PS 3513 
 .R66 E8 
 1910 
 Copy 1 
 
 ivcry Man Has His Price 
 
 A Play : : by Luke North 
 
Glass P>S^5)3 
 Book_JlL^-.& 
 Gopyrii^ht N" 
 
 COPYRIGHT PEPOSfT 
 
Every Man Has His Price 
 
 A Play In Four Acts 
 
 , By Luke North ^ j>4j£x^ 
 
 u 
 
 ■:t:-^.j?J.U-. M?- 
 
 The Gorden Press : Los Angeles 
 M C M X 
 
Copyright 1910 
 
 by James H. Qrlffes 
 
 as a Dramatic Composition. 
 
 Publication rights 
 
 Also covered by 
 
 Separate copyright 
 
 of same date. 
 
 All Right* Reserved. 
 
 
 One Hundred Copies Privately Printed 
 (not published) 
 
 220 N. Hancock St., Los Angeies, Calif. 
 
 gCLD 208G4 
 
PERSONS OF THE PLAY 
 
 MENRY ARVIN 
 — HIS HEAD ) Visualizations of Henry Arvin's 
 — HIS HEART ) mental and emotional natures. 
 
 ALBERT BUTTON GRANE 
 
 MR. BLAND 
 
 MR. JOHNSON 
 
 MISS SARA MANNING 
 
 MISS MARY LAMBSON 
 
 Their Portraits 
 
 Henry Arvin is just turning thirty — of middle 
 stature, with studious, thoughtful, intellectual face 
 and manner. He is very, neatly, but quietly dressed 
 — hardly* an ideal melodramatic hero, yet a hearty, 
 free-spoken, gentlemanly "good fellow." 
 
 — His Head (the visualization of Arvin's mental 
 nature) is a noticeably older man with a decided 
 sprinkling of gray in his hair and deep lines of 
 thought about his eyes and forehead ; he is a trifle 
 taller and straighter perhaps and carries himself 
 with much more conscious dignity, but his voice 
 and manner are about the same as Arvin's and his 
 attire is identical — save for a few inches on the 
 length of his coat for dignity's sake. He is al- 
 ways calm and collected and tho sometimes a trifle 
 insinuating or even sarcastic in speech, his face 
 and bearing remain imperturbable. 
 
 — His Heart (the visualization of Arvin's emo- 
 tional nature) appears sometimes older, but more 
 often fRarkedly younger than Arvin. His manner, 
 face and voice change rapidly in keeping' with the 
 situations and the lines, portraying all emotions, 
 from the loftiest aspirations to the meanest pas- 
 sions. He is dressed the same (except that his coat 
 is a few inches shorter) and when in repose he is 
 a somewhat younger and a trifle shorter duplicate 
 of his principal. 
 
 Albert Dutton Grane is of uncertain age, but 
 not younger than fifty. He is unpleasing to the 
 eye and the ear, tho it is difficult to say just where- 
 in his repulsiveness to civilized standards begins 
 or ends. The trickling evidences of the tobacco in 
 
6 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 liis mouth could be forgiven were his garb honest 
 and his manner genuine. He wears a silk hat, gaudy 
 trousers, and a Prince Albert that almost fits him. 
 His black hair has lost the dye at its roots and 
 carries an excessive burden of tonic. There is more 
 than enough pomade on his mustaches — and always 
 a crumb or a spot on his brand new coat. His 
 shoes and his voice squeak, his verbs wobble, and 
 his hands tho soft are not quite clean. He is a 
 "self-made inan" somewhat botched in the mak- 
 ing. He would like to be pompous and grand, but 
 doesn't know how. He tries to combine the gruff, 
 piratical sincerity of Collis P. Huntington with the 
 garb and demeanor of Adolph Sutro and the pom- 
 posity of Leland Stanford — lacking, of course, the 
 breadth of vision, personal honesty, and absence of 
 pettiness which enabled these men to be great. 
 
 In his own way, however, he is a type, and a 
 man of some strength. By the rule of the attrac- 
 tion of opposites he can be imagined to have a cer- 
 tain fascination for a refined and sensitive woman. 
 But his contact with such a woman would seem ir- 
 reparably to soil her. One could pity his mistress 
 or his wife, but scarcely love. 
 
 Mr. Bland is a very tall man and very lean and 
 full of joints. His face is smooth, long, and bony. 
 His head is bald. His voice is magnificent — deep, 
 clear, resonant, and impressive. There is only one 
 other man in San Francisco so superbly and so 
 fashionably attired. 
 
 Miss Sara Manning is a beautiful, refined, well- 
 dressed young woman. Her attire is fashionable and 
 expensive, but by no means showy. She is all that 
 the heroine of a melo-drama ought to be. 
 
 Miss Mary Lambson, stenographer, is a trim lit- 
 tle woman of slight build, very neat in appearance — 
 rather comely upon the whole, but by no means 
 conspicuously so. She is sprightly and demure, witty 
 and thoughtful — not an unlovable woman, but one 
 to be valued more for her rare intelligence than 
 her person. 
 
 The Alter Egos 
 To avoid encumbering the text with stage direc- 
 tions, let it be remembered that the Alter Egos of 
 Henry Arvin (His Head and His Heart) are seen 
 
The Time and the Scene 7 
 
 only by himself and the audience, and their exits and 
 entrances are timed with this fact always in view. 
 
 Akvin accepts their presence not as concrete actu- 
 alities, but rather as shadowy and insubstantial ex- 
 istences which he knows to be very real and per- 
 manent parts of himself. They are to him as his 
 invisible ethereal doubles. Only to the audience are 
 they real and substantial entities, and they come 
 and go practically unnoticed by all but the audience. 
 Arvin's conversation with them is as of a man 
 talkmg to himself. 
 
 Suppositiously they are momentary visualizations 
 produced by the strength of the human struggle they 
 depict — forms created in the ether by power of the 
 thought or feeling of the moment. They come from 
 nowhere and disappear as mysteriously. 
 
 Actually, as the audience cannot fail to observe, 
 they take refuge behind the screens or in the in- 
 visible wings of the wall. Without so seeming, they 
 are careful at all times not to show themselves too 
 conspicuously when anyone other than Arvin is 
 present. At the opportune moment they are at his 
 elbow, right and left respectively, whispering their 
 counsel, suggesting or arguing the point — and their 
 exits are equally guarded and opportune. 
 
 THE TIME 
 February 22d of the Year 1894 
 
 THE SCENE 
 The action of the entire play is in the spacious and 
 comfortably-furnished office of Albert Button 
 Gr.\ne on the fourth floor of the old Flood Build- 
 ing in San Francisco. The single entrance to the 
 room is a door rear center whose upper half is 
 of ground glass on which is painted (in reverse 
 to the audience) the name of the proprietor, be- 
 neath which is "Don't Knock" and "Walk In." 
 Above the varnished oak wainscoting the walls are 
 calcimined a very pale blue. From the ceiling, about 
 
8 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 center, hangs an elaborately ornamental brass 
 chandelier, the gas jets of which represent candles. 
 
 There is a marble washstand in the right rear 
 corner, partly hidden by a screen to the right, and 
 next to the washstand on the right wall is a clothes 
 closet. Further down the right wall is a large white 
 marble mantel and open fire-place. Over the mantel 
 is a big French bevel mirror set in the wall. Slabs of 
 soft coal are burning in the grate, and a polished 
 brass scuttle of the same stands to the lower side. 
 Before the fire-place is a huge leather-covered chair, 
 and a stool in front of it. 
 
 Bisecting the room in the center and almost mak- 
 ing two apartments of it is a long heavy oak table, 
 to the upper end of which is a Japanese screen. Four 
 chairs are at the table, two on each side. On the 
 upper end of the table is a typewriter, and beside 
 it a large calendar ; in the center is an immense 
 vase of golden poppies, the first of the season, and 
 on the lower end is the telephone. 
 
 To the left lower is Henry Arvin's desk with a 
 swivel chair in front and a Japanese screen to the 
 upper end of it. Beyond this is another desk and 
 screen and chair, and diagonally across the left up- 
 per corner is a leather-covered lounge. Along the 
 rear wall are filing cases and to the right is a com- 
 bination safe of respectable dimensions. 
 
 There is a generous bunch of violets on top of 
 Arvin's desk, blue and red lupins and some nug- 
 gets and mineral specimens on the mantel. For its 
 day it was a luxurious broker's and promoter's of- 
 fice — a type of the kind in which often met and 
 plotted the Floods, Crockers and Mackeys of the 
 latter days of California's declining romance. 
 
THE FIRST ACT 
 
 As the curtain rises Mary Lambson enters. She 
 doffs her hat and wraps, placing them in the closet, 
 primps a hit at the mirror over the iire-place, pokes 
 the fire, and does a variety of useless and inane 
 things until the last auditor is seated, the last hat 
 removed, and there is quiet in the house. Then she 
 seats herself at the typewriter and the click of the 
 keys is the cue for the action of the play to begin. 
 
 Henry Arvin (enters brusquely — cheerily, but ab- 
 stractedly). 'Morning, Miss Lambson. (Goes straight 
 to liis desk and opens if, laying his hat and coat on 
 chair of first desk as he passes.) 
 
 Mary. Good morning, Mister Arvin. You are late. 
 
 Arvin. Is that so unusual? 
 
 Mary. Your tardiness is resolving itself into 
 punctuality. 
 
 Arvin (busy at desk). As sins resolve themselves 
 into virtues — 
 
 Mary. Do they? 
 
 Arvin. Surely. Hadn't you noticed — in your read- 
 ing? 
 
 Mary. And virtues into sins? 
 
 Arvin. We are using the terms interchangeably 
 now. 
 
 Mary. Why use them at all, since they have lost 
 their meaning? 
 
 Arvin. The old forms just hang on. We need a 
 new vocabulary of morality. 
 
 Mary. Or a new morality ? 
 
 Arvin. Or none ■ 
 
 Mary. We have that already. 
 
 Arvin. And our conduct remains about the same. 
 
 Mary. Abnormal — yes. 
 
 Arvin (still busy at desk). Conduct and morality 
 never were very closely associated. 
 
 Mary. Your remarks are in the masculine gender? 
 
 Arvin. O, yes — women are outside the moral ques- 
 tion. (Turning.) Mary, you are the cleverest wom- 
 an — why have I not fallen desperately in love with 
 you ? 
 
 Mary. You forget that ' woman is the selective 
 creature — or don't you read Shaw? And I have not 
 chosen to select you. (Her face shows the untruth 
 
10 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 of this assertion, hut her voice is light and firm, 
 and he does not see her face. Perhaps he would not 
 have noticed if he had, for he is intensely absorbed 
 in his own affairs and in himself.) 
 
 Arvin {pensively, going a step toivard her). You 
 are a philosopher, Mary. Tell me, have you ever 
 stood outside of your own nature, apart from your- 
 self, and watched the internal struggle — looked on 
 at yourself — approvingly or otherwise? 
 
 Mary. That is peculiarly a masculine trick. 
 
 Arvin. Doesn't a woman ever become a spectator 
 of herself — stand aloof and view her thoughts and 
 feelings apart from herself? 
 
 Mary. No. Women are neither egotistical nor 
 analytical enough for that. Women don't cut them- 
 selves up into pieces. A woman is her whole self, 
 no matter what her mood. 
 
 Arvin. But yoii analyze, Mary. You have a won- 
 derful head. 
 
 Mary. And that is why you — (she does not finish 
 the sentence, but if she did it tvould read, "do not 
 love me.") What I do is not to the point. Things 
 are as they are. Women do not analj^ze. If they did 
 men would cease to be analysts — or — 
 
 Arvin. Or the attraction of opposites would cease. 
 I suppose you are right. If men and women were 
 mentally the same there would be nothing but the 
 bodily attraction between them. 
 
 Mary. There might still be the spiritual differ- 
 ence. There is something beyond the mind — 
 
 Arvin. The Will — the controlling element — 
 
 Mary. And a woman's passive will that bows to 
 things — and a man's active will that rebels and 
 tries to shape things — 
 
 Arvin. Would make the most powerful attraction 
 imaginable. And I suppose it does enter more or 
 less into all the sex relations. 
 
 Mary. Decidedly less, I should say. We live on 
 the outside of life entirely — particularly you men 
 that analyze. Analysis is only a mental process. 
 Women are often profound — more introspective upon 
 the whole than man. 
 
 Arvin. But they haven't reached the mental plane 
 of self-analysis — or they have reached bej'ond it. 
 Which is it? 
 
 IvIary. Mostly the former — but not always. 
 
 Arvin. You do not flatter your sex. 
 
 Mary. I respect it too highly. That is for men 
 to do — when they are not analyzing — themselves. 
 
 Arvin {more seriously). It isn't such a pleasant 
 thing. 
 
