 THE MAN WHO WENT
some parts of London the system of numbering ought to
be revised.
Lady C. (down l. c). Why? It was good enough
for our fathers and mothers.
Dick. Well, it might be deucedly awkward for their
sons and daughters some day — particularly in families
where there are jealous wives and husbands, green-eyed
monster and divorce courts, and all that sort of thing,
don't you know.
(The Baron, who has all this time been scrutinizing
Dick closely, steps forward.)
Baron. My dear Thornton, won't you introduce me —
to— Mr.— er
Jack. Oh, I beg your pardon — Mr. Kent, the Baron
Von Arnheim.
(Dick advances to r. and shakes hands zvith the
Baron ; Jack and Eve. go up to fireplace, and talk
in dumb show; Jack seems to be excusing himself.)
Baron. Mr. Kent, a pleasure to meet you. I think
I knew
Dick. My father? Of course you did — everybody
knew Dad.
Baron. And you — have we not also met before?
(Dick sticks eye-glass in his eye, and surveys the
Baron critically.)
Dick. I don't recollect.
Baron. No?
Dick. No.
Baron. And yet I feel sure I have seen you some-
where.
Dick. Oh, it's very likely, because I've been in such
an awful lot of somewheres in my life. I'm like that
Hebrew Johnny that Eugene Sue wrote about, who was
a sort of Advance Agent for the Plague. I've travelled
all over the face of the habitable globe, and to several
places that weren't habitable.
Baron {looking rather relieved at Dick's apparent
THE MAN WHO WENT 20,
stupidity). Ah, I have been a traveller myself — a chance
meeting perhaps — but I never forget a face.
Dick. How ripping. I'm an awful duffer about
faces, in fact, I'm an awful duffer about most things.
(Jack crosses down l. to speak to Lady C, who has
again seated herself by desk l. ; Dick strolls up to
fireplace to speak to Eve., and Sir Geo. crosses to
Baron, r.)
Jack. Oh, Lady Caxton, the Countess asked me to
give you this note ; she's afraid that she will be a day later
than she expected in coming to Thorncliffe.
{He holds out note to Lady C.)
Lady C. Thank, you. {She takes it and speaks to
the others.) Will you excuse me? {She takes the note
from the envelope which she throws on desk, and reads
letter; Jack crosses back to Eve., and as he does so,
Dick leaves her and strolls down to back of desk l.,
putting eye-glass to eye.) George. (Sir Geo. ad-
vances c.) The Countess will not arrive till Wednes-
day— that is the day you come to us, Baron ?
Baron. Yes.
{During this conversation Dick has been examining
the envelope on the desk through his glass.)
Sir Geo. That will leave Lord Royallieu our only
guest for Monday and Tuesday.
Lady C. We could invite
Sir Geo. {interrupting). It will not be necessary.
Lord Royallieu is unwell, and will be glad of two days'
rest in the country. By the way, Jack, you'd better hold
yourself in readiness to come down to us — his Lordship
may want you.
Jack (his face lighting up with pleasure). I shall be
delighted, sir.
(Dick has picked up the envelope by this time, and is
staring at it with an expression of admiration.)
Dick. I say, by Jove, you know — this is positively
3°
THE MAN WHO WENT
ripping. (Every one turns and stares in astonishment
at this outburst; a pause.) I beg your pardon, but I am
a collector of crests, and this one on the envelope — an
Iron Hand holding a single Black Eagle's Feather — and
the motto — " Semper Solus " — it — it's awfully fetching.
Whose is it?
Lady C. It is the crest of the Countess Von Holtz-
berg.
Dick. A single lady?
Lady C. A widow.
Dick. Oh, really; then it isn't quite appropriate, is
it? Because whatever she may be now, when there was
a Count living they couldn't either of them have been
" Always Alone," could they? (Every one stares at him
as if they thought his remarks idiotic, but he appears
quite unconcerned and speaks to Lady C.) I say, do you
mind if I keep this?
Lady C. (with a glare of disapproval). You are wel-
come.
Dick (pocketing envelope). Thanks.
Lady C. I think it is about time we were going home,
George — that is unless Evelyn desires any further inter-
view's with her brother — or her friends.
(She glares at Dick, who, oblivious of the look, gases
at the envelope with interest.)
Eve. No, no, it's too late now. You'll come to-
morrow morning, won't you, Jack?
Jack (impatiently) . ■ Yes, yes, I promise.
(He crosses to door c. and opens it.)
Lady C. Good-night, Baron. We will see you
Wednesday. Good-night, Mr. — er — Kent.
Baron (bowing). Good-night, Lady Caxton.
Dick (suddenly waking up from his absorption in the
crest). Good-night, Lady Caxton. Thanks awfully for
this jolly crest.
(Sir Geo. bows to Baron and Dick and exits with
Lady C, door c. ; Jack goes out with them; Eve.
advances and extends her hand to Dick.)
THE MAN WHO WENT 31
Eve. Good-night, Mr. Kent. I'm awfully glad that
chance threw us together again. Come round and see
me some day, won't you ?
Dick {shaking hands). Rather. Good-night, Mr.
Thornton.
Eve. Good-night, Baron. (The Baron bows good-
night, then turns to sideboard as Eve. goes to door, and
mixes himself a whiskey and soda, all the time zvatching
Dick in the mirror over sideboard; Eve. pauses at door
c, which Dick holds open for her, and she turns to him
with a mischievous smile.) By the way, Mr. Kent, I
still have that mackintosh. What shall I do with it?
Dick. Keep it. You couldn't have a better souvenir
of the owner — it's typical.
Eve. How ?
Dick. It's nothing wonderful to look at, but it's a
good friend for a rainy day. (She smiles at him and
exits; he stands for a moment looking after her, ap-
parently, but really watching the Baron in the glass, then
he turns quickly.) Still trying to figure out where you
met me? (Baron turns quickly, annoyed at being dis-
covered.) It's awfully annoying, isn't it, old chap? I
gave up trying that sort of thing years ago — it took up
too much time. But you're cleverer than I am — keep
at it. You'll get it some day.
(Dick takes out envelope from his pocket and stands
contemplating the crest.)
Baron. You seem very much interested in the crest.
Dick. Always am interested in crests. Got such a
jolly one of my own. British bulldog rampant, which
means on the rampage, don't you know, and the motto
" Cave Canem " — " Beware of the dog." (Puts on hat
jauntily.) Eh? What? Damned silly motto! Bye-
bye. (Exit, door c. Baron looks after him puzzled.)
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE i. — A corner of Sir George Caxton's estate
at Thorncliffe. See Scene Plot.
(The curtain rises on an empty stage, but out from the
boughs of the willows on the bank at l. come heavy
clouds of tobacco smoke; there is a pause for a few
minutes, and then some one is heard whistling a
French chanson off at l. ; at once the clouds of
tobacco smoke cease and float away in the distance;
then Hogue enters down path l. ; he is dressed in a
velveteen jacket and rough walking suit, and wears
an artistic looking necktie — altogether giving the
idea of an artist travelling for business and pleasure
combined; as he sees the sign-board with " Beware
of the dog " upon it, he smiles to himself and nods,
as if satisfied that he had reached his destination;
he takes a peg of wood from his pocket, and leans
against sign-board whittling it with a penknife, and
whistling — the picture of idleness and very much
the artist; the Baron enters, r. i e., and strolls care-
lessly along, smoking a cigarette; he sees Hogue at
first glance, but pays no attention to him till he has
strolled up to the gate and looked off and round on
either side of him; then he comes down c. and signals
to Hogue, who puts the peg of wood in his pocket
and comes forward to the Baron, c., lifting his
hat.)
Hogue. Bon jour, Monsieur le Baron.
Baron- Good-day. You had no difficulty in finding
the place?
Hogue. Mais non, votre explication etait tres precise.
Baron. You needn't play the Frenchman to me un-
less you want to, you know.
Hogue. Pardon, it is so natural — and after all, French
32
THE MAN WHO WENT 33
is my native tongue — the only one I speak without an
accent. Besides, it is so safe never to appear anything
but a Frenchman.
Baron. I suppose it is, but German and English are
more familiar to me.
Hogue. At Monsieur le Baron's pleasure — but be-
fore others, if possible, the language I speak the best,
the tongue I hate the most.
(With a vindictive expression.)
Baron (with a slight laugh). You have no love for
the land of your birth.
Hogue. Love ! Bah ! I spit upon her ! (He makes
a gesture of contempt.) I was born on French soil,
educated in French schools, served as a French con-
script, and speak the French tongue to one end — her
destruction. Listen, Monsieur; in the days when France
owned Alsace and Lorraine my grandfather, a German
born and bred, lived there as a servant, despised and ill-
treated, working for the Fatherland he loved, for the
Fatherland which was to triumph ; and that triumph wTas
made possible by the information that he and others like
him gave. But he was suspected, watched, betrayed and
shot as a German spy. Then my father swore an oath
of vengeance and dedicated his unborn child to its ac-
complishment. I am that child, whom men call French,
but who hate France with an undying hatred. Voila !
c'est tout — how can I best serve you?
Baron. You know that a crisis is impending in
Servia ?
Hogue. Yes.
Baron. And that relations between Servia and Aus-
tria are strained almost to breaking point ?
Hogue. Oui, c'est vr'ai.
Baron. That Russian money and Russian influence
are backing Servia, but that the other powers, especially
Great Britain, are anxious for peace. An interview
takes place shortly at Vienna, between the British
Ambassador and the Austrian Prime Minister. I have
reason for thinking that private instructions to the Am-
34 THE MAN WHO WENT
bassador will go forward tc-night, outlining the course
he is to pursue. It is important that Austria and Ger-
many know what those instructions are. I have reason
to believe that the originals, or copies of the papers, will
be in the hands of the Countess Von Holtzberg to-night.
You must take them to Vienna and place them in the
hands of the Austrian Prime Minister without delay.
You know the Countess Von Holtzberg?
Hogue. Only by repute.
Baron. Meet me -here at seven o'clock this evening,
and I will give you a letter to her, and final instructions.
Whatever she gives you, guard as you would your life —
and deliver to none but the Prime Minister at Vienna.
PIogue. It shall be done.
Baron. Very well. We had better not risk being
seen together more than possible. Till to-night
Hogue. At seven o'clock. Au revoir, Monsieur le
Baron.
(Hogue exits up path l. ; the Baron glances off up
path r., and throwing aside his cigarette, walks up
to the gate at back, as if waiting for some one; the
Countess Von Holtzberg enters, a clever, keen-
faced woman of about thirty, down path from R. ;
the Baron comes c. to meet her, lifting his hat.)
Baron. You managed to escape our host?
Countess. Not altogether. I started with him and
Lady Caxton to view the estate, but we had not walked
far when, as usual, Lady Caxton felt the need of a rest ;
she insisted on sitting down, and Sir George insisted on
arguing with her, so I took the opportunity of strolling
ahead, hoping I might meet you.
Baron. How is Lord Royallieu?
Countess. Still in bed — young Thornton has been
sent for.
Baron. To carry the instructions to Vienna?
Countess. I think so.
Baron. You are not certain?
Countess. No, it is only guesswork — no one will
speak definitely.
Baron. You have laid your plans?
THE MAN WHO WENT 35
Countess. I shall leave for London in an hour.
Baron. Just when Thornton is coming?
Countess. Yes, I should have no chance to work
here; and if he sees me and says his adieux, he will be
satisfied ; but if he is going to Vienna and misses me, he
will be disconsolate and obey my call to come to me in
London and say good-bye.
Baron. Don't be too sure.
Countess. What do you mean?
Baron. Thornton has a tender conscience and an
abnormal sense of duty. If Royallieu impresses him
sufficiently with the importance of the documents he
carries he may not' take the risk of delay, even to meet
you.
{The Countess sits on seat l. c, and looks rather
coquettishly at the Baron.)
Countess. Don't you think you underrate my powers
of fascination?
Baron. Not in the least ; I could not be so ungallant ;
but I think you hardly understand the pig-headedness
of an Englishman.
Countess. Perhaps not; but what better course do
you suggest?
Baron. If Mahomet will not go to the mountain, let
the mountain come to Mahomet.
Countess. You mean?
Baron. That you must visit him at his rooms to-
night— then he cannot avoid you; the fact that you trust
yourself to him will appeal to his chivalry; the fact that
you are under his roof will silence his tongue. The stage
setting and atmosphere are perfect — it only remains for
you to play your part, and such an experienced actress
needs no stage direction from me. The game is in your
hands.
Countess. In spite of his pig-headed loyalty? Re-
member your own words. Suppose I fail?
Baron. You must not fail — you cannot ; there is
always the last resort.
{He bends toward her and whispers.)
36 THE MAN WHO WENT
Countess. Yes. {Meditatively.) Always that. (Ris-
ing and walking slowly down to r. as if thinking, a worn
expression on her face; the Baron zvatches her curiously;
she turns on him suddenly.) Ernest, don't you ever get
sick and tired of it all?
Baron. Of what?
Countess. Of this life, with its lies and trickery and
deceit? (The Baron makes a gesture of protest.) Oh,
I know what you are going to say — it is for the good of
my country; but I sometimes wonder if, even to be true
to one's country, one has the right to be so utterly false
to oneself. When I play the game I am playing with
young Thornton I despise myself.
Baron; And yet so many women play it for pleasure,
and from choice.
Countess. Then they are false to their sex. It's a
rotten thing to do, say what you will, and you can't make
it anything else but rotten. To take a boy's heart and
squeeze it dry of love and hope and promise, and then
fling it back to him with a laugh — to ruin his career and
send him out into the world, old and bitter before his
time, without faith in God — or woman.
Baron. Especially the latter. My dear Wanda, senti-
ment has always been your rock ahead; some day you
will be wrecked upon it.
Countess. I don't know that I care much how soon
that day comes, for out of the wreckage I might find my
true self. (The Baron shrugs his shoulders, and turns
up stage; the Countess stands for a moment as if trying
to control herself ; then she turns to him, speaking in a
matter-of-fact voice.) How are the papers to reach
Vienna ?
Baron (down l. c). I will send a trusted messenger
to the rooms ; he will bring a letter from me.
Countess. Might not a letter be dangerous if it fell
into other hands?
