Writing for Vaudeville · Chapter 24Part 24
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ANGELA: Burglars! (She runs behind curtain of MISS CAREY'S room.)
MISS CAREY: You simpleton. I told you I had a male boarder. This is it, Mr. Saltus.
FRED: Oh, Miss Carey, pardon me—I'd have come in by the back door, but I didn't know you were entertaining company.
MISS CAREY: I'm not entertaining anyone—I'm trying to get a little rest before it's time for me to get up—and young lady, if you'll come out of my room and let me in, I'll beg of you not to disturb me again. (She shoves ANGELA out in her pajamas, unintentionally knocking her into MR. SALTUS, and goes back to bed.) (Ad. lib. talk.)
ANGELA: (Embarrassed and rushing behind the frock on the dressmaker's figure.) I've made her awfully cross—but I thought it must be a burglar—'cause, you see, I never knew boarders were allowed out so late at night.
FRED: (Recognizing her.) What are you doing here?
ANGELA: (Forced to confess.) I've left my husband. (He gives a whistle of surprise.) You know he's the man on the floor below—you may have seen me with him—once in a great while.
FRED: I've seen you often (Delighted.)—and so you've left him, eh?
ANGELA: Yes—and I'm really quite upset about it—naturally he's the first husband I've ever left—and you can imagine how a woman feels if you've left your husband—that is your wife. (All in one breath.) Are you married?
FRED: No indeed—not a chance.
ANGELA: (Quickly fishes her opera cloak off couch—slips it over her and goes to couch.) Then come here and sit down. (He does so.) I should think the girls would all be crazy about you.
FRED: Oh—they are—are you boarding here too now?
ANGELA: Yes, but Miss Carey doesn't know it yet.
FRED: Tell me, have you ever noticed me coming in or going out of the building?
ANGELA: Oh yes, indeed—I used to point you out to Harry and show him how you always looked so immaculate and dapper—just as he used to look before we were married. (Starting to weep.)
FRED: Oh, you'll go back to your home to-morrow.
ANGELA: No—I'll never enter it again—never again—except for lunch.
FRED: Then you're planning a divorce?
ANGELA: (As it dawns on her—with a smile.) I suppose it would be well to get something like that.
FRED: Is he in love with another woman?
ANGELA: (Indignantly.) My Harry—I guess not. (His hand is stretched toward her—in anger she slaps it.)
FRED: Then you'll never get it (Making love to her.) unless you fall in love with another man and let your husband get the divorce.
ANGELA: (Innocently.) I think I'd like that better—I'll tell Miss Carey (She approaches curtain—a snore makes her change her mind.)—I'll tell her later.
FRED: I'm awfully glad I'm a fellow boarder here. (He advances to her—as he is about to put his arm about her—suddenly a pounding on door and a gruff voice without:) Open—open!
ANGELA: (In terror.) Oh, it's my husband—it's Harry.
FRED: Don't talk, or he'll hear you.
ANGELA: I'll hide—and you open, or he'll break down the door.
FRED: I'll have nothing to do with this mixup.
HARRY: (Loudly, without.) Open, or I'll bang—down—the—door.
ANGELA: If you don't open, he'll do it—he's a regular "door-banger."
FRED: Well, I'll not.
ANGELA: Then I'll get Miss Carey. (Up to curtains again.) Miss Carey—Miss Carey—get up.
MISS CAREY: (Sticking her head out of curtains.) My Gawd, what is it now?
ANGELA: (After struggle as to how to explain.) My husband is here to see us.
MISS CAREY: Confound your husband.
HARRY: (Outside.) I want my wife.
ANGELA: (Pleading.) Oh, Miss Carey, the poor man wants his wife— tell him I'm not here.
MISS CAREY: (Jumping up—to FRED.) You go to your room, Mr. Saltus—I'll bet you were afraid to open the door. (FRED goes to his room.) And you go into my bed—if he sees you, I'll never get any sleep.
ANGELA: Don't hurt my Harry's feelings, Miss Carey—he's awfully sensitive. (She goes behind curtains.)
MISS CAREY: No, I won't hurt his feelings—(Opening door fiercely for HARRY.) What do you want?
HARRY: (Pushing her aside as he rushes in.) My wife—she's in here.
MISS CAREY: (Following him down.) She's not here—and you get out—what do you mean by waking me up at this hour?
HARRY: I've waked up everybody else in the building—why should you sleep?
MISS CAREY: I've never seen you before, but now that I have, I don't wonder your wife left you.
HARRY: Madam, you look like a woman who could sympathize with a man.
MISS CAREY: With a man? Never—now get out.
HARRY: (Making a tour of the room—she following.) Not till I've searched your place—my wife must be here.
MISS CAREY: I don't know your wife—and I don't want to.
HARRY: Why, madam—I'm crazy about her—suppose I'm the only man in the world who would be, but she's my doll.
MISS CAREY: Well, you've lost your doll—good night.
HARRY: Oh, I'll get her back again—but a change has seemed to come over her of late, and to-night she broke out in a fury and hit me violently over the head with a Wedgewood vase.
ANGELA: (Rushing out—ready to slap him again.) Oh Harry, I did not—it never touched you.
MISS CAREY: (Throwing up her hands.) Now I'll never get to sleep.
HARRY: (Turning on MISS CAREY.) Oh, I understand it all—it's you who've come between us—you designing, deceitful homebreaker.
MISS CAREY: You leave my apartment—you impertinent man.
HARRY: Not without my wife.
ANGELA: Then you'll stay forever—'cause I'm not going with you. (She sits right of little table.)
MISS CAREY: See here—you argue this out between you—but I'm going to bed—but don't you argue above a whisper or I'll ring for the police—the idea of you two galavanting about my apartments. (Going behind curtains.)
(A funny scene ensues between husband and wife—they start their argument in whispered pantomime—she shakes her finger at him—he shakes back at her—it finally grows slightly louder and louder until they are yelling at each other.)
ANGELA: (Screaming.) If you say the vase hit you—you're a wicked—
HARRY: I don't care anything about the vase—you're coming downstairs with me. (He pulls her off chair and swings her R.)
ANGELA: (Falling on couch.) I'm not.
HARRY: (Grabbing her again.) You are.
ANGELA: I'm not. (He tries to pull her to door—she bites his finger, and breaking away, runs up to curtains again.) Miss Carey, Miss Carey, wake up, he bit me. (MISS CAREY dashes out in fury, ANGELA hangs to her.) Oh, Miss Carey, you're the only one I have in all the world to keep me from this monster. Oh, Miss Carey, pity me, make believe you're my mother.
MISS CAREY: I told you I'm not married.
ANGELA: Well, think how you'd feel if you were and I were your own little girl and a wicked man was ill-treating me, etc. (She finally touches the mother vein in MISS CAREY.)
MISS CAREY: (Affected.) Go into my room, dear. (She leads her up to bed behind curtains. After Angela disappears behind curtains, MISS CAREY turns—facing HARRY.) I'll settle with this viper. (Coming down.) Aren't you ashamed of yourself?
HARRY: Why should I'be ashamed?
MISS CAREY: (Resolutely.) Because you're a lollard.
HARRY: I'm what?
MISS CAREY: You're one of those vile creatures whose hair grows from east to west. (Dramatically.) Where are your refined feet now? )
HARRY: (Thinking she's mad.) What on earth are you talking about?
MISS CAREY: The man she fell in love with and married was spick and span—his shoulders were big and broad—his teeth were white—and his skin—well, if he were standing before me now, I'd be just crazy to kiss him myself.
HARRY: I was all that you say when I married her—that's how I won her.
MISS CAREY: And now you're not all that I say—that's how you lost her. You can't blame a little woman if she thinks she's getting a man of gold and she finds she's got a gold brick.
HARRY: Why, I'm not different now than I was then—only before I was married I was like all men, I did everything to appear at my best— to fool her.
MISS CAREY: Fool her now—we women love to be fooled. We want to be proud of our husbands. Most of us get gold bricks, but we don't want anyone else to know it.
HARRY: By George, there may be something in all this. How did you come to know it?
MISS CAREY: I'm an old maid, and old maids know more about men than anyone—that's why they stay old maids. What were you wearing the first time you met?
HARRY: (Reminiscently.) A suit of regimentals.
MISS CAREY: (Hurrying up to door.) Quick, go downstairs and put 'em on and come up as quick as you can.
HARRY: (Looks at himself in glass near door.) By George—you're right. Oh, Miss Carey, I am a lollard. (He runs off.)
MISS CAREY: You're a lollard, all right. Now young woman—get your things together and get ready to go—young woman, do you hear me? (She goes up to curtains, and opens them—there lies ANGELA cozily huddled in a heap, fast asleep.) Well, if the little fluff hasn't fallen asleep. Here—wake up—the idea.