The First Act 11 
 
 Mary. I would like to peep in some time and see 
 you at it. Are you taken often? 
 
 Arvin (shuddering, earnestly). It becomes a vice. 
 How the elements in one can war — how they torture 
 and rend! Be thankful that you are a woman, Mary, 
 if that saves you from the struggle of self — from 
 the struggle of conflicting and warring desires. 
 
 Mary. It is the human elements warring in you. 
 They never can agree among themselves. That more 
 than human which you are, must calm and lead 
 them. 
 
 Arvin. The Will? 
 
 Mary. Yes, the Will — perhaps. 
 
 Arvin. But they becloud it, smother it — or creep 
 in unawares when the Will is passive. They seize 
 the Will and try to force it to their purposes — to 
 their conflicting purposes. One cannot always be 
 positive and watchful. 
 
 Mary. Not if one has moods — which one has no 
 business to have — 
 
 Arvin. Then life would be colorless. 
 
 Mary. The true life of strength is beyond color. 
 
 Arvin. And beyond usefulness in this our world of 
 form and color. 
 
 Mary. Yes — and therefore external life is always 
 a struggle. 
 
 Arvin. And yet its greatest struggles are not ex- 
 ternal. (Mary smiles and nods assent.) O, I could 
 tell of struggles that rob days. of peace and nights 
 of rest ! When reason wars with feeling — it isn't 
 a question of morality — but why do I talk like this 
 to you, Mary? 
 
 Mary. Because we are friends (gives him her 
 hand) — and — (zvith an effort that he does not see) — 
 and not lovers. Because we understand each other. 
 (Lightly) Go on — men are interesting creatures. 
 
 Arvin. Often at my right stands reason. 
 
 (His Head enters softly and slowly approaches.) 
 He is always cold, unfeeling, unmoral. He would 
 reduce all life to axioms and syllogisms — would 
 weigh and measure every impulse, from the lowest 
 passion to the loftiest aspiration. If his counsel saves 
 from vice or folly, it often shuts the door on reality, 
 and leads to nothing more than dull conformity. 
 He assumes to guide life and yet cannot answer its 
 simplest problems. He cannot tell me Why or Who 
 I am, or what the Game of Life is all about. He 
 leads from much that is true and uplifting, and from 
 all that is bright and alluring. 
 
 And then the brighter and darker side of me 
 comes — the colors, tints, shadings of life — how they 
 blend ! 
 
12 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 (His Heart enters silently and slowly approaches) 
 This emotional, passional, aspirational part, camclcon 
 like, stands out bold and clear as another image 
 of myself sometimes. And then I am urged un- 
 reasoningly, to the heights — or to the depths. I can 
 see them there at either side of me often. They 
 are like living, breathing actualities — thought forms 
 and emotional images of myself. 
 
 The Alter Egos withdraiv. As Mary instinctively 
 follows Arvin's gaze she catches a glimpse of them 
 as they disappear, and shudders, almost ready to be- 
 lieve she has seen mental images. 
 
 Mary. And when they battle — 
 
 Arvin. Then hell becomes reality. 
 
 Mary. Then you suffer, Henry. Then you, the real 
 Henry Arvin, are ground fine and polished and 
 made strong. . . . (Eagerly) But you conquer 
 and use them? That is the true glory of life! You 
 conquer them, and rule them — tell me that you do ! 
 
 Arvin (lias regained his composure and is rather 
 abashed at his impulsiveness). Now you are serious, 
 Mary, which breaks our first rule that both of us 
 never shall be serious at the same time. 
 
 Mary. Ah, yes. I forgot. 
 
 Arvin (lightly). Your memory is entirely fem- 
 inine, Miss Lambson. I was reading about your sect 
 the other evening. 
 
 Mary (drily). Yes— in the Book of Life? She sent 
 those violets. 
 
 Arvin. Did she? (Mary puts a bunch of them in 
 his button hole.) Thank you. 
 
 Mary. She's worth all your blushes — and more — 
 But you were reading — ? 
 
 Arvin. Yes — in the book of death, I should say 
 — that one of the young German savant who com- 
 mitted suicide as soon as he had written it. 
 
 Mary. Sorbinger, you mean. 
 
 Arvin. That is the name. You know everything, 
 Mary. 
 
 Mary. I wish I didn't know so much. . • •. • 
 But — he wrote well — about men. You found it in- 
 teresting? 
 
 Arvin (busy at his desk). No, about women. Yes, 
 intensely interesting — and instructive. 
 
 Mary (busy at typewriter). No doubt. 
 
 Arvin. Moi-ality, says Sorbinger, is a matter of 
 memory — of continuity of thought — you see? 
 
 Mary. Perhaps — but — 
 
 Arvin. And women having no real memory of 
 sequence, have therefore no morality. 
 
 Mary. And then he awoke and killed himself. 
 
The First Act 13 
 
 Ar\in. But it is true — and here is the case in point 
 (turning toward her). You have forgotten to turn 
 your calendar — you are Hving in yesterday. It is 
 the 22d — Washington's birthday — and we don't work 
 on holidays in this office. You ought to be home 
 with your mother, or out with her somewhere. 
 The hills are full of wild flowers. It is a case of 
 filial neglect — a breach of the fifth commandment. 
 You are a creature without memory — sans morality 
 — in other words, a woman. Am I right? 
 
 Mary {she has turned the cah^ndar — mockingly). 
 The poor working girl pleads guilty, your honor — 
 with a recommendation for mercy. (Rising) But you 
 are working? 
 
 Arvin. just to sort over a few papers. I looked 
 in chiefly to guard your memory and your morals, 
 Miss Lambson (busy at desk again). 
 
 Mary. Your thoughtfulness — and memory — are 
 only partially equalled by your morality — and con- 
 ceit, Mr. Arvin. 
 
 Arvin. Not another word, Mary Lambson. Go 
 home and tell your mother how unmoral you are. 
 
 Mary (putting on her hat). Not even immoral? 
 
 Arvin. No — just unmoral. 
 
 Mary (at the door). Well, if your Alter Egos get 
 after you and begin to grind, just ring me up on 
 the 'phone, and I'll come and separate you. 
 
 Arvin. I'm much more likely to call a policeman, 
 Mary. Really, that's what I should have done, in- 
 stead of bothering your poor kind head with my 
 troubles. It wasn't the thing to do — 
 
 Mary. Don't say that, please. It takes away all 
 the (turning aside) sweetness of it. 
 
 Arvin. Men are self-centered — that is why they 
 are brutal to women. And their wits are not nim- 
 ble enough. I think women are better creatures than 
 men, Mary. 
 
 Mary (sighs, but speaks lightly). Both better and 
 worse, Henry. Give her my love. 
 
 Arvin. I will. 
 
 Mary. Adios. Goes. 
 
 Arvin. Good-bye. See you in the morning. (Turns 
 to Iiis ivork and becomes absorbed in it.) 
 
 Heart enters, reaches for the violets and holds 
 them invitingly for Arvin to catch their fragrance. 
 
 Arvin. (takes the Aozvers unconsciously and re- 
 places them). In Life's Garden I have found the 
 fairest flower. She is the answer to the prayer of 
 my years. I am content. 
 
 Head (appearing). It is not well for man to be 
 content. He must echo Faust — 
 
14 Every Alan Has His Price 
 
 And when thou hearest me say to the swiftly- 
 fleeting moment, 
 "Stay yet awhile, thou art lovely!" then mayst 
 I die— 
 And whether one echo it or not, such is the Way of 
 Things, and of Growth. 
 
 Arvin. Be it so — we will grow and serve together. 
 (//<? sits musing, in silence.) 
 
 Head. But you have loved before. 
 
 Arvin. Not like this. 
 
 Heart. Not so worthily — not a soul loftier than 
 your own. She is life's ideal. 
 
 Arvin smiles approval. 
 
 Head. I wonder why she left you so suddenly last 
 night when Granc appeared. 
 
 Arvin. Why should I question, or care? 
 
 Heart (bends lozv and zvhispers). She loves you. 
 That is enough. She is noble and true. 
 
 Head. She had a secret to tell you — you should 
 have listened. 
 
 Arvin (dreamily). Time enough for that. 
 
 Heart (to Head). All he cared for was to hear 
 her softly confess — "I love you !'" 
 
 Head (to Heart). But he knows so little about 
 her. Old Grane is her uncle — 
 
 Heart. Yes. Her terrible misfortune. 
 
 Head. He will not approve. 
 
 Heart. That will be his misfortune. It will make 
 no difference. 
 
 Arvin. Love will conquer. 
 
 Head. That sounds well — and popular. 
 
 Heart. And it's true. 
 
 Head. Is anything true? 
 
 Arvin. Love is true. 
 
 Heart. Love is true— if you pay its full price. 
 
 Head. Love is the most expensive thing in the 
 world. For true love you will have to pay about 
 everything else in life that is worth while. 
 
 Heart. It is cheap, even at that. 
 
 Arvin. Nothing else in life is worth while. I 
 have paid — and will pay more, gladly — let the price 
 be what it will. (There is a pause.) 
 
 Head (cautiously). You have known her only a 
 month. 
 
 Heart (szuiftly). An instant is eternity to love! 
 
 Arvin. Eternity ! I have seen it in the depths of 
 her eyes — depths that reveal the memory of past ex- 
 istences ! In her smile is the promise of futurity — in 
 her voice the music of life. To me she is the cosmic 
 woman. 
 
 Head. But is it safe for one to grasp and hold 
 
The First Act 15 
 
 in his arms the ideal — to say "There is no more"? 
 
 Heart. Why question Hfe? One is a fool to take 
 less than it offers. 
 
 Head. There is a higher love than that of man for 
 woman. 
 
 Arvin. Hand-in-hand we shall find it. (Turning 
 to his zi'ork) But this won't do. 
 
 Heart {whispers). You will see her this after- 
 noon. 
 
 _ Arvin. I promised Grane I would put these for- 
 eign papers in the safe. Why is he so anxious about 
 them ? 
 
 Heart (suggcsti)igly). Something crooked here. 
 
 Arvin. Yes, there is some deviltry in this Relton 
 estate case out of which Grane expects to become 
 a millionaire. 
 
 Head (cautioning) . That is not your affair. Grane's 
 motives are his own. All court cases are crooked. 
 
 Arvin. O, that is too sweeping — not all. 
 
 Head. Where there is honesty and fairness there 
 is no need for the courts. 
 
 Arvin. That is an unglittering generality. 
 
 Head. Your salary is substantial. 
 
 Arvin. Yes — the salary suits my complexion rather 
 well. (A letter falls open) What is this? Sara — O, 
 Sara Relton. Thank God, it is not Sara Manning. 
 I would hate to have her name mixed — (involun- 
 tarily he glances over the letter) So! to Sara Rel- 
 ton belong these millions that Albert Button Grane 
 expects, to harvest. And she alive — he knows her 
 whereabouts — (reading) represented as deceased. 
 God ! what a piece of villainy ! 
 
 Head. Don't get excited. It is not your concern. 
 The probate records are replete with such melo- 
 dramas. You have no business prying into these per- 
 sonal letters. 
 
 Akvin. True enough. And in this case the effect 
 follows the cause quickly. I can't take any more of 
 Grane's money. I must leave here at once. 
 
 Head. Don't be rash. Think it over — reason it out. 
 
 Arvin. Not a moment will I think of it. With her 
 image in my heart, my hands must be clean. 
 
 Head. Ah, very Quixotic. She ought to hear you. 
 
 Arvin. Quixotic it may be. I shall leave at once. 
 (Turns to finish his work.) I know too much. . . 
 
 . . But that name — Sara — 
 
 Head. Merely a coincidence. 
 
 Arvin (busy). I suppose so. 
 
 Heart. She loves you. 
 
 Arvin (smiling, pausing a moment, then contin- 
 uing his zvork). I have her love — that is enough. 
 
16 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 We will leave here — go off somewhere — anywhere — 
 
 Head. Just so. Buy an estate in the country — an 
 orange grove at Riverside — a castle on Lake Como. 
 A month's salary is enough for almost anything. 
 
 Arvin (resolutely). O, I'll work, and win for her! 
 I could not go to her with soiled hands. 
 
 Head. Think it over. Reason it out. 
 
 Arvin. Keep still — that is settled. 
 
 Heart (luhisl^cring). She loves you. Be worthy. 
 
 Arvin (leans back a monicnt musingly). All else 
 is unimportant. That love, I'll keep it white and un- 
 stained as it came to us — as it is. She — 
 
 (The door opens and Albert Button Grane en- 
 ters.) You are earlier than I expected, Mr. Grane. 
 I have not finished — 
 
 Grane. Never mind that now. 'I want to talk to 
 you about another thing. This nonsense has gone far 
 enough — 
 
 Arvin (rises, then checks himself and speaks mild- 
 ly). But I am not your lackey, 1^1 r. Grane. 
 
