Car. Mad! say'st thou?
San. And yet by'r lady, that was a sort of a dry sober smile at going off.
Car. A very sober one! Had he shewn me such a letter, I had put on another countenance.
San. Ay, o' my conscience had you.
Car. Here's mystery in this——I like it not.
San. I see his man and confidant there, Lopez. Shall I draw on a Scotch pair of boots, Master, and make him tell all?
Car. Some questions I must ask him; call him hither.
San. Hem, Lopez, hem!
Enter Lopez.
Lop. Who calls?