SMITH.  Take my arm, Deacon.

BRODIE.  Down, dog, down!  [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] 
Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily.  
Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you - a very - good 
evening.  (AS HE GOES OUT, HUNT, WHO HAS BEEN STAGGERING ABOUT IN
THE CROWD, FALLS ON A SETTLE, AS ABOUT TO SLEEP.)

ACT-DROP.


ACT II.

TABLEAU.  EVIL AND GOOD

The Stage represents the Deacon's workshop; benches, shavings, 
tools, boards, and so forth.  Doors, C. on the street, and L.
into the house.  Without, church bells; not a chime, but a slow
brokentocsin.

SCENE I

BRODIE (SOLUS).  My head! my head!  It's the sickness of the
grave.  And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as
death and judgment.  [There they go; the trumpets of
respectability, sounding encouragement to the world to do and
spare not, and not to be found out.  Found out!  And to those who
are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.]  Turn where I
will are pitfalls hell-deep.  Mary and her dowry; Jean and her
child - my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his
trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street.  Debt, vice, cruelty,
dishonour, crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing,
beastly business!  'My son the Deacon - Deacon of the Wrights!' 
My thoughts sicken at it.  [Oh the Deacon, the Deacon!  Where's a
hat for the Deacon? where's a hat for the Deacon's headache?
(SEARCHING).  This place is a piggery.  To be respectable and not
to find one's hat.)


SCENE II

To him, JEAN, a baby in her shawl.  C.

JEAN (WHO HAS ENTERED SILENTLY DURING THE DEACON'S LAST WORDS).  
It's me, Wullie.

BRODIE (TURNING UPON HER).  What!  You here again?  [you again!]

JEAN.  Deacon, I'm unco vexed.

BRODIE.  Do you know what you do?  Do you know what you risk? 
[Is there nothing - nothing! - will make you spare me this
idiotic, wanton prosecution?]

JEAN.  I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine.  But the
day it's different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken
fine it's the Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the
streets.

BRODIE.  See here, Jean.  You must go now.  I come to you
to-night; I swear that.  But now I'm for the road.

JEAN.  No till you've heard me, William Brodie.  Do ye think I
came to pleasure mysel', where I'm no wanted?  I've a pride o' my
ains.

BRODIE.  Jean, I am going now.  If you please to stay on alone,
in this house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome,
stay  (GOING).

JEAN.  It's the man frae Bow Street.

BRODIE.  Bow Street?

JEAN.  I thocht ye would hear me.  Ye think little o' me; but
it's mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o'
William Brodie . . . ill as it sets me.

BRODIE.  [You don't know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you 
would forgive me.]  Bow Street?

JEAN.  It's the man Hunt:  him that was here yestreen for the 
Fiscal.

BRODIE.  Hunt?

JEAN.  He kens a hantle.  He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi' me, 
Wullie!  I said what I shouldna.

BRODIE.  Said?  Said what?

JEAN.  Just that ye were a guid frien' to me.  He made believe he
was awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I
said, 'Wha tellt him that?' and that he lee'd.

BRODIE.  God knows he did!  What next?

JEAN.  He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth;
and he keept aye harp, harpin'; but after that let out, he got 
neither black nor white frae me.  Just that ae word and nae mair;
and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was
ye got your siller frae.

BRODIE.  Where I got my siller?

JEAN.  Ay, that was it!  'You ken,' says he.

BRODIE.  Did he? and what said you?

JEAN.  I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey
and clever gentleman.

BRODIE.  You should have said I was in trade, and had a good 
business.  That's what you should have said.  That's what you
would have said had you been worth your salt.  But it's blunder,
blunder, outside and in [upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's
chamber].  You women!  Did he see Smith?

JEAN.  Ay, and kennt him.

BRODIE.  Damnation! - No, I'm not angry with you.  But you see
what I've to endure for you.  Don't cry.  [Here's the devil at
the door, and we must bar him out as best we can.]

JEAN.  God's truth, ye are nae vexed wi' me?

BRODIE.  God's truth, I am grateful to you.  How is the child?  
Well?  That's right.  (PEEPING.)  Poor wee laddie!  He's like
you, Jean.

JEAN.  I aye thocht he was liker you.

BRODIE.  Is he?  Perhaps he is.  Ah, Jeannie, you must see and
make him a better man than his father.

JEAN.  Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I'll be gin he's only
half sae guid.

BRODIE.  Well, well, if I win through this, we'll see what we can
do for him between us.  (LEADING HER OUT, C.)  And now, go - go -
go.

LAWSON (WITHOUT, L.).  I ken the way, I ken the way.

JEAN (STARRING TO DOOR).  It's the Fiscal; I'm awa.  (BRODIE,
L.).


SCENE III

To these, LAWSON, L.

LAWSON.  A braw day this, William.  (SEEING JEAN.)  Eh Mistress 
Watt?  And what'll have brocht you here?

BRODIE (SEATED ON BENCH).  Something, uncle, she lost last night,
and she thinks that something she lost is here.  VOILA.

LAWSON.  Why are ye no at the kirk, woman?  Do ye gang to the
kirk?

JEAN.  I'm mebbe no what ye would just ca' reg'lar.  Ye see, 
Fiscal, it's the wean.

LAWSON.  A bairn's an excuse; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. 
But bairn or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk.  Awa wi'
ye!  Hear to the bells; they're ringing in.  (JEAN CURTSIES TO
BOTH, AND GOES OUT C.  THE BELLS WHICH HAVE BEEN RINGING QUICKER,
CEASE.)


SCENE IV

LAWSON (TO BRODIE, RETURNING C. FROM DOOR).  MULIER FORMOSA 
SUPERNE, William:  a braw lass, and a decent woman forbye.

BRODIE.  I'm no judge, Procurator, but I'll take your word for
it.  Is she not a tenant of yours?

LAWSON.  Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Liberton's Wynd.  Her 
man's awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I'm concerned for 
her [she's unco bonnie to be left her lane].  But it sets me
brawly to be finding faut wi' the puir lass, and me an elder, and
should be at the plate.  [There'll be twa words about this in the
Kirk Session.]  However, it's nane of my business that brings me,
or I should tak' the mair shame to mysel'.  Na, sir, it's for
you; it's your business keeps me frae the kirk.