 Grane (oblivious) . I want to tell you about that 
 young woman I seen you with last night. 
 
 Arvin (hotly, yet repressed). We will not discuss 
 that, Mr. Grane. 
 
 Grane. O, yes, we will. She is — 
 
 Arvin (threatening). Not another word! 
 
 Grane. I'm her guardt-fji. 
 
 Arvin. She is of age. 
 
 Grane. Well, you ain't going to marry her. You 
 can make sure of that. 
 
 Arvin. That is not for you to decide. 
 
 Grane. I'm going to decide it, tho. I know this 
 young woman pretty tolerably well. 
 
 Arvin. Unfortunately. 
 
 Grane. She ain't what you think she is. Her name 
 ain't — 
 
 Arvin (too hastily). Is it Relton? 
 
 Grane (guardedly). I mean she ain't the kind of 
 woman a man marries. I guess you know — (insin- 
 uatingly) 
 
 Arvin (repressing himself by great effort', takes 
 hat and coat and makes for the door). This is your 
 office, Mr. Grane, but there are certain things you 
 can't say to me here, or anywhere. I am going. 
 
 Grane (plants himself in front of the door). Not 
 till you hear what I got to say. (Then hurriedly) I 
 know ail about her — I'm the father of her child. 
 
 Arvin (stunned). What! It's a lie! 
 
 Grane (cooly). Wait a minute. She's been my 
 mistress since she was eighteen. Of course, that's 
 on the quiet. When you're moving in Nob Hill so- 
 
The First Act 17 
 
 ciety you don't let on about them things, you know. 
 And my wife — she'd kick up a hell of a rumpus. 
 O, Sara's a nice girl, but even if I was free — it 
 ain't just the thing in our set to marry your mis- 
 tress, you — 
 
 Heart (has appeared behind Arvin, livid zvith 
 rage, his hands clinched his eyes Haring) . Kill him! 
 
 Before Grane has finished Arvin advances upon 
 him threateningly and ivitli such determination in 
 his face and manner that Grane takes fright and 
 makes a hurried exit. Arvin follows him closely, His 
 Heart behind him calling in terrible rage: 
 
 He.-\rt. Kill him! Kill him! 
 
 As Grane disappears thru the door Arvin hur- 
 riedly locks it, as tho to keep himself from folloivmg 
 Grane. As Arvin turns from the door His Heart 
 reaches it and in great rage thrusts himself upon it 
 and for a moment storms to get at Grane. Balked 
 of Ills prey, he finally subsides and disappears. 
 
 Arvin (walks unsteadily to his desk and buries 
 his face in his hands. Presently the telephone rings 
 — he does not hear it. There is a knock on the door, 
 zvhich he does not heed. The incessant ringing of 
 the telephone, however, finally rouses him. He goes 
 over to the table and anszuers it). This is Mr. Arvin 
 — Holdt & Reech ? — can't you postpone till tomor- 
 row? I am leaving here. Me — personally — well, I 
 suppose sOj if you come at once. I am going very 
 soon. Good-bye. (Returning to his desk he tics up 
 papers, takes a bunch of them over to safe, opens 
 it by combination, deposits papers, and locks safe. 
 On his zoay back there is a knock on the door. He 
 opens it abstractedly and Sara Manning enters. He 
 is surprised, cliecks his impulsive step tozvard her — 
 greets her silently, bozving — then impulsively) : It is 
 not true, Sara — what Grane said — it is not true? 
 (Scans her eagerly) Say it is not true. Say it is all 
 a black and hideous lie ! My love ! My world ! Say 
 it is a lie ! I — God ! you do not speak ! 
 
 Sara. I wanted to tell you last night. You would 
 not listen. You had my heart, my love — that was 
 enough, you said. Nothing could matter if we loved 
 each other. There could be no past for love. Is — 
 it — so — different — now ? 
 
 Arvin. The whole world is different now. 
 
 Sara. I am not changed. 
 
 Arvin. Life itself is changed. 
 
 Sara. Love was all sufficient, you said. I leaned 
 on your love — on my own — on our love. And now — ■ 
 is not love enough? 
 
 Arvin. My love is dead. I did not know. 
 
18 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Sara. O ! (falls into chair at tabic and buries her 
 face in her hands.) 
 
 The door opens and a stranger stands on the 
 threshold as the Curtain descends. 
 
 END OF ACT ONE 
 
 THE SECOND ACT 
 
 As the curtain rises Sara Manning passes out and 
 Mr. Bland enters. Self-absorbed, she scarcely no- 
 tices him, and out of deference for her evident grief 
 he refrains from scrutinizing her. When she is gone 
 Arvin closes the door and listlessly motions his vis- 
 itor to a seat. Bland sits at table near the typewriter. 
 Arvin is in his swivel chair at his desk. 
 
 Bland. I am the confidential agent of the law 
 firm of Holdt & Reech, sir, the attorneys who rep- 
 resent the English claimants to the estate of Her- 
 bert Rclton deceased. You may recall that I had 
 the pleasure of meeting you in court the day the 
 argument was made on the demurrer to the amended 
 complaint. Pardon me, but you are quite pale, sir. 
 I trust you are not unwell, tho it would hardly 
 be strange if you were indisposed. Almost every- 
 body has an attack of something or other just now, 
 it seems. These winds and the evening fogs— so 
 early this year. In your case, however, I trust it is 
 only a slight cold and that we shall see you entirely 
 recovered in a few days, sir. 
 
 Arvin (who has scarcely heard). Thanks — but as 
 to any business — ? 
 
 Bland. Certainly, sir, certainly. I may begin by 
 saying that it concerns you very personally. 
 
 Arvin. I think you are mistaken. It cannot in- 
 terest me if it refers to Mr. Crane's affairs. I am 
 
The Second Act 19 
 
 about to leave here. If you could call tomorrow and 
 see him — 
 
 Blano. That is impossible, Mr. Arvin. I will be per- 
 fectly frank with you and come to the point at once. 
 
 Akvin. Do, please. 
 
 Bland. You have certain papers in your posses- 
 sion — depositions and letters from England, just re- 
 ceived. These would be of great service to the Eng- 
 lish claimants. I am here to negotiate with you, Mr. 
 Arvin, for the — ah — that is, for the transfer of 
 those papers. 
 
 Arvin (his troubled brain has not caught up with 
 the drift of things). But they are the property of 
 Mr. Grane. He will be here tomorrow. I am not 
 an interested party in this matter. It would — (but 
 nozv the light dazvns and he straightens up and lakes 
 notice). 
 
 Bland. Quite true, Mr. Arvin, as you say, I was 
 leading to that. I have not come unprepared to make 
 certain monetary concessions to you that will, I 
 trust, be a sufficient inducement — or shall I say, that 
 will sufficiently reimburse you — for — for — 
 
 Arvin. For turning thief. I understand you. Go on. 
 
 Bland. Why, not that,- my good sir, not that. 
 You take the matter too seriously by far. Such 
 transactions are very common in probate matters 
 these days. I could cite many precedents — but you 
 are probably familiar with them yourself. Mr. Grane 
 has no moral right to these documents. 
 
 Arvin. As to that, I am in no way informed or 
 concerned — 
 
 Head (appears). Don't be rash. Hear him. 
 
 Bland (ingratiatingly). To be sure, to be sure. 
 Yet as you are about to become disassociated with 
 the case. . . . The ends of justice would be 
 furthered. . . . Now, if — ah — say a thousand 
 dollars would be of service to you? 
 
 Arvin is silent — his face is partly turned from 
 Bland. 
 
 Heart approaches, a leer on his lips and a lustful 
 gleam in his eyes. 
 
 Bland (softly). Would five thousand dollars be 
 an inducement — (aside) There's a bad set to the 
 lower jaw. 
 
 Arvin is silent — he is hearing another voice. 
 
 Heart. Love is an empty word, but lust is real. 
 Take her as she is — here is the means — and feast 
 your senses. 
 
 Head. There is a steamer leaving for Australia 
 in the morning. 
 
 Bland. The attorneys on our side have but scant 
 
20 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 funds at their disposal, Mr. Arvin, but I presume 
 they would not stop at ten thousand. 
 
 Head. That is a competency in some countries. 
 
 Heart. Here is fate at your door. Forget the 
 ideal in the languors of her arms. Those match- 
 less curves of her soft flesh ! How she lures ! 
 
 Bland (anxiously and simply). Fifteen thousand. 
 
 Heart. Here is ease and comfort, and a beautiful 
 woman. Snatch the joys before you. 
 
 Head. You could read, study, travel — the intel- 
 lectual life and freedom from poverty. 
 
 Arvin is still silent. 
 
 Bland (desperately and finally). Say twenty thou- 
 sand, then? 
 
 Head. That would buy a villa in Southern Italy, 
 or make you rich in Japan. 
 
 Heart. You won't be satisfied till you have had 
 her. Take her — and leave her when you tire of her. 
 Why scruple? Take him up, quick! 
 
 Arvin (turning in liis chair). Go on, Mr. — 
 
 Bland. Bland, sir. Really I can go no farther, 
 Mr. Arvin, without consulting my firm. However, 
 I shall be at my office at any hour, prepared to 
 fulfill to the letter the oflfer as it now stands. 
 
 Head. Don't act rashly. Think it over. Reason 
 it out. 
 
 Bland. Should you conclude, Mr. — 
 
 Arvin (rising suddenly). There is the door, sir! 
 (Goes to door and holds it open.) 
 
 Bland (going, expeditiously). Very well, sir, I 
 bid you good day. 
 
 Arvin (closes door and returns to his desk). A 
 few moments more now and I am thru with this 
 stage of my life. Shall I do him the decency to 
 leave a note? I had better — it may save questions 
 and close the matter definitely. (Writes, puts note in 
 envelope and leaves it on the table near typewriter. 
 Then he gets his coat and hat. He hears someone 
 fumbling at the lock. Opens the door, revealing Mary 
 taking her key out.) 
 
 IMary. No wonder my key wouldn't work. It 
 seems that you are doing all the work in this build- 
 ing today. 
 
 Arvin. The door wasn't locked. 
 
 Mary. It should have been. Not another office 
 open. The elevator is dead. I had to walk up. 
 
 Arvin. But why did you return? Can't you take 
 a hoHday and get some fresh air? 
 
 Mary. Mother has one of her sick spells. She's 
 the most delightful invalid — simply insists on being 
 left alone. So I came down to write some letters — 
 
The Second Act 21 
 
 in reach of the 'phone. But may I be so bold, Mr. 
 Arvin, as to inquire what keeps you here all day? 
 Is the nature of your work so alluring that you can't 
 tear yourself away from it? 
 
 Arvin. I am leaving it forever. 
 
 Mary (looks at him earnestly; is startled at the 
 change). Something has happened. Where is the 
 light-hearted lover I left here only a few hours ago? 
 
 Arvin I am going away to find him. 
 
 Mary. And she — is she going with you? But I 
 needn't ask that. A tragedy has fallen on your 
 house, my friend. Tell me of it — if you can — if I 
 can help. 
 
 Arvin. No one can help, Mary. No one can mend 
 a broken image. 
 
 Mary. O, if the parts be not missing. There are 
 wonderfully clever doctors of broken statuary. 
 
 Arvin. But it's never quite the same. And then, 
 if the most important part is missing? Or if the 
 shattered image was only an ideal — ? 
 
 Mary. An ideal woman, for instance. 
 
 Arvin. Why deny it to you ? 
 
 Mary. You couldn't. I knew it the moment I 
 saw your face. . . . Henry, it is a grave and 
 a foolish error for a grown man to idealize a 
 woman. 
 
 Arvin. But if she comes to one as an ideal — with 
 a golden aureole all about her? 
 
 Mary {musingly). She comes with her best foot 
 forward naturally, and unconsciously. The aureole 
 is in the magic spectacles — of course — {earnestly) 
 But why take off the spectacles? 
 
 Arvin. What if they are snatched from your eyes 
 by fate ? 
 
 M.'\ry. Who officiated? Fate is powerless without 
 man. 
 
 Arvin. And with fate man is powerless. 
 
 Mary. That makes a good paradox but not a whole 
 truth. What is dependent upon man is subordinate 
 to him. 
 
 Arvin. I used to think so. 
 
 Mary. It isn't a matter of thought, but of knowing. 
 
 Arvin. Who knows anything? 
 
 Mary. No one who speaks, I grant you. But we 
 can talk about things. I can know, for instance, that 
 circumstances and events are non-intelligent forces. 
 
 Arvin. Like the multiplication table — and to be 
 changed as easily. 
 
 Mary. That's the foolishness of man, that he tries 
 to change the multiplication table — instead of him- 
 self, the only thing he can change. 
 
22 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Arvin. Can he rule what he cannot change? 
 
