THE BURGLAR. That's true, sir. But I couldn't set up as a locksmith under twenty pounds.
RANDALL. Well, you can easily steal twenty pounds. You will find it in the nearest bank.
THE BURGLAR [horrified]. Oh, what a thing for a gentleman to put into the head of a poor criminal scrambling out of the bottomless pit as it were! Oh, shame on you, sir! Oh, God forgive you! [He throws himself into the big chair and covers his face as if in prayer].
LADY UTTERWORD. Really, Randall!
HECTOR. It seems to me that we shall have to take up a collection for this inopportunely contrite sinner.
LADY UTTERWORD. But twenty pounds is ridiculous.
THE BURGLAR [looking up quickly]. I shall have to buy a lot of tools, lady.
LADY UTTERWORD. Nonsense: you have your burgling kit.
THE BURGLAR. What's a jimmy and a centrebit and an acetylene welding plant and a bunch of skeleton keys? I shall want a forge, and a smithy, and a shop, and fittings. I can't hardly do it for twenty.
HECTOR. My worthy friend, we haven't got twenty pounds.
THE BURGLAR [now master of the situation]. You can raise it among you, can't you?
MRS HUSHABYE. Give him a sovereign, Hector, and get rid of him.
HECTOR [giving him a pound]. There! Off with you.
THE BURGLAR [rising and taking the money very ungratefully]. I won't promise nothing. You have more on you than a quid: all the lot of you, I mean.
LADY UTTERWORD [vigorously]. Oh, let us p