ANGELA: (In her sleep.) Harry, be gentle with Miss Carey—she can't help it. (MISS CAREY shakes her so she jumps up.) Oh Miss Carey— hello.
MISS CAREY: Now get your things together—your husband is coming for you in a minute.
ANGELA: (A la Ibsen.) I shall never return to Harry again— I've left him for life.
MISS CAREY: You'll not stay here all that time.
ANGELA: (As she comes down, dreamily.) No, I intend to marry another—and oh, Miss Carey, his hair is so spick—his shoulders so broad—his teeth are so white.
MISS CAREY: Good Lord, woman, now you're commencing with another. Who is it?
ANGELA: Surely you must have foreseen my danger—I'm in love with your boarder.
MISS CAREY: Why, you must be crazy—girl—I won't let you enter into such a madness.
ANGELA: (In horror.) Oh Miss Carey, don't tell me you're in love with him yourself. (MISS CAREY sinks in chair.) But you'll not get him.
MISS CAREY: Why, my dear, I wouldn't have him for a birth-day present and neither will you. (After an ad lib. argument.) We'll see. (She calls off in next room.) Fire! Fire!! Fire!!!
(ANGELA gets scared and starts to run one way as FRED runs in—in canton flannels without toupee, etc., etc. ANGELA flops. After audience has seen FRED'S condition, he realizes presence of ladies and rushes back to door—sticking his head out.)
FRED: Where? Where's the fire?
MISS CAREY: Go back to your bed, Mr. Saltus. (With a look at ANGELA.) There was a fire.
ANGELA: (Disgusted.) But Miss Carey—has—put—it—out.
(On word "out" she gestures him out of room and out of her life. FRED closes door as he withdraws head.)
ANGELA: Oh Miss Carey, what an awful lollard that is. (There is a ring at bell.)
(Music commences sweet melody.)
MISS CAREY: (Knowing it is HARRY.) Open the door and see who it is.
(ANGELA opens the door—HARRY stands there in regimentals—handsome, young and dapper. ANGELA falls back in admiration.)
HARRY: Angela.
ANGELA: Oh, Harry darling!
MISS CAREY: He does look good!
ANGELA: (As she picks up her belongings.) I'm going home with you.
MISS CAREY: (As ANGELA goes up to HARRY.) Don't forget your tea dress. (Hands her the little bag.)
ANGELA: I'm so tired, Harry—take me home. (He lifts his tired little wife up in his arms and as he goes out, she mutters:) You're not such a bad lollard after all.
MISS CAREY: (Going to put out light.) Now, thank Gawd, I'll get a little sleep.
Author of "Van Bibber Stories," "Soldiers of Fortune," The Playlets, "The Littlest Girl," played by Robert Hilliard for ten years, "Miss Civilization," etc., and many full-evening plays.
RICHARD FALLON, a millionaire mine owner. "LOU" MOHUN, a crook. KELLY, a Pinkerton detective. MRS. HOWARD:
The scene shows the interior of the sitting room of a suite in a New York hotel of the class of the Hotel Astor or Claridge. In the back wall a door opens into what is the bedroom of the suite. The hinges of this door are on the right, the door knob on the left. On the wall on either side of the door is hung a framed copy of a picture by Gibson or Christy. In the left wall, half way down, is a door leading to the hall. Higher up against the wall is a writing desk on which are writing materials and a hand telephone. Above this pinned to the wall is a blue-print map. In front of the desk is a gilt chair without arms. Above and to the right of the gilt chair is a Morris chair facing the audience. In the seat of the chair is a valise; over the back hangs a man's coat.
In the right wall are two windows with practical blinds. Below them against the wall, stretches a leather sofa. On it is a suitcase, beside it on the floor a pair of men's boots. Below the sofa and slightly to the left stands a table, sufficiently heavy to bear the weight of a man leaning against it. On this table are magazines, a man's sombrero, a box of safety matches, a pitcher of ice water and a glass, and hanging over the edge of the table, in view of the audience, are two blue prints held down by pieces of ore. The light that comes through the two windows is of a sunny day in August.
RICHARD FALLON is discovered at table arranging the specimens of ore upon the blue prints. He is a young man of thirty-five, his face is deeply tanned, his manner is rough and breezy. He is without a coat, and his trousers are held up by a belt. He is smoking a cigar.