 Mary. He can rule whatever he can use. He rules 
 sand and water, yet never changes them. Wliatever 
 lacks intelligence must be inferior to that which 
 has intelligence. The greater can rule the lesser. 
 
 Arvin. Ergo, fate having no intelligence, man is 
 naturally its master — I suppose you would reason? 
 
 Mary. When he has intelUgence enough to use 
 fate, instead of being used by it — then is he its 
 master. 
 
 Arvin. So in the end it's a matter of intelligence? 
 
 Mary. Everything in the end is a matter of in- 
 telligence. Fate is only the insensate stream that 
 joins things. Sail on and with that stream, or turn 
 your millstones by it and all its terrible insensate 
 power is yours. Try to breast it — 
 
 Arvin. And the caverns of hell echo with ghoul- 
 ish laughter. 
 
 Mary. Or other words to the same purport — yes. 
 
 Arvin. It reasons well, Mary. But life is deeper 
 than reason. . ; 
 
 Mary. Or it would be shallow indeed. 
 
 Arvin. And when we come to its personal appli- 
 cation — 
 
 Mary. O, reason was never meant for home con- 
 sumption. With it we are anxious to guide the lives 
 of others. But our own lives are ruled from within, 
 or from without — as we are Gods or puppets. 
 
 Arvin is silent. There is a pause. 
 
 Mary. But tell me now, who officiated to tear off 
 those magical spectacles? 
 
 Arvin. Granc was here. 
 
 Mary. Grane — an ill omen. It argues badly. 
 
 Arvin (desperately, yet quietly). She was his mis- 
 tress. 
 
 Mary. Impossible ! I don't believe it. (Shudders) 
 O, horrors! how could you believe that? Not that 
 (walks the Hoor) I know it isn't true. 
 
 Arvin. I repelled it at first — violently. . . . But 
 — it — is — true. He is the father of her child. She — 
 
 The door opens and Bland enters. 
 
 Bland. Pardon me — I thought — 
 
 Arvin. I have nothing to say to you, sir. 
 
 Mary (suddenly). But I have. Won't you be 
 seated? (to Arvin) Go for awhile, please, and leave 
 me with this person. I must see him now about 
 things of great importance to me. His firm was my 
 father's counsel. But you won't leave without see- 
 ing me? I shall wait here. You won't go away with- 
 out saying good-bye — promise that. Come back in 
 half an hour or so, won't you? 
 
The Second Act 23 
 
 Arvin (willing to escape the presence of Bland, 
 and his muddled brain anxious to he alone). Yes — 
 I think I'll go out awhile. I'll look in again, but 
 only to say good-bye. Exit. 
 
 Mary. I am Miss Lambson, the daughter of Lor- 
 enzo Lambson — you may recall the name? Your firm 
 represented my father in his — diflficulties. 
 
 Bland. I am happy to know you, Miss Lambson. 
 I recall the matter perfectly. The most honorable 
 insolvency proceedings, I may say, that I have ever 
 had the pleasure of witnessing. Your father legally 
 might have saved quite a competency. 
 
 Mary. But that is all past now. You are closely 
 associated with the firm? 
 
 Bland. Very closely. I handle all their confidential 
 matters, if I may so express it. 
 
 Mary {bent on making herself agreeable). So I 
 understood. It is a very responsible, and — ah — 
 rather delicate post, I believe. 
 
 Bland (impressively) . I handle a great inany mo- 
 mentous issues, Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary. Indeed. And this Relton estate — it is a 
 very important case, is it not? 
 
 Bland. The most important one on the probate 
 docket in the entire West, I may say, involving 
 something over eighteen million dollars. 
 
 Mary. Mr. Grane is the most favored claimant, 
 I believe ? 
 
 Bland. He appears to be just at present, I am 
 bound to admit. But many changes may occur be- 
 fore the final hearing in court is reached. 
 
 Mary. And in your professional capacity you have 
 probably probed very deeply into Mr. Crane's life 
 and his connections. 
 
 Bland. My work is very thoro, Miss Lambson. 
 Every step, almost, of his life is recorded. (Secret- 
 ly) My collection of data concerning Mr. Grane 
 makes a bulkier volume than the dictionary. 
 
 Mary. There is a young woman in his family? 
 
 Bland. A Miss Sara Manning. 
 
 Mary. Are you acquainted with her? 
 
 Bland. Not personally — but otherwise — her close 
 connection — 
 
 Mary. You never have seen her? 
 
 Bland. I think not. Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary. Is there anything in her life — anything of 
 a nature — 
 
 Bland. Yes. in its nature quite shocking, as you 
 suggest. Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary (alarmed — aside). Can it be true? (To 
 Bland, smiling). Indeed — I suppose — it would not — 
 bear repeating? 
 
24 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Bland. Hardly, in public, Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary. But among ourselves? I am very much 
 interested in her — in quite a friendly way. 
 • Bland. A most unfortunate affair. You see, it is 
 very uncertain whether her marriage some ten years 
 ago in Chicago was legal. In fact, it is almost cer- 
 tain that it was not. A forged signature to the — 
 
 Mary (witJi a sigJi of relief and unable to repress 
 her satisfaction) . Is that all? 
 
 Bland. My dear Miss Lambson, how could there 
 be anything worse? Think of the social ostracism — 
 a wife without a name ! 
 
 Mary (her irony but illy concealed). Horrible, 
 horrible ! But is there not a beautiful compensation 
 lurking in it ? 
 
 Bland. Indeed? 
 
 Mary. Yes. She is also a wife, without a hus- 
 band. 
 
 Bland. You are jesting, Miss Lambson. It is quite 
 serious to the law. 
 
 Mary. Doesn't the law take itself too seriously? 
 
 Bland (pompously). Its dignity must be upheld. 
 
 Mary. Even at the cost of a woman's name. 
 
 Bland. The ends of justice must be conserved. 
 
 Mary. Regardless of human happiness. 
 
 Bland (patronizingly). The law exists, Miss 
 Lambson, to vouchsafe and protect human happiness. 
 
 Mary (dryly). So I notice, in this case, where 
 under its benign provisions, the invalidity of a sig- 
 nature protects — protects — 
 
 Bland. That is really the point of the case, Miss 
 Lambson. How clearly you see it. The whole matter 
 rests upon the signature. The person officiating is 
 said to have represented and to have forged the 
 signature of a well-known divine. 
 
 Mary. And a woman's character, then — shall we 
 say character, or merely her reputation? 
 
 Bland. In reference to a woman, I am sure you 
 will agree with me. Miss Lambson, character and 
 reputation can hardly be separated. We may say 
 that they are synonymous. 
 
 Mary. I suppose so. And we may say then that 
 under the protection of the law a woman's char- 
 acter depends upon the validity of another person's 
 signature ? 
 
 Bland. Upon the circumstance of whether tiiat 
 signature is or is not valid. I would rather phrase 
 it that way. Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary. But either way — doesn't it seem a little 
 hard on the woman? 
 
 Bland. We must maintain the integrity of social 
 
The Second Act 25 
 
 usage, I am sure. Society cannot consider the in- 
 dividual. 
 
 Mary. O, yes it can, and it does, whenever there 
 is a chance to execrate and ostracize an individual 
 woman. Society always has time to frown upon and 
 degrade a woman. To smile upon or help a woman — 
 ah, then it is that Society cannot stop to consider the 
 individual. 
 
 Bland. Possibly our customs are still a little 
 mosaic in such matters. 
 
 Mary. Possibly ! 
 
 Bland. But you would not consider, seriously 
 now — disregarding them ? 
 
 Mary. Heaven forbid ! But — was the husband's 
 name Manning? 
 
 Bland. No, Sanders, I believe. He was a wild 
 young fellow — not at all bad at heart till he fell 
 under the patronage of Grane. He left her three 
 days after the ceremony, and I have not been able 
 to trace him. Of course, our side has not been 
 greatly interested in the affairs of Miss Manning 
 — they are merely collateral. 
 
 Mary. When did Miss Manning resume her own 
 name ? 
 
 Bland. That was after the death of her child — 
 some eight or nine years ago. 
 
 Mary. I thank you very much, Mr. — 
 
 Bland. Mr. Bland, Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary. Mr. Bland. The information is of great in- 
 terest to me. 
 
 Bland. I am very glad to know that. 
 
 The conversation languishes. Mary turns away, 
 seeking an excuse to dismiss him. 
 
 Bland. I had hoped to speak with Mr. Arvin. 
 
 Mary. You will find him here in the morning, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Bland. Not again this afternoon? 
 
 Mary. I think he has gone for the day. 
 
 Bland. Then I will be bidding you au revoir, Miss 
 Lambson. I trust I shall have the pleasure of see- 
 ing you again. 
 
 Mary ( not over warmly). I trust so. I will say 
 good-afternoon, Mr. Bland. 
 
 Bland botus elaborately and departs. 
 
 Mary. And that, I am sure, is the mole-hill out 
 of which has grown the mountain that weighs so 
 heavily on Henry. . . . The possible, probable, 
 or even the positive absence of a small gold band 
 on a certain finger ! Why not a hole thru the cheek 
 or a ring in the nose? The proper intoning of a 
 certain formula of words — whether he who in- 
 
26 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 toned them had or had not a parchment certificate — 
 the will or the wliim of even an unknown man — 
 of such is compounded the purity of women ! . . 
 But how, O how on earth did that grain 
 of sand become such a mountain? My poor wits 
 are clogged by the rubbish. . . . Well, now for 
 a letter. (Goes to typczvritcr and ivorks. The tele- 
 phone rings.) O, what? — Mother fainted! Dear — 
 yes, yes, at once. (She goes quickly, forgetting every- 
 thing else.) 
 
 Arvin enters a moment later; looks around for 
 Mary, then sits down at his desk to rest a moment 
 zvithout taking off his overcoat and gloves. 
 
 Head (appearing calmly). You ought to think this 
 over carefully — reason it out closely. 
 
 Arvin. O, I can't reason now. 
 
 Head. Consider a moment. You have liberal views 
 about these things. You have no respect for society's 
 hypocritical standard of physical purity. 
 
 Arvin. That is not the question. 
 
 Head. Are you sure it isn't? Suppose now she 
 were Crane's widow, or his divorced wife. In either 
 case she would have the world's approval as a good 
 and pure woman. 
 
 Arvin. But not my love ! A woman who could 
 consort with Grane — O, I can't reason about a thing 
 like that! I can only feel (taking off his gloves). 
 
 Head. But why give way to your feelings? They 
 are primitive. You are actually making a fetich of 
 the marriage ring. 
 
 Arvin (hand to his forehead). Keep still — keep 
 still ! I can't cope with you now. 
 
 Heart (appearing on the other side, but speaking 
 directly to Head). Society's conventions have noth- 
 ing to do with this. There is an individual standard 
 of purity. That she was Crane's mistress does not 
 count. Look at the man ! 
 
 Head. Are you going to judge a man? 
 
 Heart. No. But I am going to choose my in- 
 timates. 
 
 Head. Not on a rational basis, I see. 
 
 Heart. On a basis higher and deeper than reason 
 reaches. I can't tell you just why Crane's contact 
 with a woman soils her, but I can tell j'ou very 
 positively that it does. It kills the ideal in her. 
 
 Head. What of that? She is still a woman. 
 
 Heart. But not a woman to love — only one to lust 
 after. 
 
 Head. You are drawing fine distinctions. 
 
 Heart. No; it is you that refuse to distinguish 
 between two such opposite words. 
 
The Second Act 27 
 
 Head. Words — yes, mere words. 
 Heart. No, conditions — conditions that strengthen 
 as intelHgence increases and which reason cannot 
 change. 
 
 Head. Love is sex attraction. 
 
 Heart. Love is more than that. Love is the ideal. 
 When the ideal is gone, then even the colorless, 
 unmoral force of sex-attraction sinks to lust. 
 
 Head. I can't see it. 
 
 Heart. But I can feel it. My ideal is gone. I turn 
 to lust — 
 
 Arvin (rousing, vehemently). No more of that. 
 I have settled it forever. For the instant you tempted 
 me. But the love that was — that is dead — the memory 
 of it conquered you. 
 
 Heart (abashed). Well, I presented the only al- 
 ternative that is tangible. 
 
 Arvin. My God ! you did. And the world is all 
 tangible ! But that would mean to re- 
 linquish entirely the ideal — to lose even the mem- 
 ory of a love that drew me from the coarseness to 
 the core of life while it lasted. I can't let go of 
 that ! Let me keep it, tho all future paths lead 
 thru the Vale of Tears. (He is silent for a time.) 
 
 Head (approaches softly, leans over on the arm 
 of Ar\tn's chair and says to hitn) : Well, perhaps 
 you were a little foolish about the money. You 
 would have acquired it far more honestly and with 
 much less harm to others than most wealth is ac- 
 quired. A very modest sum — but enough for you. 
 You have to live — eat, dress, a roof. You want a 
 few books — 
 
 Arvin. I want nothing so much as my own re- 
 spect. 
 
