CYRUS. Well, then! Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious
to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it.

CARVE. I was forgetting that.

CYRUS. (Reading.) "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am
convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier,
and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable
quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my
death."

(CARVE laughs shortly.)

You don't want to lose that, do you? Of course, if the term "thorough
rascal" is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. (Folds
up will and puts it in his pocket--CARVE walks about.) Now where's
the doctor?

CARVE. He's left his card. There it is.

CYRUS. He might have waited.

CARVE. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off.

CYRUS. (Looking at his watch.) I'll go in and see him about the
certificate. Now you haven't begun to put your things together, and
you've only got a bit over half an hour. In less than that time I shall
be back. I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave.