[Exeunt, R.]
Asa [Looking after them.] There goes a load of wooden nutmegs.
Hello, here comes somebody else.
Enter Florence, R., with paper.
Flo. [Reads.] ``One who still remembers what he ought long since
to have forgotten, wishes to speak with Miss Trenchard.''
Florence scratched out, ``on matters of life and death, near the orel,
in the west gallery,'' Written upon a dirty sheet of paper,
in a hardly legible hand. What does this mean; it opens like one of
Mrs. Radcliffe's romances. Well, here I am, and now for my correspondent.
Enter Murcott, L.
Mur Oh! for one minute's clear head, Miss Florence.
Flo I presume you are the writer of this?
Mur Yes, I am.
Flo You address me as an old acquaintance, but I do not recognize you.
Mur So much the better. So much the better.
Flo I hate mystery, sir; but you see I have come to rendezvous.
I must know to whom I am speaking.
Mur As frank as ever. I am Abel Murcott.
Flo Starting back! You?
Mur Do not be ashamed, I have not the strength to injure you,
if I had the evil. In this shabby, broken down drunkard you
need not fear the madman, who years ago forgot in his frantic passion
the gulf that lay between your station and his own.
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