BRODIE.  My business, Procurator?  I rejoice to see it in such 
excellent hands.

LAWSON.  Ye see, it's this way.  I had a crack wi' the laddie, 
Leslie, INTER POCULA (he took a stirrup-cup wi' me), and he tells
me he has askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel'.  O, ye 
needna look sae gash.  Did she speak? and what'll you have said
to her?

BRODIE.  She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I
asked you to avoid the subject.

LAWSON.  Ay, I made a note o' that observation, William [and 
assoilzied mysel'].  Mary's a guid lass, and I'm her uncle, and
I'm here to be answered.  Is it to be ay or no?

BRODIE.  It's to be no.  This marriage must be quashed; and hark 
ye, Procurator, you must help me.

LAWSON.  Me? ye're daft!  And what for why?

BRODIE.  Because I've spent the trust-money, and I can't refund
it.

LAWSON.  Ye reprobate deevil!

BRODIE.  Have a care, Procurator.  No wry words!

LAWSON.  Do you say it to my face, sir?  Dod, sir, I'm the Crown 
Prosecutor.

BRODIE.  Right.  The Prosecutor for the Crown.  And where did you
get your brandy?

LAWSON.  Eh?

BRODIE.  Your brandy!  Your brandy man!  Where do you get your 
brandy?  And you a Crown official and an elder!

LAWSON.  Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?

BRODIE.  Rogues all!  Rogues all, Procurator!

LAWSON.  Ay, ay.  Lord save us!  Guidsake, to think o' that noo!
. . . Can ye give me some o' that Cognac?  I'm . . . . . I'm sort
o' shaken, William, I'm sort o' shaken.  Thank you, William!
(LOOKING, PITEOUSLY AT GLASS.)  NUNC EST BIBENDUM.  (DRINKS.) 
Troth, I'm set ajee a bit.  Wha the deevil tauld ye?

BRODIE.  Ask no questions, brother.  We are a pair.

LAWSON.  Pair, indeed!  Pair, William Brodie!  Upon my saul, sir,
ye're a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face!  Tak' you 
care, my bonnie young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht
o' your hurdies.  Keep the plainstanes side o' the gallows.  VIA 
TRITA, VIA TUTA, William Brodie!

BRODIE.  And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?

LAWSON.  Ay . . . weel . . . be't sae!  Let the brandy bide, man,
let the brandy bide!  But for you and the trust-money . . .
damned!  It's felony.  TUTOR IN REM SUAM, ye ken, TUTOR IN REM
SUAM.  But O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller?

BRODIE.  It's gone - O how the devil should I know?  But it'll 
never come back.

LAWSON.  Dear, dear!  A' gone to the winds o' heaven!  Sae ye're
an extravagant dog, too.  PRODIGUS ET FURIOSUS!  And that puir
lass - eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass!  I mind her such a bonny
bairn.

BRODIE (STOPPING HIS EARS).  Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy,
brandy

LAWSON.  William Brodie, mony's the long day that I've believed
in you; prood, prood was I to be the Deacon's uncle; and a sore 
hearing have I had of it the day.  That's past; that's past like 
Flodden Field; it's an auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man than 
when I crossed your door. But mark ye this - mark ye this,
William  Brodie, I may be no sae guid's I should be; but there's
no a saul between the east sea and the wast can lift his een to
God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. 
I bless God,

William Brodie - ay, though he was like my brother - I bless God 
that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and
can win into his grave a happier man than me.  And ye speak to
me, sir?   Think shame - think shame upon your heart!

BRODIE.  Rogues all!

LAWSON.  You're the son of my sister, William Brodie.  Mair than 
that I stop not to inquire.  If the siller is spent, and the
honour tint - Lord help us, and the honour tint! - sae be it, I
maun bow the head.  Ruin shallna come by me.  Na, and I'll say
mair, William; we have a' our weary sins upon our backs, and
maybe I have mair than mony.  But, man, if ye could bring HALF
the jointure . . . [POTIUS QUAM PEREAS] . . . for your mither's
son?  Na?  You couldna bring the half?  Weel, weel, it's a sair
heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary.  If I were a
better man mysel' . . . but there, there, it's a sair heart that
I have gotten.  And the Lord kens I'll help ye if I can.  [POTIUS
QUAM PEREAS.]


SCENE V

BRODIE.  Sore hearing, does he say?  My hand's wet.  But it's 
victory.  Shall it be go? or stay?  [I should show them all I
can, or they may pry closer than they ought.]  Shall I have it
out and be done with it?  To see Mary at once [to carry bastion
after bastion at the charge] - there were the true safety after
all!  Hurry - hurry's the road to silence now.  Let them once get
tattling in their parlours, and it's death to me.  For I'm in a 
cruel corner now.  I'm down, and I shall get my kicking soon and 
soon enough.  I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of 
mystery and adventure.  I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier 
rogue than the drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. 
[It was meat and drink to know him in the hollow of my hand, 
hoarding that I and mine might squander, pinching that we might
wax fat.]  It was in the laughter of my heart that I tip-toed
into his greasy privacy.  I forced the strong-box at his ear
while he sprawled beside his wife.  He was my butt, my ape, my
jumping-jack.  And now . . . O fool, fool!  [Duped by such knaves
as are a shame to knavery, crime's rabble, hell's
tatterdemalions!]  Shorn to the quick!  Rooked to my vitals!  And
I must thieve for my daily bread like any crawling blackguard in
the gutter.  And my sister . . . my kind, innocent sister!  She
will come smiling to me with her poor little love-story, and I
must break her heart.  Broken hearts, broken lives! . . . I
should have died before.


SCENE VI

BRODIE, MARY

MARY (TAPPING WITHOUT).  Can I come in, Will?

BRODIE.  O yes, come in, come in!  (MARY ENTERS.)  I wanted to be
quiet, but it doesn't matter, I see.  You women are all the same.

MARY.  O no, Will, they're not all so happy, and they're not all 
Brodies.  But I'll be a woman in one thing.  For I've come to
claim your promise, dear; and I'm going to be petted and
comforted and made much of, altho' I don't need it, and . . .
Why, Will, what's wrong with you?  You look . . . I don't know
what you look like.