FALLON crosses to Morris chair, opens valise, turns over papers, clothing, fails to find that for which he is looking and closes the valise. He recrosses to suit case which is at lower end of the sofa. He breaks it open and searches through more papers, shirts, coats. Takes out another blue print, tightly rolled. Unrolls it, studies it, and apparently satisfied, with his left hand, places it on table.
In attempting to close the suit case the half nearer the audience slips over the foot of the sofa, and there falls from it to the floor, a heavy "bull dog" revolver. FALLON stares at it, puzzled, as though trying to recall when he placed it in his suit case. Picks it up. Looks at it. Throws it carelessly into suit case and shuts it. His manner shows he attaches no importance to the revolver. He now surveys the blue prints and the specimens of ore, as might a hostess, who is expecting guests, survey her dinner table. He crosses to hand telephone.
FALLON: (To 'phone.) Give me the room clerk, please. Hello? This is Mr. Fallon. I'm expecting two gentlemen at five o'clock. Send them right up. And, not now, but when they come, send me up a box of your best cigars and some rye and seltzer. Thank you. (Starts to leave telephone, but is recalled.) What? A lady? I don't know any. I don't know a soul in New York! What's her name? What—Mrs. Tom Howard? For heaven's sake! Tell her I'll be there in one second! What? Why certainly! Tell her to come right up. (He rises, muttering joyfully.) Well, well, well!
(Takes his coat from chair and puts it on. Lifts valise from chair and places it behind writing desk. Kicks boots under sofa. Places cigar on edge of table in view of audience. Looks about for mirror and finding none, brushes his hair with his hands, and arranges his tie. Goes to door L. and opens it, expectantly.)
MRS. HOWARD enters. She is a young woman of thirty. Her face is sweet, sad, innocent. She is dressed in white—well, but simply. Nothing about her suggests anything of the fast, or adventuress type.
Well, Helen! This is fine! God bless you, this is the best thing that's come my way since I left Alaska. And I never saw you looking better.
MRS. HOWARD: (Taking his hand.) And, it's good to see you, Dick. (She staggers and sways slightly as though about to faint.) Can I sit down? (She moves to Morris chair and sits back in it.)
FALLON: (In alarm.) What is it? Are you ill?
MRS. HOWARD: No, I'm—I'm so glad to find you—I was afraid! I was afraid I wouldn't find you, and I had to see you. (Leaning forward, in great distress.) I'm in trouble, Dick—terrible trouble.
FALLON: (Joyfully.) And you've come to me to help you?
MRS. HOWARD: Yes.
FALLON: That's fine! That's bully. I thought, maybe, you'd just come to talk over old times. (Eagerly.) And that would have been fine, too, understand—but if you've come to me because you're in trouble, then I know you're still my good friend, my dear old pal. (Briskly.) Now, listen, you say you're in trouble. Well, you knew me when I was down and out in San Francisco, living on free lunches and chop suey. Now, look at me, Helen, I'm a bloated capitalist. I'm a millionaire.
MRS. HOWARD: (Nervously.) I know, Dick, and I'm so glad! That's how I knew you were here, I read about you this morning in the papers.
FALLON: And half they said is true, too. See those blue prints? Each one of them means a gold mine, and at five, I'm to unload them on some of the biggest swells in Wall Street. (Gently.) Now, all that that means is this: I don't know what your trouble is, but, if money can cure it, you haven't got any trouble.
MRS. HOWARD: Dick, you're just as generous and kind. You haven't changed in any way.
FALLON: I haven't changed toward you. How's that husband of yours? (Jokingly.) I'd ought to shot that fellow.
MRS. HOWARD: (In distress.) That's why I came, Dick. Oh, Dick—
FALLON: (Anxiously, incredulously.) Don't tell me there's any trouble between you and Tom? Why, old Tom he just worships you. He loves you like—
MRS. HOWARD: That's it. And I want to keep his love.
FALLON: (Laughingly.) Keep his love? Is that all you've got to worry about? (Throughout the following scene, Mrs. Howard speaks in a fateful voice, like a woman beaten and hopeless.)
MRS. HOWARD: Dick, did you ever guess why I didn't marry you?
FALLON: No, I knew. You didn't marry me because you didn't love me, and you did love Tom.
MRS. HOWARD: No, I didn't know Tom then. And I thought I loved you, until I met Tom. But I didn't marry you, because it wouldn't have been honest—because, three years before I met you, I had lived with a man—as his wife.
FALLON: Helen! (His tone is one of amazement, but not of reproach. In his astonishment, he picks the cigar from the table, puffs at it standing and partly seated on the table.)
