Peekin. Yes, but by the time you find it there, I shall have disappeared—skedaddled.
Hopper. Good. (He rubs his hands. Smiles at the others.)
Geoffrey. In that case I warn you that I shall hand it over to the police.
Peekin. (He turns to the others.) I don’t myself see what else Mr. Chilvers could be expected to do.
Miss Borlasse. He’d be a fool not to.
Geoffrey. Thank you. So far we seem to be in agreement. And now may I ask to what all this is leading?
Peekin. (He changes from the debonnair to the dramatic.) How many men, Mr. Chilvers, leave their babies every year at the door of poverty-stricken women? What are they expected to do with them?
(A moment. The Deputation murmur approval.)
Geoffrey. I see. But is there no difference between the two doors? I am not an accomplice.
Peekin. An accomplice! Is the ignorant servant-girl—first lured into the public-house, cajoled, tricked, deceived by false promises—the half-starved shop-girl in the hands of the practised libertine—is she an accomplice?