MARQUIS. I fail to grasp . . . but if it will in any way oblige you . . . . (DOES SO.)
MACAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here is my - my friend's bundle.
MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.
MACAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship's mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention - follow me close - the full intention of never being heard of more, what would you do?
MARQUIS. I! - send for the police.
MACAIRE. Take your money! (DASHING DOWN THE NOTES.) Man, if I met you in a lane! (HE DROPS HIS HEAD UPON THE TABLE.)
MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is very much to blame.
MACAIRE (RAISING HIS HEAD).