Baron. What would you suggest?
Countess. Enclose in the envelope a single black
feather — my crest. There can be no mistake then, and
who but ourselves could understand?
Baron. Splendid! Wanda is herself again! Senti-
THE MAN WHO WENT 37
ment is dethroned, and reason reigns in its stead. By the
way — the messenger will speak to you in French.
Countess. In French?
Baron. Yes, he is a peculiar product. He
Lady C. {speaking off R.). Don't get excited,
George — life would be so much pleasanter if you'd only
keep cool.
(Lady C. enters r., walking slowly and fanning her-
self; Sir Geo. follows, carrying a shawl or rug, a
folding chair and a pillow; he looks very hot and
irritable. )
Sir Geo. Keep cool ! Good Lord ! How do you
expect any man to keep cool on such a day as this, loaded
up like a field ambulance !
Lady C. You can put the things down if you want
to, George, now that we have found the dear Countess.
I will take a little rest.
Sir Geo. What, again?
Lady C. {with a resigned air). My dear George,
how often must I tell you that you are not married to a
modern woman — the chair, please. (Sir Geo. places
folding chair to r. of seat r. c.) In my young days girls
were brought up to be girls, not athletes. Would you
kindly spread the rug? {He spreads rug round her as
she sits.) Thank you. We were taught that home was
a woman's kingdom. The pillow at my back, George.
{He places pillow.) Thank you — and we stayed in our
kingdom — we didn't go running about all over the coun-
try just to exercise our muscles.
Sir Geo. Oh, rubbish ! A woman is none the worse,
wife or mother, because she stands on a pair of good
strong legs, instead of getting weak at the ankles when
she walks twenty-five yards.
Lady C. {in a tone of protest). My dear George —
remember, please — the Countess. When I was a girl we
didn't talk about — such things — in mixed company.
Sir Geo. Oh, fudge ! You couldn't walk or ride
without legs, so what's the use
Lady C. George, dear, hadn't you better sit down
38 THE MAN WHO WENT
and rest? I am sure you'll have a rush of blood to the
head if you don't. Would you like my fan?
(Sir Geo. glares at her as if trying to restrain a vio-
lent outburst in the presence of guests.)
Sir Geo. No, thank you. In my young days they
bred up boys to be men — not dandies, who wilt if they
see the sunshine.
{He turns up stage angrily, and joins the Baron, who
is leaning against the gate ; Lady C. shakes her head
with an indulgent smile, such as one might use to a
spoiled child, then she turns to the Countess, who
comes down and sits on seat c. to her l.)
Lady C. I am so sorry, dear Countess, if I have
curtailed your pleasure in viewing the estate by my old-
fashioned ways, but I can't help it. There's my niece
Evelyn, now; she rows and rides and swims and boxes
just like a man. In my young days that would have been
considered almost indelicate and wholly unfeminine.
She is a Colonial, of course, and that accounts for a good
many things; still it is trying to have an unfeminine
niece.
Sir Geo. {down a little l. a). God bless my soul,
what nonsense ! Evelyn is the most feminine thing that
ever stepped in shoe leather. Ask the men.
Lady C. I am not sure, George, that men are the
best judges of what is truly feminine in a woman. That
decision should be left to their own sex.
Sir Geo. It's not a question of decision, but of com-
mon sense. You watch a score of young fellows dangling
after a girl and you can wager she's feminine; it's the
feminine woman catches the man, every time.
Lady C. {with a sentimental simper). Perhaps you
are right, George. I caught you. (Sir Geo. glares at
her speechless, and then joins the Baron at the back;
Lady C. turns to Countess.) Of course I'm sorry to
have deprived my friends of pleasure.
Countess. Oh, pray don't speak of it, Lady Caxton.
THE MAN WHO WENT 39
Lady C. And you have to go so soon.
Countess. I am afraid so — within the hour.
Lady C. Dear, dear, dear — couldn't you wait a little
longer ?
Countess. I think not. My uncle, the Count Von
Szalras, has received important letters from Vienna on
family business, and wishes to see me in London at once.
I have ordered the motor to be ready as soon as we get
back to the house.
Lady C. Aren't these family business matters tire-
some? In my young days girls weren't bothered with
such things — the men arranged them, and we just put our
signatures to the documents. Couldn't your uncle do
that for you ? It would be so much nicer, and then you
could see all over the estate.
Countess. I am afraid the matters I have to attend
to can't be simplified so easily.
Lady C. Ah, the good old times were better for
women; they hadn't to think, then; but it is too bad — I
did want you to see the waterfall — and you can see it,
after all. (As if struck by a brigKt idea, she turns to the
Baron, who -has been talking to Sir Geo., c. at back.)
Baron. (The Baron comes forward c.) Won't you
take the dear Countess across the bridge and show her
the waterfall? It is so pretty, and you've been there
before. Then you can take the short cut back to the
house, and we'll meet you there to say good-bye.
Baron. Charmed to be of service to you and the
Countess.
Lady C. (smiling). So obliged, Baron. I'd like to
go myself, but I couldn't stand the climb over the rocks.
Sir Geo. (coming down r. c). I'm sure I should be
pleased
Lady C. No, no, George, you mustn't go; I need
your arm back to the house. Besides, the climbing isn't
good for you either. You are overheated as it is, and I
know your heart is weak. (Sir Geo. utters a "damn"
underneath his breath, and walks away angrily to r. ;
the Countess rises, and smiles at the Baron as if glad to
get the chance to finish her conversation with him.) I
am sure you can trust the dear Baron to do the honors.
40 THE MAN WHO WENT
Baron (with an elaborate bow). I shall do my best
to deserve the trust. At your service, Countess.
Lady C. Au revoir, Countess.
Countess. Au revoir, Lady Caxton — au revoir, Sir
George.
(Sir Geo. bows, but seems too annoyed for words;
the Countess and Baron go across the bridge R.
and disappear among the trees; Lady C. gives a sigh,
as if conscious that she had done her duty; she closes
her eyes and leans back in her chair, fanning her-
self; Sir Geo. gives a glance of indignation at her,
and strolls impatiently up to back and then down l. ;
as he gets left by end of bank he pauses and peers
down at the ground, then, almost kneeling, he ex-
amines the ground with an angry expression.)
Sir Geo. Well, I'll be
Lady C. (in a warning voice, without unclosing her
eyes). George!
Sir Geo. Oh, d n it, don't catch me up like that
on every word I say. Just look at this.
Lady C. (still with closed eyes). What?
Sir Geo. (still on his knees, examining the ground).
Some ragamuffin has been trespassing on my estate
again. The footsteps run both ways — they come on
from the path and then go back again.
Lady C. Well, George, dear, it's your own fault.
Sir Geo. My fault — my ! It is my fault that
there's not a poacher, beggar, tramp or tourist who
wouldn't rather go out of his way to trespass on my
estate than go on his way, and keep off it?
Lady C. Why don't you build a stone wall to keep
them off it?
Sir Geo. Because I don't want to build a stone wall.
I won't build a stone wall. An Englishman shouldn't
need a stone wall to protect his estates from depreda-
tions ; he should be protected by the British Constitution.
Lady C. That's what Englishmen say about every-
thing, but you'd find a little stone wall protection useful
sometimes.
Sir Geo. I stand upon my rights.
THE MAN WHO WENT 4I
Lady C. (looking at him reproachfully). Well, you'd
much better sit down. You are overheated and in a very
bad temper, and it's not good for you ; rest yourself
there, — (pointing to seat r. c.) and count two hundred —
it has a very soothing effect on the nerves. (Sir Geo.
glares at her speechless, blows and splutters as if trying
io express his feelings, and finding the effort too much
for him, he goes and sits down with his back to Lady C.
on the foot of the steps leading to the bridge; Lady C.
gives one glance at him, and then closes her eyes, fans
herself placidly, and her lips move, counting one, two,
three, etc., as if following out her own prescription;
there is the sound of a loud yawn; Sir Geo. pays no
attention to it, but Lady C. glances in the direction of the
willow trees; there is a movement among the branches,
and then a leg is kicked out from them, and over the
bank; Lady C. stares at it dumfounded; then another
leg follows, and she rises with a scream of terror, letting
the rug fall to the ground.) George — George! (Sir
Geo. rises and turns round; Lady C. flings herself in his
arms as she crosses to him and points at the legs.) Look
there — look !
Sir Geo. Well, if this doesn't beat the devil, I'll
(He makes a move toward c, but Lady C. clings
closer. )
Lady C. No, no, George, be calm — don't hurt him
for my sake.
(Dick emerges from the branches and sits on the bank,
an empty pipe in his mouth, blinking his eyes as he
comes into the sunlight; he raises his cap to Sir Geo.
and Lady C, who both recognize him; Lady C. as-
sumes a look of disapproval and disgust, and ceases
to cling to Sir Geo., who stares at Dick with an
expression part anger, part astonishment. )
Sir Geo. Good God, sir ! do you spend your whole
life in getting into places where you have no business
to be?
Dick. I say, you know — what have I done now?
42 THE MAN WHO WENT
Sir Geo. You are trespassing, sir — trespassing!
Dick. Oh, yes, of course — that's the reason I am
here.
Sir Geo. What's the reason you are here?
Dick. That — the sign — " Beware of the dog." (Sir
Geo. stares at him, shaking his head as if completely non-
plussed, and sinks helplessly on seat r. c.) That's
right — let's be comfortable, and I'll explain. Won't you
sit down, Lady Caxton? (Lady C., in a dignified man-
ner, and as if she were doing it under protest, sits on
chair again.) Right, oh! Now we are sociable. Well,
you see, I'm stopping with a chap up at Cresswick Hill —
Mr. Hardy — know him?
Sir Geo. We are — ahem — acquainted.
Dick. Yes, I didn't think you'd be much more than
that.
Sir Geo. Why, sir?
Dick. Too much alike — both a little explosive, you
know. (Sir Geo. looks indignant.) Well, he's a nice
old Johnny, but he's lived a lot in India, and won't give
up curry and red pepper, — suffers in consequence from
gout and liver, and has to sleep a lot.
Sir Geo. Well, what in the name of Heaven
Dick. Now do keep cool
Sir Geo. D n it, sir, the next person who tells
me to keep cool I'll — I'll (Pauses as if at a loss to
find words.) Go on, go on
Dick. Well, don't interrupt me, then. You see, his
sleeping such a lot makes it dull for his guests — no one
to talk to — and even the servants are all of the same
brand — liver, curry and sleep — and there's not even a
cat or dog about the place to be sociable with — and I'm
fond of cats and dogs, especially dogs — and there you
are.
Sir Geo. There I am. Where the devil am I?
Dick. That's the answer.
Sir Geo. Whose answer — what answer? Oh, good
Lord! (Putting his hand to his head.) Are you mad
or am I ?
Dick (cheerfully). Oh, Vm all right. You see, as
I was strolling by the other day, I saw that — (pointing
THE MAN WHO WENT 43
to the sign) and I said to myself, by Jove, I'll go and
see him !
Sir Geo. See — who?
Dick. The dog.
Lady C. Weren't you afraid of being bitten?
Dick. Oh, no. I'm like the poetical Johnny, Lord
Byron — " I am a friend to dogs." When I meet one, I
just say, " Halloa, Ponto," or Fido, or whatever he
looks like, and if he shows his teeth I say, " Now look
here, old chappie, don't be foolish — I'm your pal, you
know ; " and I pat him on the head — and — and then it's
all right, you know. Most dogs have a lot more sense
than human beings.
Lady C. Mr. Kent — I must request you not to be
irreligious.
(Sir Geo. stares at Dick as if he thought him utterly
hopeless. )
Dick. Sorry. Well, you see, I came looking for the
dog this morning, and he wasn't here.
Lady C. Mr. Kent, I have often remonstrated with
my husband for his deceit — but there is no dog.
Dick. Oh, I say, you know, that's too bad. Why
isn't there?
Sir Geo. Because there are so many fools come
tramping over my grounds that I couldn't have it on my
conscience to risk the dog's getting inoculated, and
spreading hydrophobia. They haven't all got your
winning ways with them. Well, having found that the
dog wasn't receiving to-day, why did you wait?
Dick. Well, you see, I was hot and tired and awfully
disappointed, so I thought I'd just stretch myself beneath
the willows and have a quiet smoke — and then I dropped
off, you know.
Sir Geo. Dropped off?
Dick. Yes, off to sleep — and I had such a jolly rum
dream — I thought that after all there was a dog here, you
know, but he wasn't a watch dog.
Sir Geo. No?
Lady C. What kind of a dog was he?
Dick. A German poodle — and one of the trickiest
44 THE MAN WHO WENT
little devils you ever saw. I was trying to catch him
when somebody woke me up by talking excitedly. (To
Sir Geo.) That was you, wasn't it?
Sir Geo. Probably.
Dick. Awfully sorry about the trespassing. And as
there was no dog, there wasn't any need for it, so I'll
take myself off. (He drops to the ground.) If you
really do get a dog you'll let me know, won't you ?
(Eve. and Jack enter from back l. Eve. sees Dick
and advances to him, holding out her hand and
smiling. )
Eve. Why, Mr. Kent, this is a pleasant surprise.
How are you ?
Dick. How are you? Awfully glad to see you.
Jack (nodding carelessly). How are you, Kent?
(He crosses down and shakes hands with Lady C. and
then with Sir Geo.) Just got in by the four fifteen.
Eve met me at the station and we took the short cut
across the fields. How's Lord Royallieu?
Sir Geo. Still in bed, but able to attend to business.
He is anxious to see you. He may want you to leave
to-night.
Jack. I'm ready. Where is the Baron — and the
Countess ?
Lady C. Goodness me! I had forgotten all about
the Countess.
Jack (anxiously). Has anything happened?
Lady C. (looking at her zvatch). She leaves for
London by motor — in less than fifteen minutes ; I should
be at the house now to say good-bye.
Jack (disappointed). By Jove, that's too bad.
Lady C. Give me your arm, Jack, and let's hurry.
(Taking Jack's arm.) Bring the things, George dear,
won't you? (To Jack.) I know I shall suffer from
the excitement, but duty to one's guests is duty. (Takes
Jack's arm and turns toward path r. ) And in my young
days (She stops short suddenly, and turns to Dick
in an icy manner.) Oh — er — good-afternoon, Mr. Kent.
