(_Exit_ Mrs. Culver _and_ Parlourmaid, _back_.)

CULVER. Hildegarde, go and see if you can hurry up dinner.

HILDEGARDE. No one could.

CULVER. Never mind, go and see. (_Exit_ Hildegarde, _back_.) John, just
take these keys, and get some cigars out of the cabinet, you know,
Partagas.

JOHN. Oh! Is it a Partaga night? (_Exit, back_.)

CULVER (_watching the door close_). Tranto, we are conspirators.

TRANTO. You and I?

CULVER. Yes. But we must have no secrets. Who wrote that article in _The
Echo_? Who is Sampson Straight?

TRANTO (_temporising, lightly_). You remind me of the man with the
pistol.

CULVER. Is it Hildegarde?

TRANTO. How did you guess?

CULVER. Well; first, I knew my daughter couldn't be the piffling lunatic
who does your war cookery articles. Second, I asked myself: What reason
has she for pretending to be that piffling lunatic? Third, I have an
exceedingly high opinion of my daughter's brains. Fourth, she gave a