BRODIE.  O nothing!  A splitting head and an aching heart.  Well!
you've come to speak to me.  Speak up.  What is it?  Come, girl! 
What is it?  Can't you speak?

MARY.  Why, Will, what is the matter?

BRODIE.  I thought you had come to tell me something.  Here I am. 
For God's sake out with it, and don't stand beating about the
bush.

MARY.  O be kind, be kind to me.

BRODIE.  Kind?  I am kind.  I'm only ill and worried, can't you 
see?  Whimpering?  I knew it!  Sit down, you goose!  Where do you
women get your tears?

MARY.  Why are you so cross with me?  Oh, Will, you have forgot 
your sister!  Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you.  It's 
your own fault, Will, if you've taught me to come to you for 
kindness, for I always found it.  And I mean you shall be kind to
me again.  I know you will, for this is my great need, and the
day I've missed my mother sorest.  Just a nice look, dear, and a
soft tone in your voice, to give me courage, for I can tell you
nothing till I know that you're my own brother once again.

BRODIE.  If you'd take a hint, you'd put it off till to-morrow.  
But I suppose you won't.  On, then, I'm listening.  I'm
listening!

MARY.  Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife.

BRODIE.  He has, has he?

MARY.  And I have consented.

BRODIE.  And ...?

MARY.  You can say that to me?  And that is all you have to say?

BRODIE.  O no, not all.

MARY.  Speak out, sir.  I am not afraid.

BRODIE.  I suppose you want my consent?

MARY.  Can you ask?

BRODIE.  I didn't know.  You seem to have got on pretty well 
without it so far.

MARY.  O shame on you! shame on you!

BRODIE.  Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether.  I 
hope so.  For you'll never have it. ... Mary! ... I hate to see
you look like that.  If I could say anything else, believe me, I
would say it.  But I have said all; every word is spoken; there's
the end.

MARY.  It shall not be the end.  You owe me explanation; and I'll
have it.

BRODIE.  Isn't my 'No' enough, Mary?

MARY.  It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot
be, enough for him.  He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me
his happiness is in my hands - poor hands, but they shall not
fail him, if my poor heart should break!  If he has chosen and
set his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find
courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice.  And I dare you to
leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts - until you
prove that this is good and right.

BRODIE.  Good and right?  They are strange words, Mary.  I mind
the time when it was good and right to be your father's daughter
and your brother's sister . . . Now! . . .

MARY.  Have I changed?  Not even in thought.  My father, Walter 
says, shall live and die with us.  He shall only have gained 
another son.  And you - you know what he thinks of you; you know 
what I would do for you.

BRODIE.  Give him up.

MARY.  I have told you:  not without a reason.

BRODIE.  You must.

MARY.  I will not.

BRODIE.  What if I told you that you could only compass your 
happiness and his at the price of my ruin?

MARY.  Your ruin?

BRODIE.  Even so.

MARY.  Ruin!

BRODIE.  It has an ugly sound, has it not?

MARY.  O Willie, what have you done?  What have you done?  What 
have you done?

BRODIE.  I cannot tell you, Mary.  But you may trust me.  You
must give up this Leslie . . . and at once.  It is to save me.

MARY.  I would die for you, dear, you know that.  But I cannot be
false to him.  Even for you, I cannot be false to him.

BRODIE.  We shall see.  Let me take you to your room.  Come. 
And, remember, it is for your brother's sake.  It is to save me.

MARY.  I am true Brodie.  Give me time, and you shall not find me
wanting.  But it is all so sudden ... so strange and dreadful! 
You will give me time, will you not?  I am only a woman, and ...
O my poor Walter!  It will break his heart!  It will break his
heart!   (A KNOCK.)

BRODIE.  You hear!

MARY.  Yes, yes.  Forgive me.  I am going.  I will go.  It is to 
save you, is it not?  To save you.  Walter . . . Mr. Leslie ... O
Deacon, Deacon, God forgive you!  (SHE GOES OUT.)

BRODIE.  Amen.  But will He?


SCENE VII

BRODIE, HUNT

HUNT (HAT IN HAND).  Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?

BRODIE.  I am he, Mr. -

HUNT.  Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow
Street.

BRODIE.  There can be no better passport than the name.  In what 
can I serve you?

HUNT.  You'll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.

BRODIE.  Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT.  Your obedient.  The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office 
see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn't
tell a gentleman of your experience it's part of our duty to hold
our tongues.  Now], it's come to my knowledge that you are a
trifle jokieous.  Of course I know there ain't any harm in that. 
I've been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking -

BRODIE.  O, but pardon me.  Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss
my private character with you.

HUNT.  To be sure you ain't.  [And do I blame you?  Not me.] 
But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally
see a great deal of bad company.

BRODIE.  Not half so much as you do.  But I see what you're
driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you
may command me.  (HE SITS, AND MOTIONS HUNT TO DO LIKEWISE.)

HUNT.  I was dead sure of it; and 'and upon 'art, Mr. Deacon, I 
thank you.  Now (CONSULTING POCKET-BOOK), did you ever meet a 
certain George Smith?

BRODIE.  The fellow they call Jingling Geordie?  (HUNT NODS.) 
Yes.

HUNT.  Bad character.

BRODIE.  Let us say . . . disreputable.

HUNT.  Any means of livelihood?

BRODIE.  I really cannot pretend to guess, I have met the
creature at cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. 
Perhaps he bets.

HUNT.  [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should
say that if he don't - if he ain't open to any mortal thing - he
ain't the man I mean.]  He used to be about with a man called
Badger Moore.

BRODIE.  The boxer?

HUNT.  That's him.  Know anything of him?

BRODIE.  Not much.  I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I 
fear he sold his backers.

HUNT.  Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. 
Deacon, the losers always do.  I suppose the Badger cockfights
like the rest of us?

BRODIE.  I have met him in the pit.

HUNT.  Well, it's a pretty sport.  I'm as partial to a main as 
anybody.

BRODIE.  It's not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT.  It costs as much as though it was.  And that reminds me, 
speaking as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to 
hear that you've been dropping a hatful of money lately.

BRODIE.  You are very good.

HUNT.  Four hundred in three months, they tell me.

BRODIE.  Ah!

HUNT.  So they say, sir.

BRODIE.  They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT.  And you to do the other thing?  Well, I'm a good hand at 
keeping close myself.

BRODIE.  I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; 'tis you who are 
consulting me.  And if there is nothing else (RISING) in which I 
can pretend to serve you . . . ?

HUNT (RISING).  That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on
to anything good in the way of heckle and spur?  I'd try to look
in.

BRODIE.  O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly
and flatly I have.  This is not the day for such a conversation;
and so good-bye to you.  (A KNOCKING, C.)

HUNT.  Servant, Mr. Deacon.  (SMITH AND MOORE, WITHOUT WAITING TO 
BE ANSWERED, OPEN AND ENTER, C.  THEY ARE WELL INTO THE ROOM
BEFORE THEY OBSERVE HUNT.)  [Talk of the Devil, sir!]

BRODIE.  What brings you here?  (SMITH AND MOORE, CONFOUNDED BY
THE OFFICER'S PRESENCE, SLOUCH TOGETHER TO RIGHT OF DOOR.  HUNT, 
STOPPING AS HE GOES OUT, CONTEMPLATES THE PAIR, SARCASTICALLY.  
THIS IS SUPPORTED BY MOORE WITH SULLEN BRAVADO; BY SMITH, WITH 
CRINGING AIRINESS.)

HUNT (DIGGING SMITH IN THE RIBS).  Why, you are the very parties
I was looking for!  (HE GOES OUT, C.)


SCENE VIII

BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH

MOORE.  Wot was that cove here about?

BRODIE (WITH FOLDED ARMS, HALF-SITTING ON BENCH).  He was here 
about you.

SMITH (STILL QUITE DISCOUNTENANCED).  About us?  Scissors!  And 
what did you tell him?

BRODIE (SAME ATTITUDE).  I spoke of you as I have found you.  [I 
told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had
crossed a fight.]  I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore
an incompetent and dishonest boxer.

MOORE.  Look here, Deacon!  Wot's up?  Wot I ses is, if a cove's 
got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can't he spit it out,
I ses.

BRODIE.  Here are my answers (PRODUCING PURSE AND DICE).  These
are both too light.  This purse is empty, these dice are not
loaded.  Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share?  Equal with
the Captain, I presume?

SMITH.  It's as easy as my eye, Deakin.  Slink Ainslie got
letting the merry glass go round, and didn't know the right bones
from the wrong.  That's Hall.

BRODIE.  [What clumsy liars you are!

SMITH.  In boyhood's hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful.  
Little did he think -]

BRODIE.  What is your errand?

MOORE.  Business.

SMITH.  After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which
no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we'd trot
round - didn't us, Hump? and see how you and your bankers was
a-getting on.

BRODIE.  Will you tell me your errand?

MOORE.  You're dry, ain't you?

BRODIE.  Am I?

MOORE.  We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's wot's the matter
with us.

BRODIE.  Is it?

MOORE.  Ay, strike me, it is!  And wot we've got to is to put up 
the Excise.

SMITH.  It's the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it's 
breaking George the gardener's heart, it is.  We really must!

BRODIE.  Must we?

MOORE.  Must's the thundering word.  I mean business, I do.

BRODIE.  That's lucky.  I don't.

MOORE.  O, you don't, don't you?

BRODIE.  I do not.

MOORE.  Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thundering well do?

BRODIE.  What do I mean?  I mean that you and that merry-andrew 
shall walk out of this room and this house.  Do you suppose, you 
blockheads, that I am blind?  I'm the Deacon, am I not?  I've
been your king and your commander.  I've led you, and fed you,
and thought for you with this head.  And you think to steal a
march upon a man like me?  I see you through and through [I know
you like the clock]; I read your thoughts like print.  Brodie,
you thought, has money, and won't do the job.  Therefore, you
thought, we must rook him to the heart.  And therefore, you put
up your idiot cockney.  And now you come round, and dictate, and
think sure of your Excise?  Sure?  Are you sure I'll let you pack
with a whole skin?  By my soul, but I've a mind to pistol you
like dogs.  Out of this!  Out, I say, and soil my home no more.

MOORE (SITTING).  Now look 'ere.  Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you
see this 'ere chair of yours, don't you?  Wot I ses to you is,
here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick.  That's my motto. 
Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty?  You make all
you can out of us, don't you? and when one of your plants get
cross, you order us out of the ken?  Muck!  That's wot I think of
you.  Muck!  Don't you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon
Brodie, or I'll smash you.

BRODIE.  You will?

MOORE.  Ay will I.  If I thundering well swing for it.  And as
for clearing out?  Muck!  Here I am, and here I stick.  Clear
out?  You try it on.  I'm a man, I am.

BRODIE.  This is plain speaking.

MOORE.  Plain?  Wot about your father as can't walk?  Wot about 
your fine-madam sister?  Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock,
and the rope in the open street?  Is that plain?  If it ain't,
you let me know, and I'll spit it out so as it'll raise the roof
off this 'ere ken.  Plain!  I'm that cove's master, and I'll make
it plain enough for him.

BRODIE.  What do you want of me?

MOORE.  Wot do I want of you?  Now you speak sense.  Leslie's is 
wot I want of you.  The Excise is wot I want of you.  Leslie's
to-night and the Excise to-morrow.  That's wot I want of you, and
wot I thundering well mean to get.

BRODIE.  Damn you!

MOORE.  Amen.  But you've got your orders.

BRODIE (WITH PISTOL).  Orders? hey? orders?

SMITH (BETWEEN THEM).  Deacon, Deacon! - Badger, are you mad?

MOORE.  Muck!  That's my motto.  Wot I ses is, has he got his 
orders or has he not?  That's wot's the matter with him.

SMITH.  Deacon, half a tick.  Humphrey, I'm only a light weight, 
and you fight at twelve stone ten, but I'm damned if I'm going to
stand still and see you hitting a pal when he's down.

MOORE.  Muck!  That's wot I think of you.

SMITH.  He's a cut above us, ain't he?  He never sold his
backers, did he?  We couldn't have done without him, could we? 
You dry up about his old man, and his sister; and don't go on
hitting a pal when he's knocked out of time and cannot hit back,
for, damme, I will not stand it.