(Dick bows.) In my young days, we were taught that
duty was a watchword which
THE MAN WHO WENT 45
(She goes off with Jack, her voice heard talking till
it dies away in the distance ; Sir Geo., with a sigh,
gathers up folding chair and pillozv, and then sees
the rug lying on the ground where it has fallen; he
gazes at it in a hopeless manner, and then begins to
put down the load he has already, preparatory to
picking it up; Eve. watches him with a smile.)
Eve. Don't bother about the rug, Uncle George; I'll
fold it up and bring it.
Sir Geo. Thanks, Eve, if you'll excuse me, I'll hurry
on. I don't want to miss the Countess. Good-after-
noon, Kent. If you are stopping long in the neighbor-
hood look us up some time — can't ask you to-day — house
upset with a sick guest — but — er — next week — glad to
see you (He hurries off path r.)
Dick. Er — thanks awfully.
(He stands looking at Sir Geo. with a comical expres-
sion of disappointment; Eve. regards him with a
mischievous smile. )
Eve. You — you — don't seem very popular. .
Dick. Not exactly. I feel like the little boy in the
picture who went out into the garden and ate woolly
worms — " Nobody loves me."
Eve. (after a quick and rather coquettish glance, as
she stoops to pick up the rug). Nobody?
Dick. Why, you don't mean to say that you ?
Eve. (hastily). Oh, no, that would be rather sudden,
wouldn't it? (He looks disappointed, and after a short
pause Eve. continues.) But I — I— like you.
Dick. Do you? By Jove, that's ripping. I say, if
you'll only let me, I'd like to
Eve. (interrupting) . Help me fold the rug? Thanks
so much.
(She throws one end of the rug to him, and they
stretch it out and begin to fold.)
Dick. Delighted — but that wasn't just what I was
going to say.
Eve. No ?
46 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick. No, I was going to say that (By this
time they have come to the last fold, and are standing
with their faces close together.) That — that
(Eve. looks frankly into his face, waiting, and he becomes
embarrassed.) Really, you are one of the most charm-
ing girls I ever met.
Eve. Really ?
Dick. Really. And if you'd let me, I'd like — to —
be — your friend.
Eve. I thought that you were that already.
{Throwing rug over her l. arm.)
Dick. Am I?
Eve. Aren't you? {Holding out her hand to him.)
Dick. Yes. {He clasps her hand warmly; she leaves
her hand in his and looks earnestly into his face.) And
you don't think like the others that I'm a good-for-noth-
ing idiot?
Eve. No — but {She pauses, slightly embar-
rassed, drops his hand and turns away. ) As your friend,
do you want me to speak the truth ?
Dick. Of course.
Eve. I'm afraid you've rather given them cause for
what they think. You see most people — women espe-
cially— like men who do things. / like men who do
things.
Dick. Do you? Well, how do you know I don't?
Eve. {taken aback). I'm only judging by appearances.
Dick. A very dangerous way to judge — sometimes.
Eve. {again looking earnestly into his face, and then
turning away as if rather ashamed of herself). Perhaps
it is.
Dick. It's the Johnnies that make the most show that
generally get the most praise. Look at those lilies over
there. {Pointing underneath the hedge.) They are
flashy and brilliant, and everybody says — " How lovely,"
but no one gives a word of praise to a humble vegetable
like — like the potato, that spends most of its time grow-
ing underground; but the potato is a fine thing for a
steady diet — and very useful, if you're hungry.
Eve. I see. Then you are — —
THE MAN WHO WENT 47
Dick. A potato — exactly; and if some day you're
hungry for a friend, you might find me useful — you
might find then that I could do things.
Eve. I think you could.
Dick. Then if you need a friend, you'll trust me?
Eve. {after a slight pause). Yes. {She holds out her
hand again, and he clasps it; they stand for a moment,
looking straight at each other, and then she takes her
hand away.) I must run back to the house now, or I'll
be shocking Aunt Venetia's sense of propriety. I'll take
the short cut across the bridge — good-bye.
{She crosses up to r. and ascends a few steps.)
Dick. Miss Thornton.
Eve. Yes.
{She pauses on steps; he moves up to her.)
Dick. I say, you know, in the olden days when ladies
told their knights and troubadours and all those kinds of
Johnnies that they — er — trusted them — they gave them a
token — won't you give me one? {He points to some
flowers she wears in her belt; Eve. takes a flozver and
gives it to him with a smile, and then runs quickly over
the bridge and off at r. ; he stands looking after her in
admiration, and presses the flower to his lips.) Made
in Canada !
{Lights slozvly fade out as he stands there till the
stage is left in darkness and the tableau curtain
descends for a minute or so only, indicating a short
lapse of time.)
SCENE 2. — The same. The curtain rises on a dark stage
which is gradually lighted up with moonlight, falling
particularly on the bridge, and slanting across to l.
path.
•
(Dick comes quickly down the path l. followed by
Barnes, a chauffeur.)
Dick. Have the car at the corner of Brockton Road
in fifteen minutes — come across that path {pointing to
48 THE MAN WHO WENT
gate and to the R.), and let me know when it is ready.
If I am in conversation with any one, wait till I speak to
you.
Barnes. Very well, sir.
Dick. You have a revolver?
Barnes. Yes, sir.
Dick. You can use it if necessary?
Barnes. Yes, sir.
Dick. All right. I hope it may not be needed. In
fifteen minutes.
(Barnes touches his hat and exits gate c, going off
to r. at back; moonlight grows stronger; Dick turns
to l. path, but instead of turning up it, goes on to
platform behind bushes and conceals himself;
Hogue enters quickly down path l. ; he crosses to R.
and stands looking off up path, but keeping zvell back
in the shadow; sound of voices and laughter heard;
Hogue goes quickly back to bridge, ascends steps
and crosses bridge and disappears through trees to
r. ; the Baron, Sir Geo., and Jack enter dozvn path
r. ; Jack carries a small travelling bag and light
overcoat; they are all smoking.)
Sir Geo. How's the time?
Jack (looking at his watch). Just seven. We have a
good twenty minutes, and it only takes ten to walk to the
station.
Baron. I will not go any farther. I am sure you
have some final words of instruction and advice for my
friend Thornton, and a stranger might be de trop.
Sir Geo. You are very considerate, Baron.
Baron. Not at all. I will rest in the moonlight and
finish my cigar, and then stroll quietly back to the house.
We shall arrive there about the same time.
Sir Geo. Probably.
Baron. Bon voyage, Thornton. (He shakes hands
with Jack.) I will keep the nest warm till you return.
Jack. Thanks. Au revoir.
(Jack and Sir Geo. go off through gate c. and then
to l. ; the Baron strolls up to gate and leans on it,
THE MAN WHO WENT 49
smoking and watching them; then he strolls down
c, whistling softly; Hogue comes quickly across the
bridge to Baron, c.)
Baron (pointing to l., at back). Cut across that path
to the station and catch the seven twenty for London.
(Taking a letter from his pocket.) Take this letter — go
to No. 7 Portman Square, ground floor apartment ; ring
twice, and you will be admitted; give this to the Countess
Von Holtzberg. If there is any one with her, speak
French, and if necessary, pretend you have mistaken the
house ; she will take the cue and instruct you what to do ;
if she gives you a package of papers, take them and
start for Vienna at once, and place them in the hands of
the Austrian Prime Minister without delay.
Hogue. I understand.
(He takes the letter, and turns toward gate c As he
places letter in his breast pocket, the Baron looks at
his watch.)
Baron. Stop. You've plenty of time. On second
thoughts, you'd better go by the main road. I don't
want those two men who just passed to see you, and
you might overtake them. Avoid the compartment one
enters, or better still, travel second class. (Dick steals
out from behind the bushes and up path l. and dis-
appears, L.) Good-night.
(The Baron goes hastily up path r. Hogue starts
tozvard path l. ; Dick reenters l. and comes down
slozvly; Hogue pauses on seeing some one coming,
and then walks forward in an unconcerned manner;
Dick takes out a cigarette from case and puts it in
his mouth, and feels for a match just as he and
Hogue meet path l. )
Dick. Could you oblige me with a light? (Hogue
hesitates for a moment, and then draws out a match case,
and strikes a match; he holds it up to Dick who bends
forward to light his cigarette, their faces almost touching
in the light of the match; Dick stares straight into
Hogue's eyes.) Ah, as I thought — Monsieur Paul
Hogue,
50 THE MAN WHO WENT
(Hogue is evidently taken by surprise, but retains his
self -control. )
Hogue. Pardon, Monsieur, vous avez tort.
Dick {pretending not to understand). Eh?
Hogue. You mistake — n'est ce pas? It is not my
name.
Dick. No? Under what alias are you travelling
now? Am I speaking to Antoine Gerard, the govern-
ment clerk who disappeared mysteriously three years ago
together with some important papers — to Joseph Dufort,
the Paris bookseller and issuer of seditious pamphlets —
to Sergeant La Fleur, who was drummed out of the
French army, and only escaped death by the influence
of those higher up who needed his services to
(Hogue shrivels up before his questions, and loses his
self-control as he looks at Dick in terror.)
Hogue {in a hoarse ivhispcr). Who the devil are you?
Dick. Quite immaterial, since I have shown you that
I know zvho you are. And I want the letter given you
just now by your patron.
Hogue. If you know my patron, why turn you not
your attentions to him?
Dick. Eecause the man higher up. is harder to get,
and I want to catch him red handed. The letter — quick !
(Hogue makes a move to his hip pocket.) Keep your
hand from your hip pocket — it's not there — in your
breast Quick !
(Hogue drops his hands to his side and assumes a
defiant air, or tries to do so.)
Hogue. And suppose, Monsieur, that I refuse?
Dick. Then, much as I should hate to disturb the
peace of Sir George's domains, I shall be under the pain-
ful necessity of shooting you and taking the letter after-
ward.
{Whips revolver from his pocket and covers Hogue.)
Hogue {in a trembling voice, and trying to con! vol
himself). You would not dare.
THE MAN WHO WENT 51
Dick. Why not?
Hogue. Because the shot would bring people to the
spot, and how would you account for my death ?
Dick. Oh, by half a dozen lies if necessary; and you,
being dead, couldn't contradict me; however I have only
to tell the truth and expose your record, and any jury
would bring it in justifiable homicide. The letter! (A
train whistle is heard.) You've missed your train, so
it's not much use to you. (He holds the revolver close
to Hogue's heart; Hogue looks at him, rage and fear
struggling in his face, but he sees that Dick means busi-
ness; his hand goes slowly to his breast; he takes out the
letter and places it in Dick's left hand; Dick takes it
and puts it in his pocket.) Thanks.
Hogue. Can I go now?
Dick. No, I don't want you at large for a few hours,
and I think
Patton (speaking off l. at back). I heard voices —
this way, Sir George.
Sir Geo. (off l. at back). If I catch the ruffians,
I'll
Dick (raising his voice). Sir George — Sir George!
(Sir Geo. enters from l. at back followed by Patton;
they come down to gate; Sir Geo. pauses on seeing
Dick.)
Sir Geo. Good Lord ! You again !
Dick. No, no, Sir George — I'm all right this time.
I'm not trespassing — I'm catching a trespasser. He's a
foreigner and it looks suspicious.
Sir Geo. A foreigner prowling around my estate at
night! (To Hogue.) What the devil do you mean
by it?
Hogue. Mais non, Monsieur — je proteste.
Sir Geo. Talk English, can't you?
Dick. Yes, that's what I say ; it's so much easier to
understand.
Hogue. But I have it not, the English — or very
badly. I am an artist.
Dick. Then where are your sketch book and pencils ?
You can't be an artist without them, don't you know.
52 THE MAN WHO WENT
Hogue. I will explain
Sir Geo. You'll explain up at Thorncliffe where your
explanation can be taken down in writing.
Hogue. Monsieur, you have not the right
Sir Geo. Haven't I? You'll see what right I have.
I am a Justice of the Peace, and I could put you in the
lockup till morning if I wanted; but go quietly up to the
house with my man, and I'll give you a chance to talk.
Patton
Patton. Yes, sir.
Sir Geo. Take this — er — gentleman up to the house
and look after him till I come.
Patton. All right, sir.
{He advances and lays his hand on Hogue's arm.)
Hogue. Messieurs, once more I make the protest.
Sir Geo. You go quietly up to the house if you know
what's good for you.
Dick. Yes, don't make a bally ass of yourself, old
chap; it might be awkward.
{Looking at Hogue pointedly. Hogue glances at him
in fury, but sees that he is powerless, so goes over
to r. with Patton.)
Sir Geo. {turning to Dick). Mr. Kent, I congratu-
late you — for once in your life you have done something
useful.
Dick. Oh, thanks awfully. I'm so pleased that
you're pleased, don't you know.
Sir Geo. Come up to the house and have a whiskey
and soda and a cigar, and watch me handle this fellow.
I have an idea it wTill be interesting.
Dick. Oh, I say, that would be ripping, but I — I
can't.
Sir Geo. Why not?
Dick. I've got to motor to London. Told my chauf-
feur to have the car at Brockton Road in fifteen minutes.
Ought to be there now.
Sir Geo. But I may want you as a witness.
Enter Barnes from back, r., behind hedge.
THE MANf WHO WENT 53
Dick. All right, Barnes; I'm coining.
(Moves up to gate.)
Sir Geo. But, sir, I
Hogue (struggling with Patton). Sir George — that
man — do not trust him. I tell you he is a spy — a traitor.
Sir Geo. (to Dick). Who the devil are you?
Dick. The son of my father. (At exit.) Drive like
hell, Barnes.
(Rushes out at gate, c, and off with Barnes to r. ;
Hogue struggling and talking incoherently; Sir
Geo. dumfounded.)
CURTAIN
ACT III
SCENE. — Same as Act I.
(The curtain rises on stage lighted only by moonlight
and street lamp — reflection through window r. c.
