SMITHERS. In here. I brought it in.
MARTIN. You didn't notice whether—
SMITHERS. No. Don't you think if we moved all the rugs—
[She moves across the room and joins WILLIAM, who is still grovelling on the floor, and goes on her knees by his side.
HARVEY. It must be here somewhere.
[They are all searching furiously—WILLIAM by the windows, peering into the spaces between the wall and the carpets, MARTIN at the sideboard, SMITHERS gathering the rugs together, all on their hands and knees, while HARVEY, bent double, is looking under the table. MRS. WESTERN comes in stonily, followed by the JUDGE and MRS. BANKET. MRS. WESTERN is a handsome woman of forty-five, with a rather stern, cold face; the JUDGE, a somewhat corpulent, genial man of fifty-five; and his wife, an amiable nullity, seven or eight years younger. They are all in evening-dress, the ladies in opera-cloaks.
MRS. WESTERN. [Pausing on the threshold.] Well!
HARVEY. [Rising and dusting himself.] No trace of it.
MRS. WESTERN. [Looking around.] A nice mess you've made of the room!
MARTIN. You told us to look, Madam.