Joe: Oh, dat po chile!
Athol: Open the door! Break it down! Can’t you men do something?
Judge: Heaven help us! There isn’t a man nearer than two hundred miles who can open that door! My god, Valentine, what can we do? That child—she can’t stand too long in there. There isn’t enough air, and besides, she’ll go into convulsions of fright!
Athol (beats upon the door hysterically with her hands): Oh, let the child out!
Delacour: We’ll have to get some dynamite.
Judge: You’re mad, man; it would kill the child!
Athol (turns to Valentine): Oh, can’t you do something? Try, won’t you?
Valentine (looks at her with a soft smile): Dearest, will you give me that rose you are wearing?
Margaret: What’s that for? (she gives it to him)
Valentine (stuffs it into his vest-pocket, then throws off his coat and turns up his sleeves): Get away from that door, all of you. (takes suit case, lays it on desk, and spreads out complete set of shining burglar’s tools, in orderly fashion; he picks out a steel drill, and starts to work on the door, whistling to himself as he works. All watch him in silence; they look from one to another, and the meaning of their glances is clear—they are realizing that Valentine is a cracksman. Dr. Walters peers through the grill, watching with special intentness. Valentine takes one tool after another, and finally throws back the bolts and opens the door without a word)