Then door c. opens and Jack enters zvith travelling
bag and light overcoat; he switches on the lights
and then exits door l. ; a pause of some seconds, then
the door-bell rings; he enters from door l. as if
rather annoyed at being disturbed, and opens door,
c. ; the Countess enters; for a moment he looks
pleased on seeing her, then during the first few
sentences of the conversation his manner becomes
embarrassed. )
Jack (in a tone of surprise). Countess!
Countess. I am not intruding?
(With a coquettish, insinuating look.)
Jack. Oh, no, no — not that ; but
Countess. Pardon me, my friend, but those few brief
words at Thornclifle — that pressure of the hand as my
motor drove aAvay, left my heart hungering for a real
adieu, and (Giving him a reproachfid glance, and
then coming down r. c.) You said you would not come
to see me in London to say good-bye.
Jack. I said I could not.
Countess. I thought that love could always find a
way. (She sits on sofa r. c. ; he stands beside her em-
barrassed; she puts out her hand and takes his.) My
love has, heedless of what the world, my world — might
say. I did not pause to think or count the cost — I came.
(A pause.) Jack, aren't you glad to see me?
Jack. You know I am ; you know how terribly dis-
appointed I was to find you leaving Thornclifle just when
I arrived — to lose the chance of even only a few mo-
54
THE MAN WHO WENT 55
ments alone. (She rises and draws closer to him as he
speaks, looking up into his face.) How I hated to say
good-bye with others there, while all the while
Countess (interrupting). And yet — you could not
come ? Why ?
Jack. Because my duty to those I serve left me no
time — no choice. Even now
Countess (turning away from him angrily). Bah!
You English ! What are you made of ? You stand in
the presence of the woman you love and talk of duty
Jack. Yes.
Countess. You measure out your tender farewells
with your eyes on the minute hand of your watch, and
you call that love. (Jack stands, half angry, half de-
jected, his face clouded.) When do you go?
Jack. Very shortly.
Countess. How long will you be gone?
Jack. I cannot tell.
Countess. You mean you will not.
Jack. If you choose — I will not.
Countess. Where are you going?
Jack. That also is the secret of those who send me.
Countess. The secret! (She bursts into a derisive
laugh.) Are you so foolish — do you know so little of
the ways of diplomacy as to suppose your mission a
secret? It is known to half the embassies in London.
Jack. That is not my affair — they have not heard of
it through me.
Countess. You are going to Vienna.
Jack. If you know, why do you ask me?
Countess. Because — because (She crosses l.
as if thinking, and then turning suddenly, she goes up to
him c.) Jack, it was not only to say farewell that I
came to you to-night ; I came to beg a favor. Will you —
will you grant it?
Jack. I must first know what it is.
Countess. Does love ask questions?
Jack. Duty does.
Countess. Ah, duty — duty ! Always the cry of duty !
Jack (looking at his watch). The time is going
quickly.
56 THE MAN WHO WENT
Countess (suddenly). Those papers you are carrying
to Vienna — let me see them.
Jack. Are you mad?
Countess. Almost — when I think of what they may
mean to you and to me.
Jack (surprised) . To us?
Countess. Yes. I know more than you think — more
than you know. A crisis is impending that may plunge
the whole of Europe into war, and set the men of your
race and the men of mine against each other — the lust of
blood in their hearts and souls — and sacrifice our love
on the altar of their hate. I have influence and power
you do not dream of. One glance at those papers and I
may be able to avert it all — for my sake — for the sake
of the country you love.
Jack. Stop ! There are some things I could not
forgive — even to you
(The Countess goes to him and puts her hands on his
shoulder, looking up into his face.)
Countess. Jack, Jack, listen to me — do as I ask, and
you shall name your own reward. The man who saves
all that is dearest to me can ask nothing that I will not
give — barriers of caste and race shall be broken down.
I— I
(He grasps her hands by the wrists and removes them
from his shoulders as he looks sternly into her face;
she seems to realize that she is playing a losing game
and the words die on her lips; there is a pause.)
Jack (in a low voice, but with tremendous firmness).
Men of the British Empire do not betray their country.
(He drops her hands and turns to go; she throws her-
self on her knees before him and clings to him.)
Countess. Jack — Jack — you must not go — I will not
let you go. The messenger who carries those papers is
in deadly peril. I have no right to warn you, but / do
not place duty before love, and I tell you you are going
to certain danger — perhaps to — death.
THE MAN WHO WENT 57
Jack. And you would have the man you love a
coward as well as a traitor? I do not want such love.
Good-bye.
(He frees himself from her grasp, and exits door l. ;
she rises to her feet and stands for a moment looking
after him with an expression of baffled rage; then
with a look of determination, she crosses quickly to
the sideboard, and taking a phial from her breast
she drops some of its contents into a wine glass,
glancing over her shoulder at door l. ; she replaces
the phial in her breast and goes toward, door l. ; she
pauses and speaks in a low voice, as if half choked
with sobs.)
Countess. Jack — Jack! (Jack appears at door l.)
Forgive me, dear. I didn't understand. When a woman
loves, she is apt to think only of the one she loves, and
what he means to her. Men are different — wiser —
stronger — better, perhaps; I am sorry, Jack. Good-bye.
(She holds out her hand.)
Jack. Wanda !
(He goes to her and takes her hand, his anger gone, his
heart touched, and stands looking at her too full of
emotion for words; she withdraws her hand gently
from his, and crosses over to sideboard; she fills
the wine glass into which she put the drops and
another one from a decanter of wine, then she turns
to him.)
Countess. Before I go, Jack, a toast to the happiness
we once dreamed might be ours, and a kindly thought to
the lonely future when we must both try and — forget.
Jack (going over to her and taking her in his arms).
Wanda, Wanda, why must we part — why must we spend
a lifetime trying to forget? Your forebodings may be
only morbid fears. Love conquers most things — let us
wait and hope.
Countess. No, no — it was folly always. Just the
toast, and then good-bye.
58 . THE MAN WHO WENT
(He releases her from his embrace, and stands dc^
jected; she takes up the glass into which she put the
drops and hands it to him, taking the other glass
herself ; looking wistfully into each other's eyes they
drink in silence, and put their glasses down on the
sideboard; then Wanda turns to him, lifting her face
to his; carried away by his passion, he seizes her in
his arms and, crushing her to him, kisses her.)
Jack. Wanda, I — I can't let you go; I can't let it all
end like this.
Countess. Better so, dear ; time will heal the wound.
(He lets her go and turns from her to c. ; a pause; he
takes a fezv uncertain steps as if giddy, and passes his
hand across his face, leaning against the table, c, for
support. The Countess simulates anxiety.) Jack, dear,
what's the matter
Jack (speaking in a rather thick voice). Eh? Oh,
nothing — nothing. I've been overdoing it a bit lately, I
guess ; and then this — this sort of thing upsets a fellow.
I'm — I'm all right.
(He makes a step toward the sofa, lurches and stag-
gers; she goes up to him and supports him, and leads
him down to sofa, r. c. ; he sits down putting his
hand to his head.)
Countess. Lie down and rest.
Jack. No, no — I've got to go- I must go.
(He tries to rise.)
Countess (her hand on his shoulder). When must
you go?
Jack. In less than half — an — hour — in God ! I
can't think
Countess. Rest for a few minutes. I will watch
and call you.
Jack (staring at her in a stupid zvay, but rather doubt-
fully). You?'
Countess (bending down and kissing him). Yes.
Can't you trust me, Jack?
THE MAN WHO WENT 59
Jack. Yes, yes — of course — it — it's awfully — good
of you — after what I said, — I — I'm sorry — you won't
forget to — to
(He sinks back on the sofa, and she covers him with
a rug ; he falls into a stupor or sleep, and she stands
looking at him for a moment with a curious expres-
sion, then she bends over him and rapidly searches
in all his pockets, an anxious look on her face ; then
she smiles as she takes from his inner vest pocket a
thin leather despatch case, and draws from it a large
envelope, sealed with three seals; she carries it over
to desk l. and sits; taking a flat paper knife from the
desk and passing it under one ^of the seals, she opens
it and an end of the envelope; then she takes out
some papers, looks at them anxiously, draws from
her dress a small cipher code book, and, glancing
from it to the paper, evidently reads one or two
words to find out by aid of cipher if they are what
she wants; then she thrusts the paper into her breast,
takes from ihe desk several sheets of blank paper,
folds them in the same shape as the ones she has
removed and places them in the envelope; she lights
a small candle, melts some sealing wax and makes
the seal fast again; then she puts it into the despatch
case, goes over to the sofa and places it and the fake
papers in Jack's inside vest pocket as before ; then
she stands looking down at him, her breath coming
in quick gasps; the door-bell, c, rings tzvice; she
looks at the sleeping man to see what effect it has
on him, and as he does not move, she goes quickly
to door, c, and opens it; Dick is seen standing out-
side in the hall, bowing to her.)
Dick. Madame la Comtesse Von Holtzberg?
Countess. Oui, Monsieur.
Dick. Puis — j ' — entres ?
Countess. Oui, Monsieur. (Dick enters the room;
the Countess puts her finger to her lips and points to
Jack.) Mais prenez garde.
(Dick glances quickly at Jack; his being there is
60 THE MAN WHO WENT
evidently a surprise to him, but except for a mo-
mentary glance of his eyes, he controls himself and
speaks with a smile.)
Dick. II dorme bien.
Countess. Oui — tres bien.
Dick. Est — ce — que je parlerai Francais?
Countess. S'il vous plait — mais je prefere.
Dick. At the pleasure of Madame la Comtesse. I
speak not the English or German well, mais je comprends
perfaitment. {He takes letter from breast pocket and
hands it to her.) From Monsieur le Baron.
{The Countess opens the envelope, and takes out a
black feather, after glancing at Jack to make sure
he is sleeping.)
Countess. I welcome you, Monsieur — sit down.
(Dick sits r. of table, Countess, l. ; she draws papers
from her dress.) The Baron has given you full in-
structions ?
Dick. Oui, Madame.
Countess. You know what these are — {holding up
the papers) and what they mean to us — to the cause?
There is no need for me
Dick. There is no need, Madame.
{The Countess rises, crosses to desk l., takes out a
large envelope and puts the papers into it; then slie
goes back to the table.)
Countess. I have put no address on the envelope.
Dick. It is safer so.
Countess. You understand?
Dick. I understand; and I assure Madame la Com-
tesse they shall reach in safety the hands for which they
are intended. {He takes the papers from her and puts
them in his breast pocket; Jack, on the sofa, stirs.) He
wakes. {He rises.) I go.
Countess. Not yet; let him go first. Into that
room — {pointing to door r. ) and wait till he is gone.
(Dick looks at her with a puzzled expression.)
THE MAN WHO WENT 6 1
Dick. He goes ?
Countess. To Vienna,
Dick. Mais pourquois? He has not the papers.
Countess {significantly). He has some papers.
Dick (comprehending)- Ah — a change.
Countess. Yes; and after a long journey, who can
tell when the change was made?
Dick (bowing low to the Countess). Madame, vous
etes magnifique. When Nature make you a woman, she
rob the world of a great leader.
(Jack makes a more definite movement as if trying to
shake off the stupor; the Countess points once more
to door, r., and Dick goes quickly out; the Countess
crosses to sideboard, takes another phial from her
dress, and drops some of its contents into a wine
glass; then fills glass up with soda; then she crosses
back to the sofa and shakes Jack by the sJiGidder.)
Countess. Jack — Jack ! (He stirs in his sleep, opens
his eyes in a drowsy manner and, assisted by her, sits up,
a dazed expression on his face.) Jack — it is time to go !
Jack (slowly). Time to go?
Countess. Yes. (Rather anxiously.) Don't you
remember ?
Jack (repeating her words almost mechanically).
Remember ? What ?
• Countess. That you were ill — tired, and worn out —
and that I said I would watch while you rested and call
you ?
Jack (in the same tone of voice). Ill — tired
Countess. Drink this and it will clear your head.
(Jack takes the glass from her hand, drinks the con-
tents feverishly and shudders slightly as if it had a
strange taste ; he closes his eyes for a moment after
handing back the glass, and when he opens them
again, the drowsy look is gone; the Countess places
the glass on the table; Jack glances with a startled
look at his watch.)
Jack. Half-past eight ! My God ! And the train
62 THE MAN WHO WENT
Countess. The train for Dover does not leave till
nine; you have plenty of time.
Jack. The train for Dover? How did you know?
{Looking at her suspiciously.) Did I
Countess. No, you did not betray a secret. I
guessed — don't you recollect ?
Jack. Yes, yes — I recollect. (A pause ; then he gets
to his feet by an effort of will. ) Well, I must be off now.
Countess. Rest a little longer; let me get your coat
and bag.
(She presses him gently back on the sofa; he looks at
her a moment and then seizes her hand.)
Jack. How — how good you are to me, Wanda; and
I — I said (He stops short suddenly in a broken
manner and presses her hand to his lips.) Forgive me.
Countess. Don't let us talk about that now.
Jack. No, no — there's not time now ; but when I come
back (The Countess draws gently azvay and exits
into room l. ; Jack sits leaning his head on his hand and
stares straight before him as if trying to piece events
together; then a look of fear comes into his face and he
starts and presses his hand to his breast; then he thrusts
his hand into his pocket and brings out case ; he takes
out envelope and glances at it; puts it back in case, and
then in pocket, a look of relief on his face as his lips form
the zvords — "Thank God"; as he replaces the envelope,
the Countess enters door, l., carrying cap, overcoat and
travelling bag ; she comes c. and putting cap and bag on
table c. helps him on with his coat.) Thank you. (She
puts bag and cap in his hand.) Good-bye, Wanda.
(He turns toward the door c, pauses as if still a little
dazed, and passes his hand across his face.) I wonder
what bowled me over like that? I think my heart must
be a bit queer.
Countess. Hadn't you better hurry, Jack?
Jack (pulling himself together). Yes — that's right.
Good-bye. I won't ask you to kiss me — I couldn't after
all I said — but when I come back (He breaks off
suddenly. ) Good-bye.
THE MAN WHO WENT 63
(lie exits quickly, door c. The Countess goes to door
and stands listening, then the outside door slams;
she stands for a moment, a strange expression on
her face; then she conies down c. and calls.)
Countess. Monsieur.