 Head. That sounds well, but it doesn't mean much. 
 
 Arvin. It means everything, when I do not listen 
 to you — or to some other voice that is at once a 
 part of me and apart from me. 
 
 Head. You might have escaped poverty. 
 
 Heart. He doesn't fear it — because he has no de- 
 sire for riches. 
 
 He-^d. Yes; they go together — the fear of poverty 
 and the desire for wealth. 
 
 Heart. Fear and desire are always inseparable. 
 
 Head. But how will he live? 
 
 Heart. O, he can graft a little. He has more in- 
 telligence than forty per cent of the population, say. 
 
 Head. That is modest — if you consider me. 
 
 Arvin (rousing again for an instant). I have con- 
 sidered you entirely too much. I am going to dis- 
 regard you now. 
 
28 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Head. He is in a heroic mood today. 
 
 Heart. Isn't there anything sacred to you? 
 
 Head. Yes — everything — and nothing — but no one 
 thing more than another. 
 
 Heart. You lack the sense of color. 
 
 Head. And you see too many colors. 
 
 Heart. My eyes are open to all the colors of life. 
 
 Arvin. It would be better if sometimes they were 
 closed. 
 
 Heart. That may not be, unless we part company 
 entirely. 
 
 Arvin. You don't discriminate in the choice of 
 colors. 
 
 Heart. That is beyond my province. I reflect and 
 present the colors, and then must look to you for 
 the choice of them. 
 
 Arvin. You are a weakling. 
 
 Heart. I have only the strength I get from you. 
 
 Arvin relapses into silence again. 
 
 Head. I am his real strength. Now how would 
 he make his living without me? And it is time for 
 him to think of that, for he will be about broke 
 when he leaves here, unless he demands of Grane 
 the money due. 
 
 Heart. Which of course he won't. He can live 
 without Crane's money. 
 
 Head. Well, I suppose Grane would withhold it 
 for breach of contract. (Satirically) There's the 
 soup kitchen and the bread line. 
 
 Heart. They are for the unintelligent. He won't 
 need them. With your help he can graft a little. 
 
 Head. He doesn't need to graft. There are other 
 places he can get. 
 
 Heart. Yes — by crowding in over the heads of 
 perhaps a dozen others who need the salary worse 
 than he. Isn't that graft — to take what another needs 
 more than you ? 
 
 Head. The law doesn't call it graft. 
 
 Heart. If we lived by law we'd be a race of fiends. 
 Men are better than their laws. 
 
 Head. Which isn't saying much for men or law. 
 
 Heart. No ; for the whole scheme of modern life 
 is graft. 
 
 Head. In which intelligence wins. 
 
 Heart. Of a certain order, j'es. With some of your 
 cunning we can ride on the backs of the forty per 
 cent beneath him in strength of cunning. 
 
 Head. Push them aside, jostle the crowd, and 
 seize the little he wants — I suppose you would say. 
 
 Heart. Yes ; with a certain kind of intelligence 
 one can always grab enough out of the common 
 
The Third Act 29 
 
 fund — lay hold of a loaf of bread now and then 
 as the great stream of bread flows from its half- 
 starved producers to its over-glutted hoarders. 
 
 Head. But is that a more moral course than to 
 take a lump sum like the one just offered and end 
 the struggle for bread once and for all? 
 
 Arvin (rousing). Perhaps it isn't; but one is 
 self-defense, the other is self-contempt. 
 
 Head. More sounding phrases. But he is weak on 
 reason today. 
 
 Arvin (pressing hand to forehead). O, keep still, 
 with your reason — reason — reason ! 
 
 Heart. Reason is the; harlot of the ages. She 
 fawns upon and excuses everything that is hideous 
 and lustful in civilization. She explains the sweat- 
 shops and the vile tenements, she assents to the 
 prison torture chambers and the gallows shadowing 
 the churches, she approves child-labor, she builds 
 systems and governments by which the strong tax 
 to impoverishment the weak. Reason is bloodless, 
 cruel, and bhnd. Those who have no light but rea- 
 son end their lives in darkness. 
 
 Head. Would you rule reason out of life, then? 
 
 Arvin (rising to his feet). No, not that. Its ab- 
 sence would be worse than its presence. . . . O, 
 you have been not such a bad friend to me. I could 
 not live in this world without you. But you take 
 advantage of my weakness. 
 
 Head. The weakness of the master is always the 
 strength of the slave. 
 
 Arvin. And when I blindly follow you it is to 
 open my eyes at the end of a cul de sac to bow be- 
 fore the shrine of the God Doubt. 
 
 Head. That is my office in your life, master — to 
 lead to doubt. There you must take command. I can 
 lead no further than doubt, for there the well-worn 
 paths end, and I cannot walk on unfamiliar ground. 
 
 Arvin. It is true. Reason leads but to doubt. 
 
 Head. And there men loiter. 
 
 Heart. There they grope and curse God, and go 
 mad in the darkness. But I have a light to shed on 
 that darkness — a radiance by which all might find 
 their way — yet only lovers will open their hearts to it. 
 
 Arvin. And then you lead them often enough into 
 the red thick mists of lust. 
 
 Heart. Only when the master abdicates can the 
 servant lead. 
 
 Arvin. O ! in all the world is there nothing to 
 lean upon — no certain guide? 
 
 Heart. You are the guide, master. 
 
 Arvin (unheeding). I thought that love was final 
 
30 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 — in love I sliould find truth absolute ! One could 
 rest secure in love — I thought. 
 
 Heart. Love is but a glow, a flame. It's life and 
 its color is from the wick. I am the flame that burns 
 what oil is in the lamp. You, master, are the lamp 
 and the wick. 
 
 Arvin. Who pours the oil? 
 
 Heart. Ask reason. 
 
 Arvin (with a glance tozvard Head). He is dumb. 
 
 Heart. My truth is hidden in symbols. 
 
 Head. I must speak in syllogisms. 
 
 Arvin. And syllogism and symbollism alike lead 
 only to confusion. 
 
 Heart. It is not their office to lead. They are but 
 tools for the master who shall lead. 
 
 Head. That is true — we are the followers. Only 
 the master can lead. 
 
 Arvin. Who is the master? 
 
 Heart. Who knows himself to be. 
 
 Arvin sits at the table and remains deep in thought. 
 
 Heart (hovering near). He is still leaning on the 
 old love. 
 
 Arvin. Ah. yes, the old love ! O, time, what a 
 snare you, too, are ! The love of yesterday — of only 
 an hour ago — and yet the old love. A thousand years 
 old you seem. (Goes to desk and takes dozvn the 
 violets.) She sent them when the flame of love was 
 pure. O, violets that "wake the memory of dead ro- 
 mances," lend thy fragrance to my willing senses 
 and waft me pictures of those hours when love 
 beckoned from heights — when I forgot the form and 
 saw but the dazzling sheen of her white soul ! 
 
 Heart (timidly). Her soul is still white and pure. 
 No harm can come to that. 
 
 Head. He is unreasonable there. 
 
 Heart. The form shadows the soul and blots it 
 from view — that is the trouble. It is love's halo that 
 makes the form transparent and reveals the soul. 
 When the halo is gone — O, it's no use ! 
 
 Arvin (puts back the violets). Only memory is 
 left. (Goes tozvard door, pauses near it. his eyes 
 closed). And in the darkness how vivid are its 
 images ! Love peoples the invisible with her haloed 
 form. Almost the garment of her spirit I touch ! 
 
 Sara enters softly zvhilc he is thus }nusing. 
 
 Arvin. How real the vision! Sara — (she is nozv in 
 his arms). The vision fades — this is real! Sara, you 
 here ? 
 
 Sara. Something stronger than myself drew me. 
 You have forgiven all? Love has conquered? 
 
 Heart appears behind Arvin, a zvild, primitive 
 gleam in his eyes. 
 
The Third Act 31 
 
 Arvin (embracing her fiercely). There is nothing 
 to forgive — nothing — nothing, woman ! I could not 
 live without you ! 
 
 Sara (startled, dismayed, perplexed — frees her- 
 self) . Henry ! 
 
 Heart seems to whisper to Arvin, and then slowly 
 disappears. 
 
 Arvin (impetuously embracing her again). Sara, I 
 cannot live without you ! (She yields, struggling. He 
 half carries her to the lounge.) 
 
 Sara (still amazed and perplexed, but something 
 of his passion imbues her, and she does not strug- 
 gle). I am yours, Henry, wholly yours — and you are 
 mine ! 
 
 Arvin goes to the door and locks it as the Curtain 
 falls. 
 
 END OF ACT TWO 
 
 THE THIRD ACT 
 
 As the curtain rises Arvin is sitting by the table 
 thoughtful, moody,, and silent, the telephone directory 
 in his hand unopened. 
 
 Sara is putting fresh water on the violets, then 
 she does the same for the poppies on the table. 
 
 Arvin catches her hand as she passes. She leans 
 over and kisses his forehead. Finished zvith the flow- 
 ers, she brings the stool from the fireplace and siirs 
 on it beside him. Casually she notices the calendar. 
 
 Sara. Why, this is Washington's Birthday. You 
 should not have been at the office today. 
 
 Arvin. When I came I only meant to stay a few 
 minutes. 
 
 Sara. And you have been here ever since? 
 
 Arvin. Practically, since ten o'clock. 
 
32 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Sara (looking at his zvatcJi). It is after three — 
 and you have had no luncheon? 
 
 Arvin. I hadn't tliou<?ht of that. This has been 
 the most tremendous day of my life. . . . But it's 
 all settled now. I suppose. Life has cast the die for 
 me. How foolish for one to struggle. (Opens tele- 
 phone book) There is one thing to do yet, and then 
 we will leave here. (Rings up) Main eight three four, 
 please. 
 
 Heart appears discreetly, leering, and with most 
 unpleasant look, much of tvhich is reflected on Ar- 
 vin's countenance, and in his manner. 
 
 Sara (scanning his face anxiously). I see some- 
 thing different in your face, Henry — something new 
 to me in you. 
 
 Arvin (evading her eyes). I am older — years older. 
 (To the 'phone). This is Mr. Arvin talking. Yes — 
 I recognize the voice. H you can come over at once 
 I think we can arrange that matter — you understand ? 
 Yes, at the figure last named. Bring it with you — 
 yes. Good-by (Hangs up receiver). We will go to 
 Australia in the morning. There is a steamer leav- 
 ing at sunrise. 
 
 Sara (delighted, but greatly surprised). Splendid, 
 splendid! . . . But — are we leaving for good? 
 
 Arvin. Yes. 
 
 Sara (mystified and troubled at his evident lack 
 of confidence in her). But this is all so strange. You 
 never spoke of going away before. 
 
 Arvin (bitterly). I did not know — I mean — I only 
 just decided to go. Do you hesitate? 
 
 Sara (impulsively). Hesitate to go with you, Hen- 
 ry! How could you ask it? . . . . And yet — I 
 do not understand. There is something strange and 
 unreal about all this. (She tries to look in his eyes; 
 he evades her frank and questioning look). You are 
 changed, Henry — you are changed ! 
 
 Arvin (slightly resentful). All is changed since 
 yesterday. 
 
 Sara (sinking back). Was my sin then so great? 
 
 Arvin. It destroyed the ideal. 
 
 Sara (deeply perplexed — appealingly). Yet you 
 took — 
 
 Arvin (despondently). But the shell of it. 
 
 Sara (thru her silent tears). And you have not 
 forgotten and forgiven ? 
 
 Arvin (stolidly). There is nothing to forgive — or 
 forget — I suppose. ... It puts a different phase 
 on our lives — that's all. 
 
 Sara (zvccping silently; then zi'ith some indigna- 
 tion). How often have we said to each other that 
 
The Third Act 33 
 
 ideals should rest upon realities and not upon ap- 
 pearances? O, I fondly hoped that you — you, Henry 
 — would be the last to judge a woman through the 
 eyes of society ! 
 
 Arvin. And I thought you — but we can't talk of 
 these things now. It is both too early and too late. 
 
 Sara. It never can be too late for us to under- 
 stand each other. 
 
 Arvin (doggedly — in his eyes she is Crane's ex- 
 mistress). I suppose you are anxious about the mar- 
 riage. We can — ■ 
 
 Sara. Marriage ! what ceremony — what ring — what 
 law of man or God can weld us closer than we are 
 ... or bridge the gulf that is yawning between us? 
 
 Arvin {perplexed). What is it then? Why do you 
 hesitate? 
 
 Sara. What a world of despair lurks in that ques- 
 tion. Henry — Henry — my God ! we are drifting apart 
 already ! 
 