MOORE.  Amen to you.  But I'm cock of this here thundering walk, 
and that cove's got his orders.

BRODIE (PUTTING PISTOL ON BENCH).  I give in.  I will do your
work for you once more.  Leslie's to-night and the Excise
to-morrow.  If that is enough, if you have no more . . . orders,
you may count it as done.

MOORE.  Fen larks.  No rotten shirking, mind.

BRODIE.  I have passed you my word.  And now you have said what
you came to say, you must go.  I have business here; but two
hours hence I am at your ... orders.  Where shall I await you?

MOORE.  What about that woman's place of yours?

BRODIE.  Your will is my law.

MOORE.  That's good enough.  Now, Dock.

SMITH.  Bye-bye, my William.  Don't forget.


SCENE IX

BRODIE.  Trust me.  No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or
forgives it either.  It must be done:  Leslie's to-night and the
Excise to-morrow.  It shall be done.  This settles it.  They used
to fetch and carry for me, and now . . . I've licked their boots,
have I?  I'm their man, their tool, their chattel.  It's the
bottom rung of the ladder of shame.  I sound with my foot, and
there's nothing underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. 
Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've been travelling
all these years; and it's for this that you learned French!  The
gallows . . . God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. 
THERE'S a step to take!  And the jerk upon your spine!  How's a
man to die with a night-cap on?  I've done with this.  Over
yonder, across the great ocean, is a new land, with new
characters, and perhaps new lives.  The sun shines, and the bells
ring, and it's a place where men live gladly; and the Deacon
himself can walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born
child.  It must be good to see day again and not to fear; it must
be good to be one's self with all men.  Happy like a child, wise
like a man, free like God's angels . . . should I work these
hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me  young and
good again.  And it's only over the sea!  O man, you have been
blind, and now your eyes are opened.  It was half a life's
nightmare, and now you are awake.  Up, Deacon, up, it's hope
that's at the window!  Mary! Mary! Mary!


SCENE X

BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE

(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table.  
Enter MARY, by the side door pushing her father's chair.  She is 
supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before 
BRODIE is aware of her.  He starts up, and runs to her.)

BRODIE.  Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman!  I . . . O
kiss me, Mary I give me a kiss for my good news.

MARY.  Good news, Will?  Is it changed?

BRODIE.  Changed?  Why, the world's a different colour!  It was 
night, and now it's broad day and I trust myself again.  You must
wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work; and before the week
is out, as sure as God sees me, I'll have made you happy.  O you
may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon's not the man to be
run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner yet, and leave you 
snarling!  And you, Poll, you.  I've done nothing for you yet;
but, please God, I'll make your life a life of gold; and wherever
I am, I'll have a part in your happiness, and you'll know it, by
heaven! and bless me.

MARY.  O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying
to be glad with us.

BRODIE.  My son - Deacon - better man than I was.

BRODIE.  O for God's sake, hear him!

MARY.  He is quite happy, Will, and so am I ... so am I.

BRODIE.  Hear me, Mary.  This is a big moment in our two lives. 
I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be
fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have
set your hopes in.  I swear it by our father; I swear it by God's
judgments.

MARY.  I want no oaths, Will.

BRODIE.  No, but I do.  And prayers, Mary, prayers.  Pray night
and day upon your knees.  I must move mountains.

OLD BRODIE.  A wise son maketh - maketh  -

BRODIE.  A glad father?  And does your son, the Deacon, make you 
glad?  O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man.

ACT-DROP


ACT III.

TABLEAU V.  KING'S EVIDENCE

The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh.

SCENE I

JEAN, SMITH, AND MOORE

(They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody not 
there.  SMITH is hat in hand to JEAN; MOORE as usual.)

MOORE.  Wot did I tell you?  Is he 'ere, or ain't he?  Now, then. 
Slink by name and Slink by nature, that's wot's the matter with 
him.

JEAN.  He'll no be lang; he's regular enough, if that was a'.

MOORE.  I'd regular him; I'd break his back.

SMITH.  Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your 
dancing-master.  None but the genteel deserves the fair; does
they, Duchess?

MOORE.  O rot!  Did I insult the blowen?  Wot's the matter with
me is Slink Ainslie.

SMITH.  All right, old Crossed-in-love.  Give him forty winks,
and he'll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as
a new Bible.

MOORE.  That's right enough; but I ain't agoing to stand here all
day for him.  I'm for a drop of something short, I am.  You tell 
him I showed you that (SHOWING HIS DOUBLED FIST).  That's wot's
the matter with him.  (HE LURCHES OUT, R.)


SCENE II

SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT, and afterwards MOORE

SMITH (CRITICALLY).  No, Duchess, he has not good manners.

JEAN.  Ay, he's an impident man.

SMITH.  So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain't the 
only one.

JEAN.  Geordie, I want nae mair o' your nonsense, mind.

SMITH.  There's our old particular the Deacon, now.  Why is he 
ashamed of a lovely woman?  That's not my idea of the Young 
Chevalier, Jean.  If I had luck, we should be married, and retire
to our estates in the country, shouldn't us? and go to church and
be happy, like the nobility and gentry.

JEAN.  Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry me?

SMITH.  Mean it?  What else has ever been the 'umble petition of 
your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and
fellow-countryman?  I know the Deacon's your man, and I know he's
a cut above G. S.; but he won't last, Jean, and I shall.

JEAN.  Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him; wha could help it?

SMITH.  Well, and my sort don't grow on apple-trees either.

JEAN.  Ye're a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad 
just let me be.

SMITH.  I know I ain't a Scotchman born.

JEAN.  I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye even for that; if
ye would just let me be.

[HUNT (ENTERING BEHIND, ASIDE).  Are they thick?  Anyhow, it's a 
second chance.]

SMITH.  But he won't last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come
to me.  Is that your taste in pastry?  That's the kind of
harticle that I present.

HUNT (SURPRISING THEM AS IN TABLEAU I.).  Why, you're the very 
parties I was looking for!

JEAN.  Mercy me!

SMITH.  Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.

HUNT.  [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.]  Ain't
it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and 
promiscuous like this?

JEAN (STOLIDLY).  I hope ye're middling weel, Mr. Hunt?  (GOING.) 
Mr. Smith!