(Dick enters from door r. ; the Countess, scarcely
paying any attention to him, walks up to the fire-
place; she stands with her back to Dick for a mo-
ment in silence, then she leans her arms on the mantel
and buries her face on them, her body shaken with
silent sobs ; Dick watches her with a curious expres-
sion. )
Dick. Madame is ill ?
Countess. No. (Raising her head slowly.) Only
tired — only heart-sick — only (She recovers her-
self and turns to him almost defiantly.) I don't suppose
a man could understand.
Dick. Possibly not — les homines sont tres stupides.
Yet some men
(The Countess speaks as if the nervous strain had
been too much for Pier, and almost against her will
she had to confide in some one.)
Countess. Have you ever played for high stakes —
striven for some great prize — put your whole heart and
soul into the striving, and then, when the game was won
and the prize in your grasp, wished to God that you had
lost?
(Dick regards her curiously, and then speaks after
a pause.)
Dick. Yes, I think I understand; par example, in
the " sport " of which these English are so fond, I have
stalked a deer for hours, waded through water, lain
perdu in the damp and cold — my grand passion, my one
ambition, the lust to kill— then, voila ! — the lucky shot is
fired, and I have stood by the deer and looked at the
wistful terror in its dying eyes, and wished that I had
missed.
64 THE MAN WHO WENT
(As he speaks, the Countess listens with parted lips
and heaving breast; she shudders slightly when he
has finished, and turns from him, speaking in a
low voice.)
Countess. Yes, that is it — you — understand.
Dick. Ah, Madame, such weakness is allowed to
sport — not to diplomacy.
Countess (with an effort). You are right, and we
are wasting precious time. You — you will not speak of
this to the Baron; he would think it foolish.
Dick. Madame need have no fear — the next time I
meet Monsieur le Baron there will be more important
subjects for conversation than the amiable weakness of a
charming lady. (The Countess bows her thanks.) As
you say, the time is passing; Monsieur Thornton is well
on his way — you have no more instructions?
Countess. No, you have all that you need from the
Baron. You have possession of the papers — you know
to whom they are to be delivered, and the importance
of the issue that hangs upon them.
Dick. Madame may rest assured that no one realizes
their importance more than I do.
Countess. That is all then. Bon voyage, Monsieur.
Dick. Merci, Madame-
(The door outside slams; both start and listen; then
the door handle is turned.)
Countess. The door is not locked.
(She moves toward it but before she can reach it it is
opened, and Eve., pale and excited, enters; she starts
with surprise for a moment on seeing the Countess,
but is evidently too much engrossed with her own
business to go into details as to why she is there;
she turns to Dick, who stands for a moment dam-
founded. )
Eve. Where is my brother?
(Dick, trying to think out the situation, does not an-
swer; the Countess replies instantly.)
THE MAN WHO WENT 65
Countess. He left not ten minutes ago.
Eve. Thank God!
Countess. You did not wish to see him?
Eve. No, no — only to know that he had gone. (Turn-
ing to Dick.) Mr. Kent (The Countess stares
at Dick as she hears Eve. address him, so that Dick gets
no chance to signal Eve., and can only assume a look of
blank astonishment.) I have come to tell you that you
are in danger — that you are suspected, falsely accused —
of
Dick (trying to stem the torrent of her words). Mais,
Mademoiselle, I understand not — it is — tres charmant
that you interest yourself in me — one whom you do not
know.
Eve. Not know you ! You — who only a f ew hours
ago asked me to call you friend — to trust you ! Why
should you deny it — why are you speaking with that
accent ?
Countess. Miss Thornton, who is this man?
Dick. Madame la Comtesse, Mademoiselle knows
not — it is a mistake ; she suffers from what you call — it —
an hallucination
Eve. You say that? Dick— (The zvord slips
from her almost involuntarily.) Are you mad? (She
pauses suddenly with a startled expression and looks
from Dick to the Countess.) What are you doing here
in rny brother's room — alone — with that woman? (She
shrinks back with a look of horror, and a cry.) Is it
possible that you are what they say — a spy !
Countess. A spy? Who says that?
Eve. The Baron — the Frenchman — my uncle, Sir
George Caxton — they say he has designs upon my
brother — designs on England; and I, believing and trust-
ing him, came to warn him of his danger. But now
(The Countess is puzzled and at a loss what to be-
lieve; she turns to Dick, interrupting Eve., and
trying to give him a cue.)
Countess. Monsieur, what explanation have you to
offer ?
66 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick (dropping into his natural voice). Oh, a whole
lot — only I haven't time to make them now. I shall miss
that train
Countess. Miss Thornton, I believe you are right.
This man had designs on your brother and on me, whom
he has tricked and deceived. He must not go now — he
must wait here for the verdict of the Baron — of
Dick. I'm awfully sorry, but I shall have to postpone
the pleasure — some other day, delighted.
(He moves toward door c.)
Countess (to Eve.). Lock that door, please.
(Eve., who is near the door, steps back to lock it.)
Dick. Miss Thornton, don't do anything you'll be
sorry for. I know it's an infernal muddle and looks
black for me, but I still ask you to trust me, and hear
my explanation later. This is not a time for words, but
for action. You said once you'd like to see me do things
— stand out of the way and give me a chance to do them.
(Eve. hesitates and Dick moves nearer the door; there
is a loud slam of the outer door heard, a tramping of
feet and a ring at the bell, then Sir Geo.'s voice is
heard in a grumbling tone.)
Sir Geo. Damn the people who don't keep their halls
properly lighted.
Dick. Too late.
(He crosses down r., Eve. following him, puzzled and
half frightened ; the Countess moves up toward
door c.)
Eve. Dick, what have I done?
Dick. Pulled out the linch pin and upset the whole
apple-cart, I'm afraid.
Eve. I — I can't understand.
Dick. Of course you can't — and don't look so blue
over it; I'm not dead yet. (He leans closer to her as the
Countess opens the door, c, speaking in a low voice.)
Only stick to me and trust me, for Jack's sake — it may
mean life and death to him.
THE MAN WHO WENT 67
(The Countess has opened the door and Sir Geo.,
Hogue and Patton are discovered standing in the
hall; they enter, and the first thing Sir Geo. sees is
Eve.; he stops with a look of horror.)
Sir Geo. Evelyn, how the devil did you come here?
Eve. On the same train as you, only my taxi travelled
faster.
Sir Geo. Why did you come?
Eve. To warn Mr. Kent of the things that were being
said of him at Thorncliffe, and of your intention to ar-
rest him.
Sir Geo. Good Lord ! What is the world coming to ?
How dare you — how
Eve. He's my friend, and I won't have him trapped ;
he's a right to a fighting chance.
Sir Geo. Fighting chance ! By Gad, if he's what I
suspect, it's small chance he'll get from me or a Court
of Justice either. (Turning to Dick.) Well, sir, what
have you got to say?
Dick. It's not fit for the ladies' ears.
Sir Geo. This is no time for joking, sir.
Dick. I was never farther from joking in my life.
Sir Geo. I've some questions to ask you.
Dick. Right, oh — only be quick. I've a train to catch
at nine. I've just ten minutes, remember — I can't give
you a second longer.
(He looks at his watch.)
Sir Geo. You'll give me just as long as I choose.
Sit down. (Dick crosses and sits l. of table; Sir Geo.
r. ; Hogue, pale and nervous, on conch r. c. ; the Count-
ess on chair by desk, l. ; Eve. goes up and stands by fire-
place; Patton stands on guard near door, c.) Less
than two hours ago you assisted in the arrest of this
gentleman (pointing to Hogue) on my estate, for tres-
passing.
Dick. Quite true, and you were pleased to commend
me for having done at least one useful act in my life.
Sir Geo. You intimated that he was a foreigner and
a suspicious character,
68 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick. And you promptly shared my suspicions.
Sir Geo. Don't interrupt. I asked you to come to the
house and assist as a witness at his examination. You
declined on the ground that you had an important motor
trip to make to London.
Dick. Well, I've made it.
Sir Geo. Your remarks are superfluous, sir. On
taking Mr. Lenoir {Turning to Hogue.) That is
correct, I believe?
Hogue {moistening his lips nervously). Oui, Mon-
sieur-
Dick. I beg your pardon — you said?
Sir Geo. Lenoir.
Dick. Thank you.
{He takes out his note-book and makes a note, and
gives a quizzical glance at Hogue as much as to say
lie had another alias to add to his list.)
Sir Geo. On taking Mr. Lenoir to the house, I found
he had a slight acquaintance with the Baron. He told
his story to him in French, and the Baron was kind
enough to translate it into English. Judge of my horror
when I found that you, the son of a British diplomatist —
a so-called English gentleman — had held up this man you
accused of trespassing with threats of violence, and com-
mitted highway robbery by taking from him a letter
entrusted to him by a friend — for what purpose, you and
Heaven alone know.
Dick. And neither of us will tell — at present.
{The Countess starts and frowns as if thinking deeply.)
Sir Geo. You don't deny it ?
Dick. Of course not — why should I? Truth is one
of my outstanding virtues.
Sir Geo. {angrily). We'll see about that, sir. This
letter
Countess. A letter?
Sir Geo. Yes, Countess.
Countess. Sir George, I believe I can throw some
light upon this matter.
Sir Geo. Indeed?
THE MAN WHO WENT 69
Countess. Only a few minutes ago this gentleman,
Mr.— er
Dick. Kent.
Countess. Mr. Kent — came to me, representing him-
self to be a Frenchman with only a partial knowledge of
the English language. He brought a letter of introduc-
tion from a friend of mine
Hogue (picking up his cue). It is ze same, it is ze
same — my lettaire was for Madame la Comtesse
Sir Geo. Ah, this is most important evidence.
Dick. Most important. Let the Countess produce
the letter.
(The Countess stares at him dumfounded, realizing
that he has turned the tables upon her.)
Sir Geo. Have you any objections, Countess?
Countess (taken aback for a moment). Is — is it
necessary ?
Sir Geo. It would expedite matters; it would be
almost conclusive.
Countess (having had time to think). But, Sir
George, you remember my telling Lady Caxton this morn-
ing that my uncle, the Count Von Szalras, had received
important papers from Vienna on private family matters ?
Sir Geo. Yes.
Countess. The letter concerns them. Under the cir-
cumstances
Sir Geo. I understand — under the circumstances, I
respect your delicacy ; it may not be needed. What hap-
pened then?
Countess. The letter informed me that the bearer,
an old friend, was leaving for Vienna to-night by the nine
o'clock train.
Dick. Yes, and if you'll pardon me for interrupting,
it's getting deucedly near train time. (Looks at his
watch.) Only six minutes left.
Sir Geo. I'm afraid, sir, you'll miss that train.
Dick. Oh, I don't think so — I'm a regular nailer at
catching trains, you know.
Sir Geo. Exceptions prove the rule. You won't go
till you've answered my questions. Continue, Countess.
7o
THE MAN WHO WENT
Countess. It told me to give into his hands some
important family documents, which I had taken home to
sign, as by that means they would reach Vienna sooner
than by regular post.
Sir Geo. And you gave them ?
Countess. Yes.
Hogue. Voleur — robber !
Sir Geo. (to Dick). What the devil do you want
with the Countess' private papers?
Dick. Under the circumstances, Sir George, I must
ask you to respect my delicacy — for family reasons I
can't tell you ; and if I could, I haven't got the time — live
minutes now.
Sir Geo. In five minutes you'll find yourself in the
hands of the police if you don't answer my questions.
Dick. Oh, I wouldn't do anything rash if I were you.
Eve. (coming down from back l. c, where she has
been zuatching and listening). Uncle
Sir Geo. Don't you interfere.
Eve. I will interfere ; can't you see
Sir Geo. Mind your own business.
Eve. This is my business. Can't you see there is
something wrong here — something strange?
Sir Geo. By George, I should think there was —
something devilish strange !
Eve. Then why don't you cross-question other people
beside Mr. Kent?
Sir Geo. I was under the impression I was doing so.
Eve. No, you're not — you're just letting them tell
their story, and taking all they say for gospel. Why
don't you ask the Countess what she is doing in my
brother's room during his absence?
Dick. And why she carries her family papers round
with her wherever she goes, as if she were on the lookout
for a special messenger.
Eve. Down at Thorncliffe you said that Mr. Kent
had some designs on Jack.
Sir Geo. I didn't ; it was the Baron said that.
Eve. You agreed with the Baron, and he hasn't even
seen Jack — have you, Mr. Kent?
Dick. Well, no, that is, not to speak of — you see »
THE MAN WHO WENT 71
Countess (anxious to stop him, and assuming an air
of virtuous indignation). Sir George, I demand to be
heard.
Sir Geo. Certainly, Countess, certainly. (To Eve.
and Dick indignantly.) If you'll only hold your tongues
and listen, the Countess will explain.
Dick. Well, she'll have to hurry up if you want any-
thing more from me. I don't wish to be impolite to a
lady, but time and trains wait for no man, you know.
Three minutes left.
Sir Geo. You'll not go till you've answered my ques-
tions.
Dick. Say, do you know, you've got an awfully
annoying way of repeating yourself ? You've said some-
thing like that two or three times already; it's getting on
my nerves.
Sir Geo. I'm likely to get on your nerves a good deal
more before I've done with you. You were saying,
Countess
Countess. What I would rather leave unsaid — what
you, as a diplomat, will understand that I have scarcely
the right to say — but I learned — knowing my relations
with Count Von Szalras, you can surmise how — that Mr.
Thornton was in danger — great danger — from whom I
did not then know, but I can guess now. (She casts a
meaning glance at Dick.) I had been your guest — I
was his friend; what could I do but warn him? His
duties kept him from coming to me — I had to come to
him.
Sir Geo. My dear Countess, you have my warmest
thanks.
Dick. But why did you bring the family papers
along?
Countess. I was taking them home from the
Embassy.
Eve. And why did Mr. Kent bring his letter of in-
troduction here? How did he know that he would find
you at my brother's apartment?
Countess. That I will leave to Mr. Kent to explain.
Dick. Well, I haven't got time, you know — only two
minutes left; but I'll only be gone three or four days,
72 THE MAM WHO WENT
and when I come back I'll stand the whole party a jolly
little dinner at the Ritz or the Savoy, and we can
straighten it all out in a friendly little pow-wow. What ?
