Sir P. Always the same quick-witted little fairy! Go, my child, but be careful that none of the servants see you. (Verb. wheels the sofa and Spiker's body out, L.U.E.) My poor impulsive darling, I do hope she will not be seen—servants do make such mischief! But there's an end of Spiker, at any rate. I should not have liked him for a son-in-law, and with him, goes the only person who knows my unhappy secret!
Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Sir Poshbury, I have a secret to reveal which I can preserve no longer—it concerns something that happened many years ago—it is connected with your birthday, Sir Poshbury.
Sir P. (quailing). What, another! I must stop his tongue at all hazards. Ha, the rotten sash-line! (To Bl.) I will hear you, but first close yonder window, the night air is growing chill.
[Blethers goes to window at back. Slow music. As he approaches it, Lord Bleshugh enters (R 2 E), and, with a smothered cry of horror, drags him back by the coat-tails—just before the window falls with a tremendous crash.
Sir P. Bleshugh! What have you done?
Lord Blesh. (sternly). Saved him from an untimely end—and you from—crime.
[Collapse of Sir P. Enter Verbena, terrified.
Verb. Papa, Papa, hide me! The night-air and the cold stone steps have restored Mr. Spiker to life and consciousness! He is coming to denounce me—you—both of us! He is awfully annoyed!