[BETTY comes back, dragging her feet, carrying paper and envelopes and a stylograph—she puts them on the table.
HECTOR. Not that stylograph—that's mine—his dirty hands shan't touch it—I could never use it again. Fetch your pen—yours—you belong to him, don't you? Go in and fetch it. D'you hear?
[BETTY goes into the inner room again.
HECTOR. My wife. And you the man I've done more for than for any one else in the world. The man I cared for, you low dog. Used my house—came here because it was dull at the Club—and took my wife? I don't know why I don't kill you. I've the right. But I won't. You shall pay for it, my fine fellow—you are going to pay—now.
[BETTY brings a pen and an inkstand; she places them on the table; HECTOR seizes them and pushes them in front of WALTER. BETTY slinks to the other side of the room, and stands by the sofa.
HECTOR. [To WALTER.] Now you write. You hear? You write what I dictate.
Word for word. What's the old brute's name?
WALTER. Whose?
HECTOR. Whose! Her father, the sealing-wax man, old Gillingham?
WALTER. [Staring.] Gillingham?
HECTOR. Gillingham. Yes. What is it?