(Sir Geo. and the others rise.)
Sir Geo. Confound your impudence, sir — with all
this mass of suspicion and circumstantial evidence against
you, do you think for one minute I'd let you leave this
room till you've answered my questions?
Dick. There you go again.
Sir Geo. (emphatically). Answered my questions,
and restored the Countess her papers.
Dick. What's the Countess want her papers for? I
gave my word they should be delivered into the hands
they were intended for, and I'll keep my word. Why
worry ?
Sir Geo. Your word? Who the devil trusts your
word ?
Eve. (coming forward a). I do, Uncle.
Sir Geo. You hold your tongue.
Hogue. He is a thief — a robber !
Countess (crossing to Sir Geo., a). Sir George, I
demand my papers back at once.
Dick (his watch in his hand). Only one minute left,
you know.
Sir Geo. (crossing down to Dick). Yes, sir, one
minute left before I telephone for the police. (The
Countess and Hogue stand anxiously together, r. c,
near sofa; Dick and Str Geo., l. c. ; Eve. at back near c.)
Patton, guard that door — knock him down if he at-
tempts to leave the room. (Patton draws closer to the
door.) I give you a last chance — will you or will you
not explain your part in the events of the past two hours,
and give the Countess back her papers. Answer me in
plain English.
Dick. In plain English then — I'll be d d if I do.
Time's up. (Closing his zvatch and putting it back in
his pocket.) I'm off (He moves up stage l. c.)
Sir Geo. Patton! (He crosses quickly to f phone on
desk and takes up receiver.) Quick — quick — give me
Police Headquarters.
THE MAN WHO WENT 73
(Dick rushes toward the door; Patton springs for
him,, but Dick dodges him and knocks him down;
then springing to the switch he presses the button,
switches off the lights and leaves the room in dark-
ness; he rushes off through door c. ; scuffling, shout-
ing, etc., heard; noise of key turned in the lock;
then the slam of outer door, and noise of motor
engine heard outside window; Sir Geo. stumbles to
the switch and szvitches on the lights, discovering
Hogue crouched on sofa r. c, pale and terror-
stricken; Countess standing beside him defiantly;
Eve. near desk l., a rather triumphant smile on her
face; Patton sits on the floor at back c, rubbing
his head; Sir Geo. turns handle of door c. and finds
it locked; he shakes the handle and beats on door
with his fists in impotent rage, shouting " Police —
Police " ; the Countess springs to zvindow r. c,
throwing it open and leaning out.)
Dick {speaking outside the window). Drive like the
devil, Barnes — we've got to make Charing Cross by nine!
CURTAIN
ACT IV
SCENE. — Same as Act I. Time, about four days later.
Afternoon.
{The curtain rises on an empty stage; the door-bell
rings; Eve. enters from door l. and crossing to door
c. opens it; Sir Geo. and Lady C. enter; Lady C.
casts a look of disapproval at Eve., and, without a
word, sweeps down to sofa r. and sits.)
Eve. Good-afternoon, Aunty. (Lady C. pays no at-
tention to her; Eve. goes up to Sir Geo. and kisses him.)
How are you, Uncle George?
(Sir Geo. clears his throat in a rather embarrassed
fashion, glancing at Lady C.)
Sir Geo. Ahem ! My dear Evelyn, your aunt and I
have called to have a serious talk with you.
Eve. (with a look of comical horror). Again? On
the same subject?
Sir Geo. (nodding, rather resignedly). Yes.
Eve. Don't you think we thrashed all that out thor-
oughly the last time ?
Lady C. I do not know what you and your uncle
have thrashed out, I only know tha't I have a last word to
say on the subject.
Eve. Another ?
Lady C. And then the matter is closed forever.
Eve. (with a relieved expression). Oh, well, let's get
it over then.
Lady C. Am I to understand that you still persist in
your intention of occupying these rooms — alone?
Eve. My brother's rooms? Yes — till his return.
Lady C. And are you aware that another man be-
sides your brother has a key to these rooms?
Eve. Yes — that is exactly the reason I am stopping.
74
THE MAN WHO WENT ^5
Lady C. (in a tone of horror). Evelyn!
Eve. After the strange happenings of last Monday —
you'll allow they were strange.
Sir Geo. Strange ! Good Heavens ! They were
weird.
Eve. I agree with you. Well, after the weird hap-
penings of last Monday, without seeing or speaking to
any of us, the Baron packed up his belongings, sent you a
hastily scribbled note that he had been called away on
important business, and departed.
Lady C. I can quite understand why.
Eve. Can you?
Lady C. Yes. He had no doubt heard from his
friend, Mr. Hogue, of the extraordinary events which
had taken place, and not wishing to be further connected
.with anything so unpleasant, he, with a delicacy which is
characteristic of him, took the quietest way out of the
dilemma. I think he was very wise.
Eve. I am not questioning his wisdom; but why did
he not return his latch-key?
Lady C. Perhaps he forgot it.
Eve. At the time of his departure? — perhaps; for
more than three days since, it seems hardly possible ;
however, that is my reason for wishing to remain here,
and till Jack comes back or the key is returned — here I
stay.
Sir Geo. My dear Evelyn
Lady C. Have you no respect for the family honor?
Eve. A great deal — that's why I'm stopping. I am
afraid it may be in danger — but not through me.
Lady C. What do you mean?
Eve. I do not trust the Baron.
Lady C. Nonsense ! The Baron is the soul of
courtesy and good breeding. If you want to distrust
any one, distrust your friend, Mr. Kent, who, by the way,
has also a latch-key to these apartments. If the family
honor has an enemy, mark my wTords, he is the man.
Sir Geo. Now look here, Evelvn — once and for
all
Eve. (raising her hand to stop him). Once and for
all, Uncle George, it's no use to argue. Till I was
j6 THE MAN WHO WENT
twenty-one you were my guardian — you are still my
father's trustee and my honored friend and adviser, but
I am a free agent, and when it comes to a case of duty, I
shall act according to my own reason.
Lady C. Very well then, George, I shall speak my
final word. If Evelyn persists in this highly improper
conduct, from now on I wash my hands of her.
Eve. Very well, Aunty, consider the washing done,
the towel supplied, and your fingers dried and " comfy " — ■
and let us get on to more interesting matters. (Lady C.
stares at Eve., speechless with indignation, takes salts
bottle from her bag and sniffs it at intervals.) Have you
heard any news of Jack?
Sir Geo. Not a word. In spite of my warning, the
police let that fellow Kent slip through their fingers. I
laid a complaint at headquarters, but they seemed quite
indifferent; then I appealed to Lord Royallieu, told him
of my anxiety about Jack, and asked for news ; he shook
his head enigmatically, said there was no very definite
news of Jack, but not to worry — and that he would in-
vestigate the police affair. Then he took a pinch of snuff
and told me to be calm !
Lady C. And very good advice, too — that is what
I am always telling you, George.
Sir Geo. (in a burst of indignation). Confound you
and Lord Royallieu both — mind your own business. I'm
an Englishman with a Constitutional right to the use
of my own temper within the limits of the law, and
I'm d d if I'll keep calm if I don't want to !
(He rises and crosses angrily dozvn to l. ; the door c.
is suddenly opened, and Jack appears at it; his dress
is disordered and untidy, his face unshaven and
haggard; he pauses in the door, looking around
wildly; the others all turn to him, Lady C. and Eve.
rising, and exclaim together "Jack!" Then Eve.
and Sir Geo. go up to him.)
Eve. Jack, dear, what has happened?
Sir Geo. Jack, my boy (Jack comes dozvn
with uncertain steps to chair r. of table and sinks into it
as if exhausted; Eve. follows him down; Sir Geo. goes
THE MAN WHO WENT 77
down l. of table; Lady C. r. c.) Jack, you have come
from Vienna ?
Jack. Yes.
Sir Geo. And the papers — you took them there in
safety?
Jack. I thought so.
Sir Geo. Thought so?
Jack. I took the package Lord Royallieu gave me
and which never, to my knowledge, was out of my posses-
sion from the time I left Thornclifle till I placed it in
the hands of our Ambassador at Vienna; but when he
opened the package, the papers were — blank.
Eve. 1
Lady C. >• Blank!
Sir Geo. )
(Sir Geo. sinks into a chair l. of table ; Lady C. sinks
on sofa r. c. Eve. stands behind Jack's chair, a
look of horror on her face.)
Sir Geo. Good God ! You came straight from
Thornclifle here?
Jack. Yes.
Sir Geo. You spoke to no one on the train?
Jack. To no one.
Sir Geo. You can swear to that?
Jack. Yes ; there was only one man in the compart-
ment with me — a laborer — and he left at the first station
beyond Thorncliffe; after that I was alone.
Sir Geo. From Victoria you drove straight to these
rooms ?
Jack. Yes.
Eve. When you arrived, was the Countess here ?
Jack {looking up at her with a startled expression).
No.
Eve. When did she come?
Jack. How do you know
Eve. Never mind how — v/e know that she was here.
How did she come?
Jack {reluctantly). A few minutes after — when I
was packing my valise.
Eve. Why ?
78 THE MAN WHO WENT
Jack (with an effort). She wanted to say good-bye.
At Thorncliffe she had asked me to call on her before I
left London, but afraid of delay, I refused — so she came
to me.
Sir Geo. She was here with you — alone?
Jack. Yes. (Lady C. exhibits consternation.)
Eve. You are quite sure that she could not have
tampered with the papers ?
Jack. Good God! What are you thinking of? Of
course not. I tell you they never left the inside pocket
of my vest or the despatch case from Thorncliffe to
Vienna.
Sir Geo. You are sure of that?
(There is a pause; Jack seems to struggle with him-
self, and then speaks with an effort.)
Jack. Quite sure.
Eve. Why did you hesitate ?
Jack. Because I wanted to make certain I was telling
the truth. (Turning quickly to Sir Geo. as if to change
the subject.) You are sure the papers given me at
Thorncliffe were the genuine thing?
Sir Geo. Do you think Royallieu is in his dotage to
send you on a fool's errand like that?
Jack. But — how — how
Sir Geo. How — how? Some one must have taken
them; you must have slept.
Jack. I never closed my eyes between Charing Cross
and Vienna.
Sir Geo. But how the devil did it happen? Papers
don't change without the aid of human hands.
Jack. I don't know — I don't know; I've thought and
thought till I've almost gone mad, but I can't under-
stand. (A pause.)
Sir Geo. (slowly). What did they say over there?
Jack. Not much — it's not their way. They ques-
tioned me closely, and then dismissed me to another
room. I stayed there two hours — suffering torments.
Then they sent for me. They told me to take the next
train for London and report the loss to Lord Royallieu,
and see if I could get any trace of the papers.
THE MAN WHO WENT
79
Sir Geo. That's d d funny; you'd have thought
they'd have kept you for investigation.
Jack {eagerly, as if catching at a straw)- Yes, but
they didn't ; they let me go — that showed they still trusted
me, don't you think so ?
Sir Geo. I don't know what to think; it's an infernal
muddle — my head's in a whirl.
Eve. Have you been to Lord Royallieu ?
Jack. Not yet — I — I came here first.
Eve. Why ?
Jack. Because — I — I can't tell why. I was hoping
against hope — I thought — oh, I don't know what I
thought, only that here
Eve. Here is the only place the papers could possibly
have changed hands. Jack, you're keeping something
back.
Jack. I'm not — what do you mean? Oh, for God's
sake don't torture me. {He rises and makes a move to-
ward door c. then stops.) I'm going to Royallieu's now.
Where's the Baron?
Sir Geo. Called away on important business — packed
up and left the morning after you went.
Eve. And took his latch-key with him. Since then
I've been stopping here.
Jack. You ?
Lady C. Yes, contrary to the advice of her friends
and relatives, and in defiance of all known laws of
propriety.
Jack. And why did you do this ?
Eve. In case some one of importance might call and
find you out.
Jack {eagerly). There — there — has been no one
here?
Eve. No one. {Looking at him earnestly.) Were
you expecting some one?
Jack. No, no — I only asked.
{He goes up to door c.)
Lady C. One moment. Evelyn and Sir George are
strangely forgetful of important facts. Have you seen
anything of Mr. Kent?
80 THE MAN WHO WENT
Jack {puzzled). Kent — Kent (As if lie had
forgotten the name.) Oh, that silly ass (As if
remembering.) No.
Sir Geo. And you didn't see him here — in this room,
before you left for Vienna?
Jack (down a little c. ). Certainly not. What on
earth should he be doing here?
Lady C. He might have made another mistake in the
numbers.
Sir Geo. We have reason to suspect Mr. Kent of
being a foreign spy.
Jack. What rot ! He hasn't got brains enough.
Eve. I'm not sure that he hasn't got more brains than
you think, but I don't believe he is a spy.
Jack. Well, it's no use talking. I haven't set eyes on
him since the day at Thorncliffe. I'm off to Royallieu's.
(He moves dejectedly to door c. ; Eve. follows him and
lays her hands on his shoidders, looking earnestly up
into his face. )
Eve. And then?
Jack. God knows. It's ruin and disgrace anyway —
a bullet in my head would be the best end of it all.
Eve. No, Jack, not that (With deep emotion,
but very quietly.) That would be a coward's way out
of it — and you're not a coward. Promise me, not that.
(A pause.) Your word of honor, Jack.
Jack. Very well — it doesn't much matter ; — I promise.
Eve. God bless you, dear. (She throws her arms
around his neck and kisses him, then speaks to him almost
in a whisper.) Don't give up hope — after the night
comes morning.
(Jack exits quickly at door c.)
Sir Geo. (sinking in chair l. of table). Well, I'll"
be
Lady C. George!
Sir Geo. Well, it's enough to make a saint swear —
and I'm no saint !
Lady C. (with an air of gentle resignation). No.
THE MAN WHO WENT 8 1
Sir Geo. What the devil can have become of those
papers !
Lady C. The explanation is very simple.
Sir Geo. (staring at her, with a gasp). Oh, is it?
Then perhaps you'll kindly enlighten my ignorance.
Lady C. Certainly. (With an air of finality.) Mr.
Kent.