SMITH.  Mrs. Watt, ma'am!  (GOING.)

HUNT.  Hold hard, George.  Speaking as one lady's man to another,
turn about's fair play.  You've had your confab, and now I'm
going to have mine.  [Not that I've done with you; you stand by
and wait.]  Ladies first, George, ladies first; that's the size
of it.  (TO JEAN, ASIDE.)  Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain't a
natural fool?

JEAN.  And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.

SMITH (INTERFERING).  Jean  . . . !

HUNT (KEEPING HIM OFF).  Half a tick, George.  (TO JEAN.)  Mrs. 
Watt, I've a warrant in my pocket.  One, two, three:  will you 
peach?

JEAN.  Whaten kind of a word'll that be?

SMITH.  Mum it is, Jean!

HUNT.  WHEN you've done dancing, George!  (TO JEAN.)  It ain't a 
pretty expression, my dear, I own it.  'Will you blow the gaff?'
is perhaps more tenderer.

JEAN.  I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin yoursel'.

HUNT (TO JEAN).  I can't waste time on you, my girl.  It's now or
never.  Will you turn king's evidence?

JEAN.  I think ye'll have made a mistake, like.

HUNT.  Well, I'm ... ! (SEPARATING THEM.)  [No, not yet; don't
push me.]  George's turn now.  (TO GEORGE.)  George, I've a
warrant in my pocket.

SMITH.  As per usual, Jerry?

HUNT.  Now I want king's evidence.

SMITH.  Ah! so you came a cropper with HER, Jerry.  Pride had a 
fall.

HUNT.  A free pardon and fifty shiners down.

SMITH.  A free pardon, Jerry?

HUNT.  Don't I tell you so?

SMITH.  And fifty down? fifty?

HUNT.  On the nail.

SMITH.  So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on 
with me?

HUNT.  I suppose you mean you're a born idiot?

SMITH.  What I mean is, Jerry, that you've broke my heart.  I
used to look up to you like a party might to Julius Caesar.  One
more of boyhood's dreams gone pop.  (ENTER MOORE, L.)

HUNT (TO BOTH).  Come, then, I'll take the pair, and be damned to
you.  Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the 
way.  I don't care for you commoners, it's the Deacon I want.

JEAN (LOOKING OFF STOLIDLY).  I think the kirks are scalin'. 
There seems to be mair people in the streets.

HUNT.  O that's the way, is it?  Do you know that I can hang you,
my woman, and your fancy man a well?

JEAN.  I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here's my 
service to you.  (GOING.)

HUNT.  George, don't you be a tomfool, anyway.  Think of the
blowen here, and have brains for two.

SMITH (GOING).  Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different
you would talk!  (THEY GO TOGETHER, R.)


SCENE III

HUNT, MOORE

HUNT.  Half a tick, Badger.  You're a man of parts, you are;
you're solid, you're a true-born Englishman; you ain't a
Jerry-go-Nimble like him.  Do you know what your pal the Deacon's
worth to you?  Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon.  No
questions asked, and no receipts demanded.  What do you say?  Is
it a deal?

MOORE (AS TO HIMSELF).  Muck.  (HE GOES OUT, R.)


SCENE IV

HUNT, TO WHOM AINSLIE

HUNT (LOOKING AFTER THEM RUEFULLY).  And these were the very 
parties I was looking for!  [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this
at the office!]  Well, the market price of that 'ere two hundred
is a trifle on the decline and fall.  (LOOKING L.)  Hullo! 
(SLAPPING HIS THIGH).  Send me victorious!  It's king's evidence
on two legs.  (ADVANCING WITH GREAT CORDIALITY TO MEET AINSLIE,
WHO ENTERS L.)  And so your name's Andrew Ainslie, is it?  As I
was saying, you're the very party I was looking for.  Ain't it
strange, now, that I should have dropped across you comfortable
and promiscuous like this?

AINSLIE.  I dinna ken wha ye are, an' I'm ill for my bed.

HUNT.  Let your bed wait, Andrew.  I want a little chat with you;
just a quiet little sociable wheeze.  Just about our friends, you
know.  About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers,
and Deacon Brodie, Andrew.  Particularly Deacon Brodie.

AINSLIE.  They're nae friens o' mine's, mister.  I ken naething
an' naebody.  An' noo I'll get to my bed, wulln't I?

HUNT.  We're going to have our little talk out first.  After that
perhaps I'll let you go, and perhaps I won't.  It all depends on 
how we get along together.  Now, in a general way, Andrew, and 
speaking of a man as you find him, I'm all for peace and
quietness myself.  That's my usual game, Andrew, but when I do
make a dust I'm considered by my friends to be rather a good hand
at it.  So don't you tread upon the worm.

AINSLIE.  But I'm sayin' -

HUNT.  You leave that to me, Andrew.  You shall do your pitch 
presently.  I'm first on the ground, and I lead off.  With a 
question, Andrew.  Did you ever hear in your life of such a
natural curiosity as a Bow Street Runner?

AINSLIE.  Aiblins ay an' aiblins no.

HUNT.  'Aiblins ay and aiblins no.'  Very good indeed, Andrew.  
Now, I'll ask you another.  Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner,
Andrew?  With the naked eye, so to speak?

AINSLIE.  What's your wull?

HUNT.  Artful bird!  Now since we're getting on so cosy AND so 
free, I'll ask you another, Andrew.  Should you like to see a Bow
Street Runner?  (PRODUCING STAFF.)  'Cos, if so, you've only got
to cast your eyes on me.  Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? 
Pretty colour, ain't it?  So nice and warm for the winter too. 
(AINSLIE DIVES, HUNT COLLARS HIM.)  No, you don't.  Not this
time.  Run away like that before we've finished our little
conversation?  You're a nice young man, you are.  Suppose we
introduce our wrists into these here darbies?  Now we shall get
along cosier and freer than ever.  Want to lie down, do you?  All
right! anything to oblige.

AINSLIE (GROVELLING).  It wasna me, it wasna me.  It's bad 
companions; I've been lost wi' bad companions an' the drink.  An'
O mister, ye'll be a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an' me sae
weak, an' fair rotten wi' the drink an' that.  Ye've a bonnie
kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a
thing as me.  I'm no fit to hang.  They ca' me the Cannleworm! 
An' I'll dae somethin' for ye, wulln't I?  An' ye'll can hang the
ithers?

