“Do you know what it means for me, Hetty?”
“Yes, Hilt, old man—four thou’.”
“Of my wife’s money? No, it means locking my dressing-room door, and then—”
“Yes? What then?”
“Revolver. No, haven’t got one—a razor.”
“Tchah!”
“While you, Hetty—”
“Not such a fool,” cried the lady. “Life’s worth more than four million millions, squared and cubed. Pull yourself together, you dear old gander.”
“Pull myself together!” groaned Sir Hilton. “Oh, why did you come with this horrible news?”
“Because I knew you could help me, stupid!”