Eve. (coming c). What do you mean ?
Lady C. He took them.
Eve. But how?
Lady C. My dear Evelyn, I am not versed in the
ways of crime, nor do I pretend to understand the work-
ings of the criminal mind; I am not dealing in theories,
I am merely stating facts.
Sir Geo. Facts? Good Lord! Facts! Why, you
haven't got a fact that couldn't be torn to pieces in a
minute in any court.
Lady C. (looking him over, contemptuously). My
dear George, for a diplomatist you are singularly lacking
in intelligence, which unfortunately I am powerless to
supply.
(Sir Geo. stares at her in speechless indignation, un-
able to express his feelings.)
Eve. Well, I'm not a diplomatist, and I have no facts
or theories — only a woman's instinct, sharpened by the
danger of those she loves — and I tell you the Countess
and the Baron are at the bottom of this.
Lady C. Preposterous ! Except for her indiscretion
in visiting Jack's rooms, the Countess is one of the most
charming women I ever met ; as for the Baron — well
(She shrugs her shoulders with a hopeless gesture, as if
it zvere impossible to make them understand.) Oh,
what's the use of talking?
Sir Geo. My dear Evelyn, you are altogether wrong.
I know I objected to Jack's intimacy with them, but that
was merely a matter of policy on account of his position.
Why, the Count Von Szalras, the Countess' uncle, is one
of the most prominent men in the Austrian Embassy, and
the Baron came to us with unimpeachable letters of in-
82 THE MAN WHO WENT
traduction. These people are not the stuff spies are
made of.
Eve. That's just where I differ with you — I think
they are. The Baron laughs at you for being afraid of
the British bogey of the foreign spy, and he is right —
because you are frightened only at the bogey, and pursue
the shadow. You waste time looking for the spy of
romance with a slouch hat and a dark lantern, while all
the while the real article sits at your dinner tables, dances
at your balls, smiles in your face, wins your confidence,
and then betrays you.
Sir Geo. And what about your Mr. Kent — who
poses one moment as an English fop, and the next as a
Frenchman? Doesn't that look rather fishy?
Eve. I am holding no brief for my Mr. Kent, as you
call him, only, again — my woman's instinct tells me to
trust him.
(A ring at door-bell c. ; Eve. goes to door and opens it
and discovers Dick standing in the hall, smiling;
Sir Geo. and Lady C. glare at him; Lady C. turns
her back on him; Sir Geo. rises and goes a little l.)
Dick (in a cheerful tone). Halloa, everybody.
Sir Geo. (in a low grumbling tone). Talk of the
devil £
(He goes up to fireplace; Dick advances into room.)
Dick. Jolly lucky to find you all here. Just got back
and dropped in on chance ; thought we might fix up that
little dinner at the Savoy.
Sir Geo. Confound it, sir, do you remember what
happened the last time we met?
Dick. Oh, rather — beastly muddle, wasn't it? Every-
body at cross purposes and ragging everybody else un-
mercifully- Awfully sorry I hadn't time to explain
things, but now
Sir Geo. Damn your impudence! Do you know
you're liable to arrest for assault and battery?
Dick. Oh, by Jove, yes — that was too b?d. That
poor Johnny of a servant — hope I didn't hurt him much;
THE MAN WHO WENT 83
but it was his own fault — would get in my way, you
know, and I had to catch that train.
Sir Geo. Lucky for you, sir, the police didn't catch
you.
Dick. I should say so. Awfully fine force, the police,
you know — but slow.
Sir Geo. Perhaps it may not be too late yet.
Dick. Oh, but it's all right now. When you hear my
explanation you won't want to arrest me.
Sir Geo. I'm not so sure of that.
Dick. Oh, but I am. I'm going to give you the
surprise of your life.
Lady C. George, this atmosphere of intrigue is
getting on my nerves. I feel myself breathing in con-
spiracy and gunpowder plots. I need fresh air — I will
await you in the motor below.
(She moves toward door c. ; Dick very politely holds
the door open for her, bowing; she draws aside her
skirts as if unwilling to touch him, and sweeps past
and out into the hall; Dick closes the door behind
her and comes back into c. of room.)
Sir Geo. Well, sir?
Dick. Well — er — let's sit down; it's so much more
sociable. (Eve. sits on sofa r. c. with an air of sup-
pressed excitement ; Sir Geo. with an air of indignant
resignation l. of table; Dick sits R. of table.) Right,
oh ! Now in the first place, where is Thornton ?
Sir Geo. What the devil has he got to do with your
explanations ?
Dick. Oh, lots. He's, as it were, the pivot of the
whole concern.
Eve. (excited). Jack?
Dick. Of course — he's the storm centre, so to speak,
of our little tempest.
Sir Geo. Say, do you know what you are talking
about ?
Dick. Oh, rather.
Sir Geo. Well, I don't.
Dick. Not now, but you will by and by, if you'll only
be patient and keep calm.
04 THE MAN WHO WENT
Sir Geo. (with a growl of fury). Hell!
(He rises and walks angrily up to fireplace.)
Dick. Well, to come back to the starting point,
where's Thornton?
Sir Geo. What business is that of yours ?
Eve. Oh, Uncle, why waste time? What difference
does it make? (To Dick.) He's gone to Lord Royal-
lieu's.
Dick. Too bad — hoped I'd catch him first. It would
have made it so much easier.
Sir Geo. Made what easier? — who easier? — oh, good
Lord, I'm going crazy !
(He paces up and down excitedly.)
Dick. Made him easier, if you like — easier in his
mind, you know. He must be awfully worried about
those papers.
Eve. What papers?
Dick. The papers he was to have taken to Vienna,
but didn't, you know.
Sir Geo. (to Eve., in a triumphant tone). What did
I tell you ? What did I tell you ?
Dick. Well, what did you tell her? Something in-
teresting?
Sir Geo. I said you knew all about those papers.
Dick. Why, of course — that's what I'm here for.
Sir Geo. (sitting opposite Dick l. of table). Then,
sir, since you are such a well of information, where are-
the papers now ?
Dick. In Vienna.
Sir Geo. Who has them?
Dick. Our Ambassador. He got them in plenty of
time to cram for his interview with the Austrian Johnny,
and it went off splendidly — and there you are.
(Complacently, as if the matter were nozv quite settled.)
Sir Geo. Who took the papers to Vienna ?
Dick. I did.
Sir Geo. Where did you get them?
THE MAN WHO WENT 85
Dick. From the Countess.
Eve. Ah, what did / tell you?
Sir Geo. And where the devil did she get them?
Dick. Ah, thereby hangs a tale, the details of which
you must get from my young friend Thornton. I never
pry into a lady's private affairs. And, by the way, talk-
ing of Thornton, don't you think you might run your
motor over to Royallieu's? Even though things are all
right, the poor boy must be having a pretty hard time —
and you might comfort him and soothe Royallieu.
Sir Geo. But what the devil am I to say ?
Dick. Oh, just tell Royallieu you've been talking to
me.
Sir Geo. To you! Young man, in the name of all
that's infernal, who and what are you? For years every
one has looked on you as an idler who never did a stroke
of work in his life — as a fool who never had an idea in
his head; and now
Dick. You're beginning to think I'm not such a fool
as I look? My dear Sir George, haven't you lived long
enough in the diplomatic world to know that it pays to
play the fool sometimes — that he is often used as a bait
to catch wiser men? For years I have been serving my
country as a " fool," while the world has known me only
as " my father's son." The Secret Service discovered
my capacity for being a " fool " and paid me for using it.
Think it over, Sir George, while you are driving to Lord
Royallieu's.
(Sir Geo. sits staring at him dumfounded, and then
rises in a dazed manner.)
Sir Geo. I give it up. In my young days diplomacy
was a profession ; it is nothing now but a d d melo-
drama. {He crosses slowly up to door c. Dick and
Eve. rise; Dick crosses dozvn l.) Coming, Eve?
Dick. Oh, I say, Sir George — I must ask you to leave
Miss Thornton here for a little while longer.
Sir Geo. With you?
Dick. Yes.
Sir Geo. Alone ! My wife will have a fit.
86 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick. Lady Caxton will have to control her feelings.
She mustn't interfere with my stage management.
Sir Geo. Stage management ! What are you going
to do now ?
Dick. Play the last act of the melodrama ; I haven't
squelched the villain yet.
Sir Geo. But what do you want her for ?
Dick. The role of heroine. It's a short act — you can
come for her in less than half an hour.
Sir Geo. Have it your own way. I'm through with
diplomacy. I'll take to country life and raising prize
vegetables.
{He exits, door c. Dick crosses to door and calls
after him.)
Dick. You might tell Thornton I'd like to see him
some time soon, will you ?
{The outside door slams; Dick comes back into room;
he and Eve. stand looking at each other; then she
goes to him c, half shyly, and stands with down-
cast eyes.)
Eve. Mr. Kent.
Dick. You called me Dick the other night, you know.
Eve. Well, then, Dick — speaking of vegetables, I — I
think the potato is sprouting wonderfully.
(Dick looks at her with admiration.)
Dick. By Jove, you know, you really are one of the
nicest girls I ever met.
Eve. And I want to thank you with all my heart for
what you've done for Jack ; I can never repay you.
Dick. Oh, yes you can, right now — more than repay
me. Er — will you kiss me? (Eve. hesitates a moment,
and then raises her face to his; he bends down and kisses
her.) Thank you! You know you really are the very
nicest
Eve. {interrupting)- Dick
Dick. Yes?
THE MAN WHO WENT 87
Eve. Last Monday night, when things looked so black
for you — being what you are, and knowing what you did,
why didn't you clear yourself then?
Dick. Let's sit down and be sociable. (He takes her
by the hand and leads her to sofa r. c. and they sit.) In
the first place/ I didn't want to give Jack away and make
matters appear any worse than they were; and he had
been a bit of a fool, you know, made so, like many a
wiser man before him, by a bad woman; and in the
second place, I didn't want to give myself away and
show the Baron and Countess my trump cards till I could
catch them red-handed and before witnesses; and that's
what I think I'm going to do now.
Eve. Now ?
Dick. I told Sir George I wanted you for the heroine
of my little drama. Are you willing to play the part?
Eve. Yes, Dick, if you think I can.
Dick. Rather.
Eve. I'm ready then.
Dick. Even if it should involve some danger?
Eve. I like a spice of danger. I was brought up that
way.
Dick (in admiration). Were you? Really, you
know, you are the very nicest Would you again?
(She holds up her face and he kisses her.) Thank you.
And now to give you stage directions. If any one rings
the bell, go at once into that room. (Pointing to door l.)
Take this note-book and pencil writh you (taking book
and pencil from his pocket and handing them to her) and
make notes of all you hear.
Eve. Is that all ?
Dick. No, one thing more. No matter what hap-
pens— in whatever danger I may be — you must not come
out or speak till I tell you. Do you promise ?
Eve. (after a pause, holding out her hand)- Yes.
(He stands holding her hand and looking at her ad-
miringly, then he leaves her and goes quickly to win-
dow r. c. and looks out, keeping well behind the
curtain.)
Dick. Just as I thought — my friends have been
88 THE MAN WHO WENT
watching me; now they are going to act. You needn't
wait for the bell — get into the room now. (Eve. moves
up to door L.) Evelyn. (She stops; he goes to her and
bends toward her.) Before you go — would you again?
(She lifts her face and he kisses her.) Thank you.
(She exits quickly, door l. ; he smiles as if well pleased ;
he crosses to window r. c. again, and keeping well
behind the curtain, looks out; then he comes down to
sideboard, takes a cigarette and lights it; door-bell c.
rings; he goes up to door c. and opens it; the Count-
ess enters; on seeing Dick, she stops with pretended
surprise. )
Countess. I beg your pardon — is Miss Thornton in?
Dick. No.
Countess. No? (With an inflection of surprise.)
I met Lady Caxton in her motor, and she informed me
that she had left her here.
Dick. So she did, with Sir George; but he is gone,
and knowing the Caxton sense of propriety, you didn't
suppose they would leave her here with me — alone.
Countess. Well, to be perfectly candid, I didn't think
they'd leave you here alone either with or without her.
You were scarcely in their good books last Monday.
Dick. By Jove, I should say not; but I'm all right
now — they've changed their minds about me.
Countess. Indeed!
Dick. Absolutely.
Countess. How nice for you. Well, my visit to
Miss Thornton was from a selfish motive. I forgot to
give some important directions to my dressmaker, and I
wanted to use the 'phone. Though she is out, may I still
trespass on her kindness?
Dick. I'm sure she'd be delighted — the 'phone is at
your service, Countess.
Countess. Thank you. (As she crosses to table l.
she casts a swift watch f til glance around the room, sits
at desk and takes up the receiver. Dick strolls up to
fireplace l. c, and stands with his back to it, regarding
her closely, and smoking — a curious expression on his
THE MAN WHO WENT 89
face.) Give me Regent 1560. Are you there — is that
you, Madame? Countess Von Holtzberg speaking —
that dress of mine I spoke of — it is ready — yes — now —
send for it at once — you understand. Thank you — good-
afternoon. (She hangs up receiver and turns toward
door c.) I am much obliged.
Dick. Don't mention it, Countess.
(She pauses half -way to the door and faces Dick.)
Countess. Did you have a pleasant trip to Vienna ?
Dick. Ripping.
Countess. And you delivered your papers in safety?
Dick. Oh, rather. I kept my word to you to the
letter, and placed them in the hands of those for whom
they were intended, and I am taking a reply back to those
for whom it is intended. I should have been on my way
now if it hadn't been for your charming and unexpected
visit.
(A look of triumph comes into the Countess' face for
a moment, but she controls herself at once and speaks
carelessly. )
Countess. Really. (A pause.) You played a clever
game that night, Mr.
Dick. Kent. Awfully good of you to say so — but I
think you flatter me.
Countess. I assure you I am perfectly sincere. I
admired your skill so much (she draws nearer to door c.)
that I hope some day we may play against each other
again.
Dick. Oh, I'm sure we shall — some day. (The outer
door slams.) And I shouldn't be surprised if it were
very soon — and this time, I think, it will be four-handed —
or three- — and a dummy. (A key is heard turning in
lock, door c. ; the Countess steps quickly to door c. and
opens it; the Baron enters, followed by Hogue; he casts
a quick glance at the Countess, who nods her head.)