HUNT.  I thought I hadn't mistook my man.  Now, you look here, 
Andrew Ainslie, you're a bad lot.  I've evidence to hang you
fifty times over.  But the Deacon is my mark.  Will you peach, or
wont you?  You blow the gaff, and I'll pull you through.  You
don't, and I'll scragg you as sure as my name's Jerry Hunt.

AINSLIE.  I'll dae onything.  It's the hanging fleys me.  I'll
dae onything, onything no to hang.

HUNT.  Don't lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a 
man.  Ain't this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that's been doing
all these tip-topping burglaries?

AINSLIE.  It's him, mister; it's him.  That's the man.  Ye're in 
the very bit.  Deacon Brodie.  I'll can tak' ye to his vera door.

HUNT.  How do you know?

AINSLIE.  I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'.  It was him an' Badger 
Moore, and Geordie Smith; an' they gart me gang wi' them whether
or  no; I'm that weak, an' whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. 
But I  ken a', an' I'll tell a'.  And O kind gentleman, you'll
speak to  their lordships for me, an' I'll no be hangit. . . I'll
no be  hangit, wull I?

HUNT.  But you shared, didn't you?  I wonder what share they 
thought you worth.  How much did you get for last night's 
performance down at Mother Clarke's?

AINSLIE.  Just five pund, mister.  Five pund.  As sure's deith it
wadna be a penny mair.  No but I askit mair:  I did that; I'll do
deny it, mister.  But Badger kickit me, an' Geordie, he said a
bad sweir, an' made he'd cut the liver out o' me, an' catch fish
wi't.  It's been that way frae the first:  an aith an' a bawbee
was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.

HUNT.  Well, and why did they do it?  I saw Jemmy dance a
hornpipe on the table, and booze the company all round, when the
Deacon was gone.  What made you cross the fight, and play booty
with your own man?

AINSLIE.  Just to make him rob the Excise, mister.  They're
wicked, wicked men.

HUNT.  And is he right for it?

AINSLIE.  Ay is he.

HUNT.  By jingo!  When's it for?

AINSLIE.  Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken:  the
Deacon's that sair angered wi' me.  I'm to get my orders frae
Geordie the nicht.

HUNT.  O, you're to get your orders from Geordie, are you?  Now 
look here, Ainslie.  You know me.  I'm Hunt the Runner; I put
Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning; I've got you this evening. 
I mean to wind up with the Deacon.  You understand?  All right. 
Then just you listen.  I'm going to take these here bracelets
off, and send you home to that celebrated bed of yours.  Only, as
soon as you've seen the Dook you come straight round to me at Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal's, and let me know the Dook's views.  One word,
mind, and ... cl'k!  It's a bargain?

AINSLIE.  Never you fear that.  I'll tak' my bannet an' come 
straucht to ye.  Eh God, I'm glad it's nae mair nor that to start
wi'.  An' may the Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your 
kindness.  May the Lord bless ye.

HUNT.  You pad the hoof. 

AINSLIE (GOING OUT).  An' so I wull, wulln't I not?  An' bless, 
bless ye while there's breath in my body, wulln't I not?

HUNT (SOLUS).  You're a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie.  Jemmy 
Rivers and the Deacon in two days!  By jingo!  (HE DANCES AN 
INSTANT GRAVELY, WHISTLING TO HIMSELF.)  Jerry, that 'ere little 
two hundred of ours is as safe as the bank.


TABLEAU VI.  UNMASKED

The Stage represents a room in Leslie's house.   A practicable 
window, C., through which a band of strong moonlight falls into
the room.  Near the window a strong-box.  A practicable door in
wing, L.  Candlelight.

SCENE I

LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, seated.  BRODIE at back, walking between
the windows and strong-box.

LAWSON.  Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt.

LESLIE.  Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie's word;
I will wait gladly.

LAWSON.  I have nothing to say against that.

BRODIE (BEHIND LAWSON).  Nor for it.

LAWSON.  For it? for it, William?  Ye're perfectly richt there.  
(TO LESLIE.)  Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do 
better than that.

MARY.  Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are 
perfectly agreed on the best course.  Walter and I are young. 
Oh, we can wait; we can trust each other.

BRODIE (FROM BEHIND).  Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this 
strong-box in your room?

LESLIE.  It does not trouble me.

BRODIE.  I would not.  'Tis close to the window.

LESLIE.  It's on the right side of it.

BRODIE.  I give you my advice:  I would not.

LAWSON.  He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie.

BRODIE.  I give him fair warning:  it's not safe.

LESLIE.  I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if 
all goes right with that I shall be well contented.

MARY.  Walter!

LAWSON.  Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age.

LESLIE.  Surely, sir, for every age; the ties of blood, of love,
of friendship, these are life's essence.

MARY.  And for no one is it truer than my uncle.  If he live to
be a thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love,
full of trust.

LAWSON.  All, lassie, it's a wicked world.

MARY.  Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that.

LESLIE.  Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if
you please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust
in those you love.

LAWSON.  Weel . . . ye get gliffs, ye ken.

LESLIE.  I suppose so.  We can all be shaken for a time; but not,
I think, in our friends.  We are not deceived in them; in the few
that we admit into our hearts.

MARY.  Never in these.

LESLIE.  We know these (TO BRODIE), and we think the world of
them.

BRODIE (AT BACK).  We are more acquainted with each other's 
tailors, believe me.  You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. 
My uncle Lawson is the Procurator-Fiscal.  I - What am I? - I am 
the Deacon of the Wrights, my ruffles are generally clean.  And
you think the world of me?  Bravo!

LESLIE.  Ay, and I think the world of you.

BRODIE (AT BACK, POINTING TO LAWSON).  Ask him.

LAWSON.  Hoot-toot.  A wheen nonsense:  an honest man's an honest
man, and a randy thief's a randy thief, and neither mair nor
less.  Mary, my lamb, it's time you were hame, and had you beauty
sleep.

MARY.  Do you not come with us?