 Arvin (looks at his watch — tries to pacify her for 
 the present). I am sure it is not so bad as that. 
 The world is a httle different than I thought — that 
 is all. We shall know each other better after a while. 
 . . , I am expecting a man on business in a min- 
 ute. You are going with me in the morning, Sara? 
 
 Sara (catching at a straw). To the ends of the 
 world — if you really want me? 
 
 Arvin. I can't go without you. I can't accept life 
 without you. I have tried — but I can't. . . . You 
 must go and pack a few things — just hand luggage 
 — we will take nothing else now. (As she puts on 
 her hat and he holds her wraps for her, he looks at 
 her searchingly, yet covertly). There is nothing in 
 your home life that attracts you — makes you hesi- 
 tate to leave? 
 
 Sara. Nothing. And everything to urge me to leave. 
 I had no aim in life till you came into it — and only 
 stayed on because Mrs. Grane was an invalid. I felt 
 I owed her something — my mother's half sister — 
 
 Arvin. It is better to say nothing to them at pres- 
 ent. We can write later. (Kisses her) Now hurry off. 
 If you are back in time we can spend the evening 
 at the Cliff House. 
 
 Sara. Our last evening in San Francisco, Henry. 
 
 Arvin. Yes. She goes. 
 
 Head (appearing). She seems to have no hesitancy 
 in leaving her child. 
 
 Heart. Never mind that now. It doesn't count 
 with the present status of things. The money will 
 be here in a moment. . . . She is a beautiful 
 woman. 
 
34 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Arvin (peering into the fire). She is a mystery. 
 
 Head. Every woman is a mystery to the man who 
 loves her. 
 
 Heart. Don't talk of love now. 
 
 Head. O, love is anything and everything. 
 
 Heart. Not to him. 
 
 Head. It soon will be. The world is pulling him 
 thru its knot-hole. 
 
 Heart. That will only rub off his outside corners. 
 It won't change him. 
 
 Head. You are getting up in the sky again. I can't 
 follow you. 
 
 Heart. Don't worry. We're not going very high 
 just now. 
 
 Head. A good deal lower, I should say. 
 
 Arvin (rousing himself, as tho shaking off his in- 
 visible tormenters). I can't understand her. Only 
 in my own thought has she seemed to change. The 
 same delicacy — the same depth and trueness — 
 
 Heart (leering). She was Crane's mistress. 
 
 Head. And she deserts her child readily. 
 
 Arvin (musing). Is she acting? .... Can 
 she think that I still idealize her — or respect her — 
 
 (The door opens and Bland enters.) 
 Be seated, sir. 
 
 Bland (looking around). We are alone, I presume? 
 
 Arvin (turning key in door). Entirely alone. 
 
 Bland. I should like to look over the papers. 
 
 Arvin (brings papers from safe). There. 
 
 Bland (turning them over on the table). There is 
 the forged death certificate of Sara Relton .... 
 the letter of Crane to her father just before his 
 death. (Reads, zvhile Arvin stands behind him at 
 fire-place, His Heart in evidence zvith a greedy, sin- 
 ister look, zvhich communicates itself to Arvin's 
 face). As I have often suspected, Sara Relton is 
 probably alive, but I suppose only Crane knows where 
 she is. Do you think he is aware of this letter? 
 
 Arvin. I think he had an inventory of them by 
 mail. He was to go over them in the morning with 
 his attorneys. 
 
 Bland. He will need his attorneys for another 
 service. This letter alone proves the whole conspir- 
 acy. . . . And the marriage certificate of Sara 
 Relton's parents. . . . All very damning evidence 
 against Crane, but I am bound to say they don't 
 strengthen the case of the English claimants. We 
 shall have to be looking up Sara Relton — what, ah, 
 her photograph (holds it up). You never saw any- 
 one resembling that young lady, did you? 
 
 Arvin starts. 
 
The Third Act 35 
 
 Head (appearing suddenly). Keep still! 
 
 Arvin looks at photo, but remains silent. 
 
 Bland. Let's see. Yes — there's the date and the 
 name. Taken at Chicago eight years ago — she was 
 about eighteen then. 
 
 Arvin is greatly agitated, but says nothing. He is 
 still behind Bland. 
 
 Bland {nmiiing over the papers again). They are 
 well worth the money — to either the heiress or the 
 English claimants. She will probably never be found. 
 Like Grane to have shipped her off to some unlikely 
 place. The Relton estate is valued at eighteen mil- 
 lion dollars, Mr. Arvin, and that is a very con- 
 servative estimate. I feel that you are doing a pub- 
 lic service in this matter, sir. Mr. Grane is a dan- 
 gerous man. He was a sort of partner once of Her- 
 bert Relton — but his claim to this estate rests upon 
 a most gigantic conspiracy. And he did seem to have 
 the upper hand in the matter. However, all that is 
 now changed. With these proofs — we will probably 
 proceed in his case at once. Now as to your hon- 
 orarium, sir (hands over a long envelope bulging 
 with greenbacks). It is in paper currency, sir. Un- 
 usual here, but easier to handle. I think you will 
 find the count correct. Twenty thousand was the fig- 
 ure named — 
 
 Arvin clutches the package and nervously puts it 
 in his inside coat pocket without counting it. His 
 face is bloodless. He looks the criminal that he feels 
 he is — and behind him is His Heart, whose look and 
 manner is even worse than Arvin's. 
 
 Bland (patronizingly) . I see very plainly, Mr. Ar- 
 vin, that you are not accustomed to these financial 
 transactions — if j'ou will permit me to say so. 
 
 Arvin (his voice thick, speaking zvith difficulty). 
 Hardly. 
 
 Bland. You must allow me to say, further, Mr. 
 Arvin, that nearly all cases involving large sums — 
 I may say all cases where there are millions at stake 
 — are handled in this way. There is nothing unusual 
 — ahem — I may say, nothing unethical, in this trans- 
 action. 
 
 Arvin silently unlocks the door. 
 
 Bland. I bid you a very good afternoon, Mr. Ar- 
 vin. Exit. 
 
 Arvin inclines his head, tries to speak, but his 
 voice fails him, and when he has closed the door 
 on Bland he goes to the sink and drinks greedily. 
 
 His Alter Egos are close to him, but their faces 
 and manner are normal, all the passion, craft, and 
 sensuality heretofore suggested by them are now 
 
36 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 seen plai)ily in Arvin's face and manner. He Iia^ as- 
 sumed the reins and is treading with firm feet again 
 — albeit on unfamiliar ground. 
 
 Arvin. So she is the Relton heir ! Eighteen mil- 
 hons ! This isn't worth counting then (tapping the 
 envelope bulging from Iiis pocket). I have been a 
 poor blind fool all these years — searching for the 
 non-existant — hoping and striving for the impossi- 
 ble — chasing rainbows and dreaming of ideals as un- 
 substantial as desert mirages ! But no more of that ! 
 Lost and barren years ! Wealth and power are the 
 world's only realities. In my heart I will build a 
 shrine to them. 
 
 Head. Well, every man has his price, I suppose. 
 
 Arvin. And when he's bought and paid for he may 
 as well own it. 
 
 Head. I fear your worship of wealth will be in- 
 constant. The past surely will rise up and clutch you. 
 
 Arvin. I'll throttle it with lust. 
 
 Heart. The old ideals will not desert you so 
 quickly. 
 
 Arvin. I'll blot out the images with — eighteen mil- 
 lion dollars. 
 
 Head. Too much money for one man. It will weigh 
 on you. 
 
 Arvin. Too much! Not enough. I'll double and 
 treble it. I'll buy privileges from legislatures, from 
 Congress — and have a steady stream of gold and 
 power flowing to me. 
 
 Heart, (to Head, aside). He thinks he will get 
 these millions — they will get him. 
 
 Head. That is always the case. Men never possess 
 wealth. It possesses them. 
 
 Heart. It seems to have him already. 
 
 Head. Let us remonstrate with him. 
 
 Heart. You can't reach him now. 
 
 Head (to Arvin). You can't use all that money. 
 What will you do with it? 
 
 Arvin. I'll rule and grind and enslave men with it. 
 I'll build palaces of marble. I'll travel, buy pictures, 
 yachts, women ! 
 
 Heart. Don't forget the beautiful one you have. 
 It is thru her that you will get these millions. 
 
 Arvin. O, I'll remember nothing — no one ! But she 
 shall have her day. I'll build her a palace on Nob 
 Hill, and London, Paris, and New York will be her 
 playground. When she tires of me there will be 
 princes and sovereigns at her feet. 
 
 Head. There will be a chance for j^ou to lead the 
 intellectual life you have longed for — with books and 
 leisure at j-our command. 
 
The Third Act 37 
 
 Arvin. Yes. I'll have a library first of all. 
 
 Heart. And read less, I'm afraid. 
 
 Arvin. That's true. Very little reading. I'll play 
 the game of life as I find it. Men will fawn on me, 
 not for what I am, hut for what I have. 
 
 Heart. Why should you want any to fawn on 
 you? 
 
 Arvin. What else is there in life? I may tire of 
 sheer lust. 
 
 Head. Adulation will sicken you quicker. 
 
 Arvin. Come, none of your platitudes. Wealth is 
 the word — wealth and luxury ! 
 
 Heart. You are drunk of wealth already. 
 
 Arvin. And if I am — it is the world's drunkenness. 
 Who is there to deny me the full cup? 
 
 Head. You will find bitter dregs in it. 
 
 Arvin. I have found those in every cup. 
 
 Head. Because you drink too deeply. 
 
 Heart. The dregs are in the bottom of the cup. 
 
 Head. But it is you who tip the cup for hmi. 
 Time and again you have tipped it, till he has learned 
 to need the dregs. 
 
 Heart. I but do as I am bid. 
 
 Arvin. Well, I'll taste the dregs of this cup, too. 
 Who or what on earth is there to mock me as I 
 drink? 
 
 Heart (timidly). Love — perhaps — 
 
 Arvin (bitterly). Love, you say! O, now 1 shall 
 taste of love — the only love there is in the world. 
 The fairest women of every clime shall be mine. 
 I'll seek them out from the fartherest corners — from 
 the peasant homes and from the palaces of the rich 
 — and buy their fondest smiles with the clink of gold ! 
 
 Head. He is drunk. 
 
 Heart. He is money mad. It is your doing. 
 
 Head. Can't you see he is doing it himself? 
 
 Arvin. O, wealth ! I'll probe your every power for 
 happiness. I'll learn the secret of your fascination for 
 men. I'll find the god in you that men so devoutly 
 worship. Every human lust and joy I'll taste and test ! 
 
 Heart is greatly pained at all this, as his face 
 plainly shozvs. 
 
 HE.A.D. You never worshipped wealth before. 
 
 Arvin. No. This is no seeking of my own. I played 
 with Life for other stakes, for delights more lasting, 
 for joys keener. But Life's dice are loaded — his 
 Argosies of wealth and luxury are poured into my 
 lap, while with his other hand he shuts upon me the 
 door of the ideal. I yield. I'll riot in the coarse sen- 
 sations of the world — feed the flesh and know the 
 lusts of wealth that men so hunger for ! (He is pacing 
 
38 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 the -floor excitedly — stops and looks at his watch.) 
 Why doesn't she come? I'm burning to tell her of 
 her fortune — eighteen millions ! 
 
 Heart. Every penny of which you would give to 
 see the aureole again around her. 
 
 Arvin. Ah. yes — and throw in all else of life and 
 eternity — and even hope itself — and count it cheap — 
 for an hour of the old love ! . . . But why do 
 you torture me? Why are you always yearning for 
 the impossible? I but brook the inevitable — embrace 
 life as I find it. 
 
 Head. Yes, it is unwise to worry about what might 
 have been. We must look life in the face and accept 
 the responsibilities imposed upon us. 
 
 Arvin. Responsibilities ! — that's the word. I thank 
 you for it. The responsibilities of the rich. We arc 
 the guardians of the world's wealth — vice-regents of 
 the Almighty. (Mockingly) Yes, yes — we must carry 
 our heavy loads — our responsibilities! (Looks at his 
 watch again nervously. As he replaces it Sara enters 
 with cabman carrying tzvo satchels). At last! (He 
 tips and dismisses cabman). 
 
 Sara. We had to walk up all the way. 
 
 Arvin. I forgot that confound elevator. I should 
 have been downstairs waiting for you. But I haven't 
 been able to think of anything except the wonder- 
 ful tidings I have for you. What do you think they are? 
 
 Sara. I haven't the slightest idea. Let us sit down 
 and talk about it calmly. You are flushed and fever- 
 ish. What has happened? (They sit in front of grate. 
 He fetches the stool for her, which she prefers.) 
 
 Arvin. You are the heiress of the Reltcn mil- 
 lions ! 
 
 Sara. Impossible ! 
 