Four handed. (He comes down l. c.) How are you,
Baron; awfully glad to see you and Mr. — what's the
latest — eh? Lenoir, drop in in this friendly manner.
Thornton's out, but I'll try my best to do the honors.
Baron. Mr. Kent, I am here for a purpose.
90 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick. You don't say so? How awfully jolly. Being
a purposeless johnny myself, I always appreciate that
sort of thing in other people — tremendously.
Baron. I have several things to say to you. Sit
down.
Dick. My idea exactly — so much more sociable.
Baron. Hogue, guard the door.
(The Countess sits on sofa r. c.)
Dick (sitting l. of table). Make a better job of it
than Patton did, won't you, Hogue? (Hogue casts a
look of hatred at Dick, but is evidently worried. To
Baron.) Fire away.
Baron. Those papers which you have just left at
Vienna, and which you obtained possession of by under-
hand trickery
Dick. Oh, I say, you know, isn't that rather like the
pot calling the kettle black?
Baron. Will you please listen to me — I am in earnest,
and I am in a hurry.
Dick. All right, old chap — sorry I interrupted.
Baron. Those papers were of the greatest importance
to the government of my country and the government of
Austria. The Countess, Hogue and myself were com-
missioned to obtain possession of them; we had almost
succeeded when
Dick. When I took a hand and trumped your long
suit. Awfully sorry, but those papers were of im-
portance to my government too.
Baron. We risked our liberty — perhaps our lives —
for nothing, and we lost prestige with those who
trusted us.
Dick. So no one can blame you for feeling peevish,
can they?
Baron. However, all is not lost yet.
Dick. No — really ?
Baron. There is a reply to those papers — more im-
portant, perhaps, even than they were. If we can hand
copies of that to the ministers at Berlin and Vienna, we
shall be restored to favor.
Dick. And do you think you can do it?
THE MAN WHO WENT 9 1
Baron. I think so.
Dick. How ripping!
Baron. Our agents have followed you ever since you
left Vienna. (With a sudden change of tone.) Those
papers are in your possession. (Dick makes a half
start, as if taken unawares, and then appears to recover
himself with an effort; there is a pause.) Do you deny
it?
(Dick, embarrassed, remains silent.)
Countess. It would be foolish to do so, since Mr.
Kent has already confided in me that he has them.
(A pause.)
Baron. Well ?
Dick. Not much good lying after that, is there? —
besides, I'm such a truthful Johnny anyhow, I'd be sure
to make a mess of it. Yes — I have the answer.
Baron. Then will you kindly hand it over to me?
(Dick remains motionless.) At once.
Dick. And if I refuse?
Baron (whipping a revolver from his pocket and
covering Dick). I'll play the game you threatened to
play on Hogue — shoot you first, and take the papers after-
ward. Hogue, lock that door.
(Without taking his eyes from Dick, he takes latch-
key from his pocket and gives it to Hogue, who locks
door c.)
Dick. Now don't you think, Baron, that that would
be rather foolish? The shot might rouse the neighbors,
and I'm too well known to disappear easily. The people
who are waiting for these papers would ask questions.
(He touches his hand to his breast involuntarily and the
Baron's eyes gleam with anticipation.) And altogether
you might get yourself into a very unpleasant position,
because in England we hang for murder, and we don't
waste much time at the trial, either.
Baron. When it comes to — what the Americans call
a " show down " — I am used to taking desperate chances.
The papers — or I shoot.
92 THE MAN WHO WENT
Dick. All right — you've got me. I agree; only be-
fore I give up may I ask one question ?
Baron. Yes, if you'll be quick
Dick. I'll be quicker if youil point that damned thing
at the ceiling — it's getting on my nerves. (The Baron
elevates the barrel of the revolver slightly.) Thanks.
In asking me to hand over to you these papers you are
fully aware that they are of strictly private nature, ad-
dressed to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and that I am
in the service of the British Government?
Baron. Fully.
Dick. Yet you still force me, with threats of violence,
to betray my trust and give them up to you ?
Baron. Yes, and you'll find the threat a reality if you
don't give them up at once.
(A slight pause; Dick gives a sort of helpless look
round the room and speaks in a dejected tone.)
Dick. All right — you win.
(He takes a large envelope from his pocket, sealed with
three seals, and hands it to the Baron; then he rises
and walks dejectedly to fireplace at back; the Baron
drops his revolver on the table beside him, and with
nervous fingers begins tearing open the envelope.)
Baron (to the Countess). The code-book — quick.
(The Countess takes book from her dress and hands it
to him; she stands beside him leaning over his shoulder;
Hogue steps down a little from the door, eager to see
what is happening, all of them for a time oblivious of
Dick, who quietly draws a revolver and covers them; the
Baron takes papers from envelope and hastily turns them
over; as he does so, a blank expression comes into His
face and that of the Countess, which changes to one of
baffled rage.) These papers are blank (He turns
on Dick to find himself covered by the revolver.) What
the devil does this mean?
Dick. That the Countess taught me the game, and I
am an apt pupil — what? I placed the real papers in
Lord Royallieu's hands two hours ago. (The Baron
THE MAN WHO WENT 93
makes a move to pick up his revolver; Hogue shrinks in
terror against the door.) No, don't touch that, please —
I'll take it. {He advances covering the Baron with his
revolver, and picks up the other one.) To paraphrase
the saying of some philosophical Johnny — " two revolvers
are better than one " ; — also the code-book, please.
{Holding out his hand.) You won't have any further
use for it. {The Baron takes code-book from the
Countess and reluctantly hands it over.) Thank you.
Countess. But why — why
Dick. Why did I let you go to the trouble of forcing
me to give you an envelope containing — nothing? Be-
cause I wanted to catch you in a trap. The night you
drugged and robbed the man who loved you I was power-
less, because I had no witnesses to your guilt; but now,
every word you have said has been recorded against
you — and your own tongues have declared that you are
spies and traitors. Miss Thornton (Eve. enters
from door l., pale and excited, but controlling herself
admirably, note-book and pencil in hand.) There is my
witness. I think, Countess, I take the odd trick. ( There
is a tap heard at door c. ; Dick turns his revolver on
Hogue.) Open that door, please. (Hogue unlocks the
door, and a Detective and a Policeman are seen stand-
ing in the hall; Dick points to Hogue and the Baron.)
Your prisoners. {The Detective and Policeman
arrest Hogue and the Baron, and slip handcuffs on
them; then they move toward door c.) Baron. {They
stop a moment.) The night you first met me here you
thought you knew my face; you were right. I met you
years ago when I was a lad with my father in Vienna
and Berlin. The smooth-faced boy meant nothing to
you — he was beneath your notice ; but he wasn't quite the
angel child he looked — even then he had begun to learn
your record. The knowledge has since proved useful —
and let this affair teach you the truth of two proverbs :
" Never judge by appearances " — and a man " is not
always such a fool as he looks." Good-night.
{The Baron and Hogue are led out, Hogue in terror,
the Baron sullen and defiant, and the door is closed;
94 THE MAN WHO WENT
the Countess stands looking at Dick in a sullen,
defiant manner, and then speaks.)
Countess. What is to be my fate?
{A pause, Dick regarding her curiously.)
Dick. Countess, we Englishmen have a foolish preju-
dice against crushing a woman, if we can help it; be-
sides, I don't want to hurt the feelings of your worthy
uncle, the Count Von Szalras — only I advise you that
your visits to him cease. I feel sure the air of Vienna is
much more healthy to you. Leave England to-night —
others may not prove so lenient.
{The Countess moves slowly up to door c. ; Eve. goes
up and sits in chair by fireplace l. c, gazing into
fire.)
Countess. Mr. Kent — you are generous. We would
not have shown the same mercy.
Dick {cheerfully) . Of course not — but then you're —
well, different.
Countess. Yes, we're different — and I sometimes
wonder if — but there — it's too late to learn a new code
of life. I must stick to the old one — my country first
and above all, and for her all things are lawful. There
is not one action of the past that I regret, except — Jack.
Dick {softly). Ah!
Countess. Even to serve one's country one should
not betray an honest love or break a true heart ; and it's
dangerous to play with edged tools — you cut your own
hands. I — I am sorry, and in the future — " always
alone" — I shall be sorrier still. {A pause.) Couldn't
you tell him that?
Dick. Don't you think it would be better to say noth-
ing? To let him learn to despise and forget — the follies
of youth?
{She looks at him for a moment, and then slowly bows
her head.)
Countess. Perhaps you are right.
{She goes slowly out at door c. ; Eve. sighs.)
THE MAN WHO WENT 95
Eve. Poor Countess.
Dick. You pity her ?
Eve. Yes.
Dick. Well, I'm not sure that I don't pity her myself.
Married to an old reprobate and brought up under the
shadow of that bally black feather and that morbid
motto — it doesn't seem as if she'd had half a chance,
does it?
Eve. {shaking her head sadly). No.
Dick (in a meditative manner). "Always Alone."
Do you know, there are more people in the world than
you'd think possible who are always, or mostly always,
alone? I've been a lonely sort of Johnny myself in the
past.
(Eve. rises, comes down behind him and lays her hand
on his shoidder, speaking a little shyly.)
Eve. But you won't be in the future — will you, Dick ?
(Dick turns to her quickly.)
Dick. You mean that (Eve. gives a quick nod
of her head, and then turns azuay shyly; he takes her in
his arms. ) Really, you know, you are the very nicest
(Slam of door outside is heard, and then the handle of
the inside door turns ; Dick releases Eve. and she moves
down l. c. ) Oh, damn !
(The door opens, and Jack rushes into the room; he
seizes Dick by the hand and shakes it enthusiastic-
ally. )
Jack. My dear Kent, I — I don't know what to say
to you.
Dick. Then don't say it, old chap.
Jack. I owe it to you that I am not a disgraced and
ruined man. Oh, Eve — he's just splendid. (Crossing
to her l. c.) Don't you think so?
Eve. (smiling up in his face). I do indeed, Jack, just
splendid.
(She turns up to fireplace l. ; Dick crosses down to
r. c in a fidgety manner.)
96 THE MAN WHO WENT
Jack {crossing over to him). Why, Lord Royallieu
hardly said a thing to me — just a bit of a lecture and a
reprimand; — and I thought my career was over.
Dick. Not a bit of it, dear boy — only they may re-
move you to another branch of the service; you are a bit
too susceptible for a King's Messenger.
Jack. And it's all your doing — you needn't deny it.
Oh, I can never repay you.
(Dick seizes him by the arm, and after a hasty glance
over his shoulder at Eve., speaks in a lozv voice.)
Dick. Yes you can, if you want to, right now.
Jack. How — how? Anything in the world
Dick {leading him to door r. ). Go into that room
and for heaven's sake stay there till I call you.
Jack {looking at him). You — you don't mean
Dick. Yes I do. Get out!
Jack {wringing Dick's hand). God bless you.
{He hurries out through door r., closing it behind him;
Dick turns toivard Eve. with an assumption of ease;
she comes down to him c. )
Eve. Dick — do you like me as a heroine?
Dick. Rather ! Do you like potatoes ?
Eve. Rather. I'm a confirmed vegetarian.
Dick. Really, you know, you are the very nicest
girl
{Taking her in his arms and kissing her; enter Sir
Geo., door c. He pauses and gazes at Eve. and
Dick dumfounded.)
Sir Geo. What the devil do you think you're doing
now?
Dick {drawing Eve. closer to him and kissing her).
Tightening the bonds of the Empire.
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era; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening.
THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY S#"*E,*8S
females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a
full evening.
QWFFT T AVF1MHFP Comedy in Three Acts. Seven males,
iJTTEibl Lil\ V EUlL/EiIV four females. Scene, a single interior,
oostumes, modern. Plays a full evening.
Till? THTTMnrDRnt T Comedy In Four Acts. Ten males,
inC inU^ULI\DULl nine females. Scenery, three interi-
ors; oostumes, modern. Plays a full evening.
THF TIMF^l Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females.
I HEi 1 111 1£iO Seene. a single interior ; costumes, modern. Plays
a full evening.
THF WFAKFR QFY Comedy in Three Acts. Eight males,
Hid Tf £i/\A.£ii\ tX*A eight females. Costumes, modern;
scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening.
A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE F?ve°males, four females!
Costumes, modern ; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening.
Sent prepaid on receipt of price by
Salter £. Pafeer & Company
No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts
\Sim\$F C0NGRESS
0 015 825 937 0 *
Cfie ^illtam barren CUttion
of ^laps
A^ Yfill I IFF IT Comedy in Fir© Acts. Thirteen males, four
A J IVU MAX* II females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, va-
ried, Playa a full evening.
r AMU I P I>r&ma in Five Acts. Nine males, fire females. Cos-
VtAllllL,L,L, tumes, modern ; scenery, varied. Plays a full evening.
INfiOMAV Plfty In Five Acts Thirteen males, three females.
liiUUluiiA Scenery varied ; costumes, Greek. Plays a full evening.
M A l?Y STUART Tragedy in Five Acts. Thirteen males, four fe-
fflAr\l J1CAA1 males, and supernumeraries. Costumes, of the
period ; scenery, varied and elaborate. Plays a full evening.
THE MERCHANT OP VENICE 2E$S5B£S: aS
picturesque ; scenery varied. Plays a full evening.
DIPHFI rFII Pl*y in Fire Acts. Fifteen males, two females. Bcen-
■M vllLMtiU erv elaborate ; costumes of the period. Plays a full
evening.
THP PIV AT S Comedy in Five Acts. Nine males, five females.
lull UliALD Scenery varied; costumes of the period. Plays a
full evening.
SHE STOOPS TO CONQCEB S8£te£S£*JSZ.
rled ; oostumes of the period. Plays a full evening.
TWELFTH NIGHT; OK, WHAT YOD WILL Sr&RJS:
three females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, varied. Plays a
fall evening.
Sent prepaid on receipt of price by
Salter $, 'Batrcr & Company
No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts
■ J. PANKHILL a CO., PRINTS**. BOSTON. U.S.A..
■2-lT*) cj
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