MRS. HOWARD: (In the same dead level, hopeless voice.) I was seventeen years old. I was a waiter girl at one of Fred Harvey's restaurants on the Santa Fe. I was married to this man before a magistrate. (Fallon lifts his head.) Three months later, when he'd grown tired of me, he told me the magistrate who had married us was not a magistrate but a friend of his, a man named Louis Mohun, and he brought this man to live with us. I should have left him then, that was where I did wrong. That was all I did that was wrong. But, I couldn't leave him, I couldn't, because I was going to be a mother—and in spite of what he had done—I begged him to marry me.
FALLON: And—he wouldn't?
MRS. HOWARD: Maybe he would—but—he was killed.
FALLON: (Eagerly.) You?
MRS. HOWARD. (In horror.) God, no!
FALLON: It's a pity. That's what you should have done.
MRS. HOWARD: He was a gambler, one night he cheated—the man he cheated, shot him. Then—my baby—died! After two years I came to San Francisco and met you and Tom. Then you went to Klondike and I married Tom.
FALLON: And, you told Tom?
MRS. HOWARD: (Lowering her face.)
FALLON: Helen!
MRS. HOWARP: I know, but I was afraid. I loved him so, and I was afraid.
FALLON: But Tom would have understood. Why, you thought you were married.
MRS. HOWARD: I was afraid. I loved him too much. I was too happy, and I was afraid I'd lose him. (FALLON shakes his head.) But, we were leaving San Francisco forever—to live in the East—where I thought no one knew me.
FALLON: Well?
MRS. HOWARD: Well, one man knew me. Mohun, the man who played the magistrate. He came East, too. Three years ago he saw me one night with Tom in a theatre. He followed us and found out where I lived. The next morning he came to see me, and threatened to tell! And, I was terrified, I lost my head and gave him money. (Slowly.) And I have been giving him money ever since.
FALLON: Helen! You! Fall for blackmail? Why, that isn't you. You're no coward! You should have told the swine to go to Hell, and as soon as Tom came home, you should have told him the whole story.
MRS. HOWARD: (Fiercely.) My story, yes! But not a story Mohun threatens to tell! In a week he had it all backed up with letters, telegrams, God knows what he didn't make me out to be—a vile, degraded creature.
FALLON: And who'd have believed it?
MRS. HOWARD: Everybody! He proved it! And my children. He threatened to stop my children on the way to school and explain to them what kind of a woman their mother was. So, I paid and paid and paid. I robbed Tom, I robbed the children. I cheated them of food, and clothes, I've seen Tom look almost ashamed of us. And when I'd taken all I'd dared from Tom, I pretended I wanted to be more independent, and I learned typewriting, and needlework and decorating, and I worked at night, and when Tom was at the office—to earn money—to give to Mohun. And each time he said it was the last, and each time he came back demanding more. God knows what he does with it, he throws it away—on drink, on women, opium.
FALLON: Dope fiend, too, hey?
MRS. HOWARD: He's that, too; he's everything that's vile; inhuman, pitiless, degenerate. Sometimes, I wonder why God lets him live. (Her voice drops to a whisper.) Sometimes, I almost pray to God to let him die. (FALLON who already has determined to kill MOHUN, receives this speech with indifference, and continues grimly to puff on his cigar.) He's killed my happiness, he's killing me. In keeping him alive, I've grown ill and old. I see the children growing away from me, I see Tom drawing away from me. And now, after all my struggles, after all my torture, Tom must be told. Mohun is in some new trouble. He must have a thousand dollars! I can no more give him a thousand dollars than I can give him New York City. But, if I don't, he'll tell! What am I to do?
FALLON: (Unmoved.) When did you see this—this thing last?
MRS. HOWARD: This morning. He'd read about you in the papers. He knows I knew you in San Francisco. He said you'd "struck it rich," and that you'd give me the money. (Rises, and comes to him.) But, get this straight, Dick. I didn't come here for money. I don't want money. I won't take money. I came to you because you are my best friend, and Tom's best friend, and because I need a man's brain, a man's advice.
FALLON: (Contemptuously.) Advice! Hell! Am I the sort of man that gives girls—advice? (With rough tenderness.) Now, you go home to Tom, and tell him I'm coming to dinner. (Impressively.) And leave this leech to me. And, don't worry. This thing never happened, it's just a bad dream, a nightmare. Just throw it from your shoulders like a miner drops his pack. It's never coming back into your life again.