 Arvin. It is true. I saw the absolute proof of it 
 only a few minutes ago. You are the daughter of 
 Herbert Relton — heiress of the entire estate. Think 
 of it, Sara, think of it ! Eighteen millions ! 
 
 Sara. I can't think of it — it is hideous. 
 
 Arvin. You can't mean that — why — 
 
 Sara. I shall not assume it. I don't want it. 
 
 Arvin. Don't want it? Well, I can use it. Think 
 what it will do for us. (Regarding her zvith a puz- 
 zled air.). What do you want, Sara? 
 
 Sara. Something in you that I seem to have lost. 
 If I cannot find it, life itself I shall refuse. 
 
 Arvin. I can't understand how you talk this way. 
 
 . . . We shall not go to Australia now, tho I 
 have plenty of money here (displays the envelope, 
 which falls, spilling its contents all around them. He 
 stoops to gather up the bills.) 
 
The Third Act 39 
 
 Sara (astonished) . Henry, where did all this come 
 from? You do not carry such sums with you — and 
 the banks are closed today — ? 
 
 Arvin. O, never mind now. This is nothing. Think 
 of eighteen millions ! (He suddenly rises and tries 
 to imbue her with some of his own madness.) Sara, 
 you will be a queen. You will have all the world at 
 your feet. You can rule in any circle. You shall 
 have palaces. Men and women will court you ! 
 
 Sara. O, what madness has come over you, Henry? 
 Is this your estimate of life — and of me? 
 
 Arvin (stoops to gather rest of bills). I am taking 
 life as I find it. 
 
 Sara. So Pilate said when the multitude demanded 
 Barabas. And Judas said it. And every man who 
 sells the truer joys of life for pieces of silver says it. 
 
 Arvin. But what if the truer joys be wrenched 
 from you and the pieces of silver flung in your lap? 
 
 Sara. I would scorn them — scorn life itself on 
 those terms — and I do. I have been weak and have 
 bowed to fate. I have taken life as I found it — a 
 woman's duty, the world taught me. But I am tired 
 of being a woman — a toy. I am going to be a human 
 being. I shall look life in the face and decide for 
 myself whether to take the best it offers me. I am 
 going to accept life on my own terms — or reject it. 
 
 Arvin (peevishly). Why do you talk like that? 
 
 Sara. Because the world is slipping from me — the 
 world of love and happiness in which I have lived. 
 I am groping again in a darkness that is blacker 
 for the light that has been. Life strips me of all 
 reason for living, and — 
 
 Arvin. Wealth will buy us everything. 
 
 Sara. How can I hear you say that? It will buy 
 nothing that one is not happier without. Not an in- 
 stant of love can it buy — not all the wealth that you 
 could stoop to pick up in million dollar bills would 
 buy an instant of the love that we have lost so soon. 
 
 Arvin (unheeding — replacing bills in envelope). I 
 guess they are all there. Enough, anyway. 
 
 Sara. O, I was right when I trembled to reach 
 out and touch the ideal. Lo ! it has crumbled, and is 
 fading away before my eyes ! 
 
 Arvin. Let us consider this thing seriously and 
 sensibly, Sara. Now in the morning we will see 
 'the lawyers. 
 
 Sara (by an effort calming herself). Yes, let us 
 talk seriously. We must understand each other now 
 or never. While I understood you I trusted you 
 blindly. Now I must know everything. Perhaps I 
 shall not accept the terms of life — I must know what 
 they are. 
 
40 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Arvin. Why do you take things so tragically? 
 
 Sara. That is how 1 find them. 
 
 Arvin. Why, there is no tragedy in this. It is just 
 wealth — money — 
 
 Sara. There is always tragedy in money. It is the 
 tragedy of life — whether tO' have it or to lack it. 
 
 Arvin. Let us forget the tragedy. It will buy us 
 many things if we use it. 
 
 Sara. Men never use wealth — it uses them. And 
 what of use can it buy for those who are losing 
 life's incentive? 
 
 Arvin. O, if you are going to look at it that way! 
 Life is the way you look at it. I am not so enamored 
 of things, but I can't change them. (Again he is 
 wishing that he could — but he rallies and says) : Let 
 us get what enjoyment we can out of life as it is. 
 
 Sara. I don't see things clearly, Henry — but life, 
 as it presents itself to me now does not interest 
 me. . . . This large sum of money — you did not 
 have it yesterday — an hour ago, even? 
 
 Arvin (sullenly). No — but what does it matter? 
 
 Sara. Perhaps very little — perhaps a great deal. 
 I must know. Where, how, did j'ou get it? 
 
 Arvin. Of what importance is that? It is the first 
 of 3'our eighteen millions, let us say. 
 
 Sara. I shall never say that. How much is it? 
 
 Arvin. O, about twenty thousand — a mere penny. 
 
 Sara. If it is honestly ours, then let us be con- 
 tent with it and go to Australia, as you planned — or 
 to India, or Japan. Let us leave in the morning. 
 
 Arvin. And forgo the eighteen millions ! You are 
 mad, Sara ! 
 
 Sara. I cannot doubt it — quite mad. O, God! Hen- 
 ry, how mad I am when I look into your eyes that 
 quail before me and no longer find there the man 
 I loved. The love light is all gone — the golden light 
 that enshrouded the old sorrows and opened vistas 
 of new heavens — all gone ! The lamp of our love is 
 dark ! 
 
 Arvin. I don't deny that things are altered, Sara. 
 Perhaps I too have groped and suffered some — I 
 don't know — I can't remember. I can't think of that 
 now. The present and future seem so different now. 
 Let us settle these immediate things first. 
 
 Sara. And they have to do with money, it seems. 
 Then tell me about this — 
 
 Arvin. I suppose you are right. This twenty thou- 
 sand is a trivial matter — but it's your money, anyway. 
 And I'm not fool enough, or so afraid, that I must 
 lie about it. Well, I sold some of Crane's secret pa- 
 pers for it — to the attorneys of the Relton English 
 
The Fourth Act 41 
 
 heirs. It was in that transaction — just before you 
 came in — turning over these secret foreign papers of 
 Crane's — that we found the evidence of your title. 
 It is positive, Sara. The estate is yours, beyond— 
 
 Sara {amazed at the confession). The Relton es- 
 tate is of no interest to me, Henry. Let me under- 
 stand this insistent matter first. You robbed your 
 employer to obtain this money. That was the money 
 you had planned for — and the reason why we were 
 to go away? 
 
 Arvin. O, if you put it that way — perhaps it was 
 robbery — but you don't understand it — • 
 
 S.^R.A. I am listening. 
 
 Arvin. Well, I accidentally discovered the nature 
 of these papers this morning. They show a huge con- 
 spiracy of Crane's to disinherit you. He had no 
 moral right to the documents. The ends of justice 
 are better served by having them in the hands of dis- 
 interested parties. Crane is thoroly a rascal. 
 
 Sara. Then you think it entirely correct to steal 
 secret papers from — 
 
 Arvin From a rascal. 
 
 Heart. Ask her about her relations with Crane. 
 
 Arvin {his head muddled. The actual si)icerity of 
 Sara confuses his guilt. He docs not hear the prompt- 
 ing). It is not like taking them from an honest man, 
 or from one who had a moral right to them. 
 
 Sara. You are drawing distinctions of moral rights. 
 Then is it moral to rob even a rascal, if he happen 
 to be your employer and the opportunity to rob him 
 is vouchsafed by his trust in you — and you rob him 
 of that which you are accepting a salary for safe- 
 guarding? You didn't sell them to the officers of the 
 law? 
 
 Arvin. No. But why analyze it like that? 
 
 Head. She is accusing you when you should be 
 accusing her. 
 
 Arvin {brushing away the thought). I can't look 
 at her and accuse her of anything. 
 
 Sara. And this is the moral code of the man to 
 whom I had given my life? 
 
 Arvin. There is no morality in business — {then 
 desperately) nor anywhere else in life that I can find. 
 
 Sara {zvincing, hut gathering her forces). Perhaps 
 this is my last word to you, Henry. We do not un- 
 derstand each other. You look upon the misfortune 
 of my life as a crime, and tho I feel that your crime 
 is rather more of an impulsive misfortune, it means 
 that we are far apart in our views of life. It means 
 that we have lost respect for each other. We have 
 lost everything — love, confidence, respect — and you 
 
42 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 prate of wealth to bridge that gulf! Life is over- 
 powering me ! . . . . And yet — O, hope dies 
 hard ! Perhaps we can yet float on the dark wild 
 ocean of life together— perhaps — if not in happiness 
 in peace. Shall we try? Are you willing, Henry? 
 
 Arvin (perplexed). I thought you would view the 
 matter sensibly, Sara. 
 
 Sara. Take back the money to the Relton law- 
 yers. Then come to me with clean hands and we 
 will go off somewhere and work together. I have a 
 little. I am not dependent upon Grane. We will go 
 to Australia — anywhere — 
 
 Arvin. And leave the millions. But — Sara — (he 
 quails before her glance). 
 
 Sara. Yes — yes — leave the very thought of millions 
 — and all mention of them forever ! Go at once, Hen- 
 ry. Go out in the air and think it all over. Perhaps 
 you will not return — and it may be better so. I don't 
 know — I can't think — and dare not hope. 
 
 (He stands dazed and hesitating. She gathers his 
 coat, hat, and gloves and brings them to him.) 
 
 Go now, at once, Henry. Do not return except 
 with your hands clean and your heart ready to ac- 
 cept me as I am — for what I am. We will share our 
 poverty and our disgrace together — ;/ you return. 
 There is little reason why you should. The Relton 
 millions never shall be mine. I don't ask you to 
 return — but — I — shall — wait — here — awhile — 
 
 Arvin. Sara — ! 
 
 Sara. O, no more ! no more now ! Go — please — 
 go at once. 
 
 She is on the point of collapsing, but holds herself 
 until he has silently passed out, then she throws her 
 arms on the table, buries her face in them, and sobs 
 are heard as the curtain falls. 
 
 END OF ACT THREE 
 
THE FOURTH ACT 
 
 As the Curtain rises Mary enters; goes at once to 
 Sara and tries to comfort her. 
 
 Mary. Dear girl — I think I know — 
 
 Sara. O, Mary, I pray you never may know. 
 
 Mary. That is Hke you. Tho your heart is break- 
 ing you can mold a prayer in it for a friend. Well, 
 I think your prayer will be answered, Sara, for it 
 seems that my knowledge of life is destined to be 
 vicarious. And perhaps that is well. 
 
 Sara. I am sure it is. . . . Do you know, Mary, 
 I have seen the sun sink at midday! 
 
 Mary. Which being translated into prose, means 
 that you have fixed your heart on a man and found 
 him— only a man. 
 
 Sara. But why translate it? What is done is done. 
 
 Mary. What is done in error must be done over 
 again. 
 
 Sara. Now it is you who are talking in metaphor. 
 
 Mary. This "moving Finger having writ" never 
 did please me. I like the way he said it, but the 
 sense of it is trivial, gloomy without sufficient cause, 
 and not true. 
 
 Sara. Not true, Mary? 
 
 Mary. Tears wash out almost anything, I notice. 
 And what they fail to erase, the wind, rain, and 
 sun wash out. 
 
 Sara. The sun is gone from my life. 
 
 Mary. The sun doesn't move, Sara. 
 
 Sara is silently zveepijig. 
 
 Mary. Come, dear girl, don't try to wash out the 
 old writing with your tears. Let it stand. We have 
 pen and ink — 
 
 Sara. Ah, it is written in blood, Mary. 
 
 Mary. Very well — blood always was cheaper than 
 ink. But write it in bitter tears or heart's blood, as 
 you will, if the first writing be wrong write it ovei 
 again — and again. . . . Now let us leave poetr> 
 and talk in plain prose. It is time we did. 
 
 Sara. Don't you like poetry, Mary? Grief has 
 no other tongue. 
 
 Mary. That's the fault of grief — not its merit. 
 Yes, I like poetry — in books — and in life when the 
 current flows smoothly. But there's a time for poetry. 
 
44 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 and another time for prose, and we never seem to 
 know which is which. When people poetize their 
 grief, I know they are revcHng in it, drawing it in 
 deep, hugging it to their souls. 
 
 Sara. You seem to think people love grief. 
 
 Mary. Indeed they do. Some people never arc 
 happy unless they are miserable. 
 
 Sara (smiling thru her tears). O, Mary — 
 
 Mary. But that's not you, Sara. You have the 
 shadow of a cause for your grief, but I think it is 
 only a shadow. 
 
 Sara. You are driving at something, Mary? I 
 have no wits. 
 
 Mary. That's because you are living a one-act 
 tragedy written by Life in poetic metre, and you 
 can't read between the lines, or stop to analyze 
 them, for the charm of the metre — the bitter-sweet 
 charm, shall we say. 
 
 Sara. Does reason ever help one, Mary? 
 
 Mary. It might, if one used it in the right place. 
 
