CULVER.  When you tell me that, Mr. Straight, I can only murmur the hope that you haven’t got any of it in your pocket.

STRAIGHT (simply).  Oh, no!  Please don’t be alarmed.  But you see the immense possibilities.  You see how this explosive would end the war practically at once.  And you’ll understand, of course, that although my articles in The Echo have apparently caused considerable commotion in London, and given me a position which I am glad to be able to use for the service of the Empire, my interest in mere journalism as such has almost ceased since my friend asked me to be secretary and treasurer of the syndicate.

CULVER.  And so you’re the secretary and treasurer?

STRAIGHT.  Yes.  We don’t want to have subscribers of less than L100 each.  If you cared to look into the matter—­I know you’re very busy, but a mere glance—­

CULVER.  Just so—­a mere glance.

Enter Tranto excitedly.

HILDEGARDE (nearer the door than the rest).  Again?

TRANTO (rather loudly and not specially to Hildegarde).  Terrible news!  I’ve just heard and I rushed back to tell you.  Sampson Straight has died very suddenly in Cornwall.  Bright’s disease.  He breathed his last in his own potato patch. (Aside to Hildegarde, in response to a gesture from her) I’m awfully sorry.  The poor fellow simply had to expire.

MRS. CULVER (to Tranto).  Now this just shows how the most absurd rumours do get abroad!  Here is Mr. Sampson Straight.  I’m so glad you’ve come, because you’ve always wanted to meet him in the flesh.

TRANTO (to Straight).  Are you Sampson Straight?

STRAIGHT.  I am, sir.

TRANTO.  The Sampson Straight who lives in Cornwall?

STRAIGHT.  Just so.

TRANTO.  Impossible!

STRAIGHT.  Pardon me.  One moment.  I was told there was a danger of my being inconvenienced in London by one of these military raids for rounding up slackers, and as I happen to have a rather youthful appearance, I took the precaution of bringing with me my birth-certificate and registration card. (Produces them.)

TRANTO (glancing at the card).  And it’s really you who write those brilliant articles in The Echo?

STRAIGHT.  ’Brilliant’—­I won’t say.  But I do write them.

TRANTO.  Well, this is the most remarkable instance of survival after death that I ever came across.

STRAIGHT.  I beg your pardon.

TRANTO.  You’re dead, my fine fellow.  Your place isn’t here.  You ought to be in the next world.  You’re a humbug.

STRAIGHT (to Mrs. Culver).  I’m not quite sure that I understand.  Will you kindly introduce me?

MRS. CULVER.  I’m so sorry.  This is Mr. Tranto, proprietor and editor of The Echo—­(apologetically, with an uneasy smile) a great humourist.