CARVE. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life.
PASCOE. It's probably my assistant. His brother is something rather important on the Courier, and he may have telephoned to him. It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve.
CYRUS. (Drily.) I imagine so. Where is the body?
I think I'd prefer to leave you to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that's necessary. You might give him my card, and tell him I'm at his service as regards signing the death certificate and so on. (Handing card.)
CARVE. (Taking card perfunctorily.) Very well. Then you're going? PASCOE. Yes. (Moves away and then suddenly puts out his hand, which CARVE takes.) Want a word of advice?
PASCOE. If I were you I should try to get something better than valeting. It's not your line. You may have suited Ilam Carve, but you'd never suit an ordinary employer. You aren't a fool--not by any means.
(Re-enter CYRUS immediately after the door shuts.)
CARVE. (To himself.) Now for it! (To CYRUS). Well?
CYRUS. Of course a man of forty-five isn't like a boy of twelve, but I think I may say I should have recognized him anywhere.
CARVE. (Taken aback.) Should you indeed. (A pause.) And so you're Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray of thirty years ago.
CYRUS. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your remarkable services?
CYRUS. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.) Here's seven pounds--a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more than a month's wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now. (Holding out money.)
Pack up and be out of this house within an hour.
CYRUS. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers and so on in England or somewhere on the Continent--what bank?
CARVE. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank.
CYRUS. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the business man's mild scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage?
CYRUS. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.
CARVE. His. (Angrily, as CYRUS roughly handles a box.) Now then, mind what you're about! Those are etching things.
CYRUS. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?