Conjurer. [Starts slightly.] Yes, his sister. Is she very anxious?
Doctor. [In a lower voice.] What would you suppose?
[Conjurer throws himself into the chair, his cloak slipping back from his evening dress. He ruminates for a short space and then speaks.
Conjurer. Doctor, there are about a thousand reasons why I should not tell you how I really did that trick. But one will suffice, because it is the most practical of all.
Doctor. Well? And why shouldn't you tell me?
Conjurer. Because you wouldn't believe me if I did.
[A silence, the Doctor looking at him curiously.
[Enter the Duke with papers in his hand. His usual gaiety of manner has a rather forced air, owing to the fact that by some vague sick-room associations he walks as if on tip-toe and begins to speak in a sort of loud or shrill whisper. This he fortunately forgets and falls into his more natural voice.
Duke. [To Conjurer.] So very kind of you to have waited, Professor. I expect Dr. Grimthorpe has explained the little difficulty we are in much better than I could. Nothing like the medical mind for a scientific statement. [Hazily.] Look at Ibsen.
[Silence.