MRS. HOWARD: (Earnestly.) No! I won't let you pay that man! He'd hound you, as he's hounded me!
FALLON: (Indignantly.) Pay him? Me? I haven't got enough money to pay him!
MRS. HOWARD: What!
FALLON: No man on earth has money enough to pay blackmail. Helen, this is what I think of a blackmailer: The lowest thing that crawls, is a man that sends a woman into the streets to earn money for him. Here, in New York, you call them "cadets." Now, there's only one thing on earth lower than a cadet, and that's the blackmailer, the man who gets money from a woman—by threatening her good name—who uses her past as a club—who drags out some unhappy act of hers for which she's repented, in tears, on her knees, which the world has forgotten, which God has forgiven. And, for that past sin, that's forgotten and forgiven, this blackguard crucifies her. And the woman—to protect her husband and her children, as you have done—to protect her own good name, that she's worked for and won, starves herself to feed that leech. And, you ask me, if I'm going to feed him, too! Not me! Helen, down in lower California, there are black bats, the Mexican calls "Vampire" bats. They come at night and fasten on the sides of the horses and drink their blood. And, in the morning when you come to saddle up, you'll find the horses too weak to walk, and hanging to their flanks these vampires, swollen and bloated and drunk with blood. Now, I've just as much sympathy for Mr. Mohun, as I have for those vampires, and, I'm going to treat him just as I treat them! Where is he?
MRS. HOWARD: Downstairs. In the cafe.
FALLON: Here, in this hotel?
MRS. HOWARD: Yes.
FALLON: (Half to himself.) Good!
MRS. HOWARD: He said he'd wait until I telephoned him that you would pay. If you won't, he's going straight to Tom.
FALLON: He is, is he? Helen, I hate to have you speak to him again, but, unless he hears your voice, he won't come upstairs. (Motions towards telephone.) Tell him I'll see him in ten minutes. Tell him I've agreed to make it all right.
MRS. HOWARD: But, how, Dick, how?
FALLON: Don't you worry about that. I'm going to send him away. Out of the country. He won't trouble you any more.
MRS. HOWARD: But he won't go. He's promised me to go many times—
FALLON: Yes, but he's not dealing with a woman, now, he's dealing with a man, with boots on. Do as I tell you.
(MRS. HOWARD sits at writing desk and takes receiver off telephone. FALLON leans against table right, puffing quickly on his cigar, and glancing impatiently at the valise that holds his revolver.)
MRS. HOWARD: Give me the cafe, please. Is this the cafe? I want to speak to a Mr. Mohun, he is waiting to be called up—oh, thank you. (To FALLON.) He's coming. (To 'phone.) I have seen that man and he says he'll take up that debt, and pay it. Yes, now, at once. You're to wait for ten minutes, until he can get the money, and then, he'll telephone you to come up. I don't know, I'll ask. (To Fallon.) He says it must be in cash.
FALLON: (Sarcastically.) Why, certainly! That'll be all right. (MRS. HOWARD Places her hand over the mouth piece.)
MRS. HOWARD: I'll not let you pay him!
FALLON: I'm not going to! I'm going to give him just what's coming to him. Tell him, it'll be all right.
MRS. HOWARD: (To 'phone.) He says to tell you, it'll be all right. The room is 210 on the third floor. In ten minutes, yes. (She rises.)
FALLON: Now, then, you go back to Tom and get dinner ready. Don't forget I'm coming to dinner. And the children must come to dinner, too. We'll have a happy, good old-time reunion.
MRS. HOWARD: (With hand on door knob of door left.) Dick, how can I thank you?
FALLON: Don't let me catch you trying.
MRS. HOWARD: God bless you, Dick. (With a sudden hope.) And you really believe you can make him go?
FALLON: Don't worry! I'm sure of it.
MRS. HOWARD: And, you think he won't come back?
FALLON: (After a pause, gravely.) I know he won't come back.
MRS. HOWARD: God bless you, Dick!
FALLON: See you at dinner.
(MRS. HOWARD exits. FALLON stands considering, and chewing on his cigar. Then, he crosses room briskly and lowers the blind at each window. Opens valise and examines revolver. Places the revolver in his left hip pocket. Then, in a matter-of-course manner from his right hand pocket, he draws his automatic pistol. This, as though assured he would find loaded, he examines in a quick, perfunctory way, and replaces. He crosses left to desk, and taking from it a cheque book, writes out a cheque, which he tears from the book, and holds in his right hand. With left hand he removes the receiver from the telephone.)