Cyrus. (As he cons the will.) How do you know? Has he made a later will?
Carve. No.
Cyrus. Well, then! Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it.
Carve. I was forgetting that.
Cyrus. (Reading.) "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier, and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death."
(Carve laughs shortly.)
You don't want to lose that, do you? Of course, if the term "thorough rascal" is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. (Folds up will and puts it in his pocket—Carve walks about.) Now where's the doctor?
Carve. He's left his card. There it is.
[42]Cyrus. He might have waited.
Carve. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off.