kent. Well, he talked of his Flock. There are quite fifteen letters you'll have to deal with yourself, I'm afraid.
trebell stares at him: then, apparently, making up his mind . .
trebell. Ring up a messenger, will you . . I must write a note and send it.
kent. Will you dictate?
trebell. I shall have done it while you're ringing . . it's only a personal matter. Then we'll start work.
kent goes into his room and tackles the telephone there. trebell sits down to write the note, his face very set and anxious.