BOB. More than that, perhaps.
GERALD. You mean you're just going bankrupt?
BOB. No. (After a pause) Prosecution.
GERALD. Well, let them prosecute. That ends Marcus. You're well rid of him.
BOB (miserably). Perhaps it isn't only Marcus.
GERALD (sharply, after this has sunk in). What can they prosecute you for?
BOB (speaking rapidly). What the devil did they ever send me to the City for? I didn't want to go. I was never any good at figures. I loathe the whole thing. What the devil did they want to send me there for—and shove me on to a wrong un like Marcus? That's his life, messing about with money in the City. How can I stand out against a man like that? I never wanted to go into it at all.
GERALD (holding out his cigarette-case). Have another cigarette? (They each light one, and GERALD sits down in the chair opposite to him.) Let's look at it calmly. You've done nothing dishonourable, I know that. That's obvious.
BOB. You see, Jerry, I'm so hopeless at that sort of business. Naturally I got in the way of leaving things to Marcus. But that's all. (Resentfully) Of course, that's all.
GERALD. Good. Well, then, you're making much too much fuss about it. My dear boy, innocent people don't get put into prison nowadays. You've been reading detective stories. "The Stain on the Bath Mat," or "The Crimson Sponge." Good Lord! I shall be coming to you next and saying that I'm going to be put in prison for selling secret documents to a foreign country. These things don't happen; they don't really, old boy.