LAWSON.  I gang the ither gate, my lamb.  (LESLIE HELPS MARY ON 
WITH HER CLOAK, AND THEY SAY FAREWELL AT BACK.  BRODIE FOR THE 
FIRST TIME COMES FRONT WITH LAWSON.)  Sae ye've consented? 

BRODIE.  As you see.

LAWSON.  Ye'll can pay it back?

BRODIE.  I will.

LAWSON.  And how?  That's what I'm wonderin' to mysel'.

BRODIE.  Ay, God knows that.

MARY.  Come, Will.


SCENE II

LESLIE, LAWSON (wrapping up)

LESLIE.  I wonder what ails Brodie?

LAWSON.  How should I ken?  What should I ken that ails him?

LESLIE.  He seemed angry even with you.

LAWSON (IMPATIENT).  Hoot awa'.

LESLIE.  Of course, I know.  But you see, on the very day when
our engagement is announced, even the best of men may be
susceptible.  You yourself seem not quite pleased.

LAWSON (WITH GREAT IRRITATION).  I'm perfectly pleased.  I'm 
perfectly delighted.  If I werena an auld man, I'd be just beside
mysel' wi' happiness.

LESLIE.  Well, I only fancied.

LAWSON.  Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy.  Fancy?  Perfect 
trash and nonsense.  Look at yersel'.  Ye look like a ghaist,
ye're white-like, ye're black aboot the een; and do ye find me
deavin' ye wi' fancies?  Or William Brodie either?  I'll say that
for him.

LESLIE.  'Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I've
something else on hand.  Come, I'll tell you, under seal.  I've
not been in bed till daylight for a week.

LAWSON.  Weel, there's nae sense in the like o' that.

LESLIE.  Gad, but there is though.  Why, Procurator, this is
town's business; this is a municipal affair; I'm a public
character.  Why?  Ah, here's a nut for the Crown Prosecutor!  I'm
a bit of a party to a robbery.

LAWSON.  Guid guide us, man, what d'ye mean?

LESLIE.  You shall hear.  A week ago to-night, I was passing 
through this very room without a candle on my way to bed, when .
. . what should I see, but a masked man fumbling at that window! 
How he did the Lord knows.  I suspect, Procurator, it was not the
first he'd tried . . . for he opened it as handily as his own
front door.

LAWSON.  Preserve me!  Another of thae robberies!

LESLIE.  That's it.  And, of course, I tried to seize him.  But
the rascal was too quick.  He was down and away in an instant. 
You never saw a thing so daring and adroit.

LAWSON.  Is that a'?  Ye're a bauld lad, I'll say that for ye. 
I'm glad it wasna waur.

LESLIE.  Yes, that's all plain sailing.  But here's the hitch. 
Why didn't I tell the Procurator-Fiscal?  You never thought of
that.

LAWSON.  No, man.  Why?

LESLIE.  Aha!  There's the riddle.  Will you guess?  No? . . . I 
thought I knew the man.

LAWSON.  What d'ye say?

LESLIE.  I thought I knew him.

LAWSON.  Wha was't?

LESLIE.  Ah, there you go beyond me.  That I cannot tell.

LAWSON.  As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth?

LESLIE.  Well . . . of course!

LAWSON.  The haill truth?

LESLIE.  All of it.  Why not?

LAWSON.  Man, I'd a kind o' gliff.

LESLIE.  Why, what were you afraid of?  Had you a suspicion?

LAWSON.  Me?  Me a suspicion?  Ye're daft, sir; and me the Crown 
offeecial! . . . Eh man, I'm a' shakin' ... And sae ye thocht ye 
kennt him?

LESLIE.  I did that.  And what's more, I've sat every night in
case of his return.  I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip
me twice.  Meanwhile I'm worried and put out.  You understand how
such a fancy will upset a man.  I'm uneasy with my friends and on
bad terms with my own conscience.  I keep watching, spying,
comparing, putting two and two together, hunting for resemblances
until my head  goes round.  It's like a puzzle in a dream.  Only
yesterday I thought I had him.  And who d'you think it was?

LAWSON.  Wha?  Wha was't?  Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak.  I'm an auld
man; dinna forget that.

LESLIE.  I name no names.  It would be unjust to him; and, upon
my word, it was so silly it would be unfair to me.  However, here
I sit, night after night.  I mean him to come back; come back he 
shall; and I'll tell you who he was next morning.

LAWSON.  Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye 
micht see.  And then, leave him alane, he'll come nae mair.  And 
sitting up a' nicht . . . it's a FACTUM IMPRESTABILE, as we say: 
a thing impossible to man.  Gang ye to your bed, like a guid
laddie, and sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to
ye!  (WITHOUT.)  Let sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed.


SCENE III

LESLIE

LESLIE (CALLING).  In good time, never fear!  (HE CAREFULLY BOLTS

AND CHAINS THE DOOR.)  The old gentleman seems upset.  What for,
I wonder?  Has he had a masked visitor?  Why not?  It's the
fashion.  Out with the lights.  (BLOWS OUT THE CANDLES.  THE
STAGE IS ONLY LIGHTED BY THE MOON THROUGH THE WINDOW.)  He is
sure to come one night or other.  He must come.  Right or wrong,
I feel it in the air.  Man, but I know you, I know you somewhere. 
That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the clothes - whose are
they?  Where have I seen them?  And then, that single look of the
eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened . . . it
is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass's rim!  If it
should be . . . his?  No, his it is not.

WATCHMAN (WITHOUT).  Past ten o'clock, and a fine moonlight
night.

ANOTHER (FURTHER AWAY).  Past ten o'clock, and all's well.

LESLIE.  Past ten?  Ah, there's a long night before you and me, 
watchmen.  Heavens, what a trade!  But it will be something to 
laugh over with Mary and . . . with him?  Damn it, the delusion
is too strong for me.  It's a thing to be ashamed of.  'We
Brodies':  how she says it!  'We Brodies and our Deacon':  what a
pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me!  'Deacon of
his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .!  (BRODIE, MASKED, APPEARS
WITHOUT AT THE WINDOW, WHICH HE PROCEEDS TO FORCE.)  Ha! I knew
he'd come.  I was sure of it.  (HE CROUCHES NEAR AND NEARER TO
THE WINDOW, KEEPING IN THE SHADE.)  And I know you too.  I swear
I know you.