Daley. You'll take yourself out of this! (Gets him on to his feet.)
Tom. Wh- (hic) what you say, Mister Times? Say (hic), le's drink!
Daley. No: it's time you were home.
Tom. Home (hic)? wha's that? Fools a (hic) to this? (Staggers across, and clutches bar.) I'm goin' t'stay (hic) here forever and always (hic), forever.
Thornton. Oh, get him out, Daley!
Tom. Yes, get me out, Daily, for (hic) exercise. Take the air (hic). Air's good; le's have some sugar (hic) in mine. (Gets down, r.; aside, sobered.) So he's here,—Maynard is here. I've run the fox to earth at last. (As before.) Fetch on the drinks, D-Daily (hic) and a little oftener.
Daley. Here's your hat; come. This way, this way. (Leads him up to steps, r.)
Tom (at steps, turns round). Hole on a minute, D-Dai- (hic) ly; give us your hand, D-Daily. I'll be back soon (hic), an' we'll never (hic), never (hic) part any more (hic). Good mornin', D-D-aily (hic), good-morn. (Exit up steps. Thornton comes down to table, l.; Daley takes bottles and glasses from table and goes behind bar. Two gentlemen enter, r., drink, and go off.)
Thornton (sits at table). The luck of the evil one! Murdock is but half right. The loss of that girl is a stroke of ill-fortune that imbitters all my prosperity. Get your supper, Daley; I'll look after the bar. (Daley exits, r., up steps.) But for the interference of Charity Goodall, she would have been mine. They have not found the missing Maynard yet. I have him safe: he cannot escape me. (Soft music. The mirrored door, between entrances in flats, slowly opens, and Harry Maynard, shrinking and trembling, with feeble steps, comes down, closing the door behind him. He creeps down to Thornton's chair.)
Harry. Thornton, Thornton!