three of us--a nurse, my assistant, and myself. This is Mr. Shawn, the
deceased's valet.

CYRUS. Morning. (Looks round at disorder of room contemptuously.)
Pigstye!... My name is Cyrus Carve. I'm your late master's cousin and
his only relative. You've possibly never heard of me.

CARVE. (Curtly.) Oh yes, I have! You got up a great quarrel when you
were aged twelve, you and he.

CYRUS. Your manner isn't very respectful, my friend. However you may
have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember you're not my
valet.

CARVE. How did you get to know about it?

CYRUS. I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? (Pause.) Eh?

CARVE. (Jumping at this suggestion.) Yes.

PASCOE. So that was it.

CYRUS. (Ignoring PASCOE.) Ha! Well, since you're so curious, I saw it
a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag; I was
on my way to the office. (Showing paper.) Here you are! The Evening
Courier. Quite a full account of the illness. You couldn't send for me,
but you could chatter to some journalist.

CARVE. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life.