What about that
purse? What about young BARTHWICK?
[MRS. JONES comes forward to the table and tries to take the box;
JONES prevents her.] What do you want with that? You drop it, I
say!
MRS. JONES. I 'll take it back and tell them all about it. [She
attempts to wrest the box from him.]
JONES. Ah, would yer?
[He drops the box, and rushes on her with a snarl. She slips
back past the bed. He follows; a chair is overturned. The
door is opened; Snow comes in, a detective in plain clothes and
bowler hat, with clipped moustaches. JONES drops his arms,
MRS. JONES stands by the window gasping; SNOW, advancing
swiftly to the table, puts his hand on the silver box.]
SNOW. Doin' a bit o' skylarkin'? Fancy this is what I 'm after.
J. B., the very same. [He gets back to the door, scrutinising the
crest and cypher on the box. To MRS. JONES.] I'm a police officer.
Are you Mrs. Jones?
MRS. JONES. Yes, Sir.
SNOW. My instructions are to take you on a charge of stealing this
box from J. BARTHWICK, Esquire, M.P., of 6, Rockingham Gate.
Anything you say may be used against you. Well, Missis?
MRS. JONES. [In her quiet voice, still out of breath, her hand
upon her breast.
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