 Sara. But in grief — ? 
 
 Mary. That's the time to use it, Sara. In joy, in 
 love, reason is a fool. In grief — it might save many 
 tears. But no, we use our reason to quell our joys, 
 and when the avalanche falls, or the sun darkens 
 on a clear day, at once we weep the "Sorry Scheme 
 of Things entire," instead of looking about us and 
 turning over the matter to see if the error is not 
 ours instead of God's. 
 
 Sara. And if we find the error is ours, does that 
 make it the easier to bear? 
 
 Mary. It may make it the easier to repair. 
 
 Sara. But suppose it is beyond repair? 
 
 Mary^ Suppose it isn't — not so many things are 
 as we suppose. 
 
 Sara. Your theories are beautiful Mary, but when 
 Life leads you up against a hard, dull fact — 
 
 Mary. Turn it over — walk around it. You may 
 find a vulnerable heel to it. 
 
 Sara. Your spirit leads me almost to hope. 
 
 Mary. Let it lead you all the way, Sara. . . . 
 Tell me, is there nothing inexplicable in all this 
 tragedy you are enjoying? 
 
 Sara (grimly). Enjoying — yes. Why, it is all in- 
 explicable, Mary. There seems to be no reason, no 
 sense at all to it — only a horrible reality. 
 
 Mary. Perhaps we can reason it out a little — I 
 am not sure. One is not sure of anything sometimes. 
 
 Sara (im(>ulsiirly. xvith a vague hope). I am sure 
 you are the best friend I have in the whole world, 
 Mary, the very best and dearest. 
 
The Fourth Act 45 
 
 Mary. Yet I know so little about your life, Sara. 
 
 Sara. As I do of yours. We have taken each other 
 on trust. There is nothing to tell in my life. It has 
 been inexpressably dreary — a woman's life. 
 
 Mary. Do you like Mr. Grane very much? 
 
 Sara. It would be unkind to say how much I dis- 
 like him — why do you ask that? 
 
 Mary. But you are part of his family? 
 
 Sara. He was my guardian. His wife is my moth- 
 er's sister. I have had no other home. 
 
 Mary. Are you sure of the relationship? 
 
 Sara. I have always understood, yes — but, O, you 
 are not going to tell me that I am the Relton heiress ? 
 
 .... Is that all? 
 
 Mary. I know nothing about ,that. What I am 
 trying to find out is Crane's motive for slandering you. 
 
 Sara. O, he has told about that unfortunate chap- 
 ter of my girlhood. Alas ! that is not a slander. 
 I have no reason to hide it — it is all true enough. 
 
 Mary. Tell me about it, Sara. 
 
 Sara. It seems such a small thing now — and so 
 remote. I was married — or thought I was. He ran 
 away almost the next day. Later it was found that 
 the ceremony was not legal. 
 
 Mary. Was there a child? 
 
 Sara. It only lived a few months. Sometimes I 
 have regretted that. 
 
 Mary. In all this there is nothing shameful — only 
 a touch of chastening sorrow that the years have al- 
 most washed away. 
 
 Sara. So I felt. When love knocked again I 
 opened my heart to him and let him enter. But he — 
 he views it as the world would. In his eyes I am not 
 the same woman. 
 
 Mary. I cannot think it. 
 
 Sara. But it is true. 
 
 Mary. I am sure it isn't true, Sara. If there is 
 nothing else in your life, there are years of happi- 
 ness yet for you. 
 
 Sara. Alas ! no, Mary. 
 
 Mary. He loves you. 
 
 Sara. I used to think so. He is changed. 
 
 Mary. He still loves you. 
 
 Sara. Between us love is dead. In his eyes, this 
 thing in my life you think so .small, is a fatal defect. 
 It killed his love — and woke a demon. And — O, how 
 can I tell you ? I have seen him in a different light. 
 
 Mary. You have seen him as one blind and de- 
 luded — as one who thinks there is a great shame 
 in your life — 
 
 Sara. Yes — he sees shame in that. 
 
46 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Mary. No, Sara, he docs not find shame in that. 
 O, you lovers are the stupidest people ! Couldn't 
 either of you imagine that Grane had lied about you? 
 
 Sara. Why should he? What do you mean, Mary? 
 O, tell me? 
 
 Mary. Grane did lie about you, most horribly — 
 tho why I can't understand — unless you are the Rel- 
 ton heiress, and he wanted to keep you unprotected ? 
 
 Sara. Yes, that is it — I am sure that is it. I am 
 the Relton heiress, it seems — tho I hate the thought. 
 Tell me all ? 
 
 Mary. He told Henry Arvin that you were his 
 mistress — that he was the father of your child, which 
 he led him to believe was still living. 
 
 Sara. O ! O ! I see it now — O — 
 
 Mary. I don't believe Henry would have accepted 
 it from him. Something else happened that seemed 
 to confirm it. 
 
 Sara. I told him what Grane had said was true. 
 
 Mary. Not asking him what that was? 
 
 Sara. No — no ! 
 
 Mary. And so you both walked blindly into his 
 snare — readily, it seems. Love yearns for grief — and 
 ever finds it. 
 
 Sara. You are right, Mary. We were blind. Love 
 blinded us — then grief. 
 
 Mary. They are close kin. 
 
 Sara. O, I can see it all so plainly now — all — 
 all— all ! I could never tell you how much there 
 is. . . . Mary, I owe you my life's happiness. 1 
 owe you love itself. (Aside) Will he return? 
 
 Mary. You owe me nothing, Sara. But I still owe 
 you both a good scolding, I think. You were willing 
 to think the worst of each other rather than use 
 your wits and solve the problem that Life presented 
 to you — the very first problem. 
 
 Sara. You can't scold me too hard, Mary. I de- 
 serve it all, and a good deal more than your tender 
 heart will ever let you bestow. . . . But now I 
 must think of something else. Shall I ever see him 
 again? How can I find him? 
 
 Mary. Is it so serious as that? You parted in 
 anger? 
 
 Sara. Not in anger — there was no room for that 
 — but in pain — pain unutterable. He may not return. 
 O, what shall I do? Dear, wise I\Iary, what shall 1 
 do to find him? 
 
 Mary. Stay right here and wait. He will return. 
 
 Sara. O. he may not. You don't know — 
 
 Mary. I know that you are the strongest force in 
 his life, Sara, and that is enough. He has no choice 
 but to return. 
 
The Fourth Act 47 
 
 Sara. I almost feel that you are right. Dare I sit 
 idle here and wait and trust? 
 
 Mary. That is all you can do now. 
 
 Sara. Alas ! I am bewildered ! If he should not 
 come back — 
 
 Mary. That is not at all possible. I know. 
 
 Sara (her arm about Mary). How do you know 
 so much, Mary? 
 
 Mary. Ah, your wits are awake at last. You should 
 have asked me that before. Indeed, how do I know? 
 Well, I wormed it out of him. You are not going 
 to be jealous? 
 
 Sara. Never, never — (looks at her very kindly, 
 hut eloscly; Mary reddens a trifle). You too love 
 him, Mary. Don't deny it. And I love you more be- 
 cause you do. 
 
 Mary (half bitterly, but lightly). Because he 
 doesn't, you mean, Sara — 
 
 Sara (protesting earnestly). Mary — 
 
 Mary. No, you don't mean it — you're a true and 
 real kind of girl — but it's true, none the less. . . . 
 I will tell you — . We have been good friends in the 
 office here. We have bantered each other a good 
 deal, but there was a vein of sincerity beneath it, 
 because — well, because he is that kind of a man. 
 He has talked to me as he would to a sister — head 
 and heart full of you all the time. We have talked 
 just as two men, or two women, would — just as we 
 are talking now. 
 
 Sara. Just as you and he often in the future shall 
 talk. 
 
 Mary. No — that can't be. I know you mean it, 
 Sara, but — but tell me about the Relton millions. 
 Are they really yours? 
 
 Sara. If I want them, it seems — which I don't. 
 I shall not touch them. 
 
 Mary (admiringly). Have you really the courage 
 to do that? 
 
 Sara. Do you think it takes courage just to forego 
 wealth? If you knew how little I cared for it — how 
 I dread its narrowing ways. I have seen it, hved in 
 it, and learned to fear it. 
 
 Mary. Ah, you have not had to work for bread — 
 your own and an invalid mother's. 
 
 Sara (feelingly) . Mary! But I know of that strug- 
 gle. How could I not know of it? It is all around 
 us. It is a harder struggle — 
 
 Bland (enters, accompanied by a stranger). Ah. 
 Miss Lambson, if you will pardon the intrusion. I 
 hoped to find Mr. Grane here — or possibly Mr. Arvin. 
 
 Sara (quickly, going to him). Mr. Arvin went to 
 
48 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 your office, I believe. Have you l^een there recently? 
 
 Mary (introducing). This is Mr. Bland — Miss 
 Manning. 
 
 Bland (stares). Miss Manning! (Aside) The 
 photograph — the same, I am sure. I must compare 
 them. (To Sara) Pardon me, did you say Mr. Arvin 
 went to my office? 
 
 Sara. Yes. Quite recently. 
 
 Bland. Then if you will excuse me, ladies, and 
 permit Mr. Johnson — this is Mr. Johnson, ladies 
 (Johnson boivs aivkzvardly) — to remain here till I 
 return, I will step over to the office and leave word 
 for Mr. Arvin. 
 
 Mary. Certainly. Be seated, Mr. Johnson. 
 
 Bland. I will return promptly. Exit. 
 
 Mary (to Johnson, u'lio is seated). It seems quite 
 unusual for so many people to be on duty on a 
 holiday. 
 
 Johnson. We don't have no holidays at the Cen- 
 tral Station, Miss. 
 
 Mary. O, you are from the Central Station? 
 
 Johnson. Yes, IVIiss. 
 
 Mary. On any particular business, might I inquire? 
 
 Johnson. I've come to call on Mr. Grane, Miss. 
 
 Mary. I'm his stenographer — if I could — ? 
 
 Johnson. It's a personal matter between him and 
 me, Miss. 
 
 Mary. O, personal, did you say? 
 
 Johnson (ominously but guardedly). Yes, strictly 
 personal. Miss. 
 
 Arvin enters. 
 
 Sara (rushes to him). Henry! 
 
 Arvin (rather coldly). Word was left that I should 
 find Mr. Bland here. My hands are still unclean. 
 
 Sara (drawing him aside). They never have been 
 soiled, Henry. (She takes both his hands.) It has 
 been a dreadful mistake. 
 
 Arvin. What has? 
 
 Sara. Everything in the last few hours. We have 
 lived thru a nightmare — but now we awake — love 
 dawns on our lives again. Mary has unravelled it all. 
 She has told me — 
 
 Arvin (perplexed). What could she tell you that 
 alters things? 
 
 Sara. What Mr. Grane said — 
 
 Arvin. Why need she? 
 
 Sara. But it was all untrue, Henry — every word 
 of it. The world has been tottering around us ! 
 
 Arvin. Untrue ! I don't understand ! I begged you 
 to say it was a lie — I thought, I hoped, I prayed it 
 was. But when I asked you — you said it was true. 
 
The Fourth Act 49 
 
 Then the world did totter. I saw you in a diflferent 
 light — the halo was gone — I loathed you and yet 
 loved 3^ou. O, I can't tell you! But it was all false — 
 all false as hell? 
 
 Sara. Not a word of it was true. I thought he 
 spoke of an old sorrow in my life — that was his 
 threat. I saw him when he left you and he said he 
 had told you all. I thought he could tell but the truth. 
 
 Arrin. And the truth was? But I care not for that 
 now. We have years of confidence before us. So that 
 you were nothing to Grane — nothing to him ! 
 
 Sara. Nothing ! Nothing, Henry. I would have 
 killed myself almost at the thought. I have loathed 
 him. I can understand you now. You should have 
 cursed me and driven me away as an unclean thing. 
 
 Arvin. No more — not another word or thought of 
 that, loved woman ! How the world brightens again ! 
 We will quickly forget it all. Nothing now could hap- 
 pen to darken our lives. {They are to left front near 
 his desk.) 
 
 Head {appearing behind Arvin and trying to whis- 
 per in his ear). Don't be too sure. Everything can 
 happen to you unless you know each other's lives. 
 
 Heart {to Head). He will not heed you now. 
 {To Arvin he is about to speak, when the latter, tho 
 oblivious of their actual presence, waves them aside. 
 They disappear hurriedly.) 
 
 Arvin {sees Johnson and recognizes him as a 
 plain clothes policeman). This stranger. I must speak 
 to him at once. I must act quickly {leaving Sara — 
 to Johnson). I am Mr. Crane's secretary. You are 
 waiting for him, I believe? (Arvin has recovered 
 himself entirely now. He shozus decisiveness and 
 alertness. Henceforth he commands the situations 
 and dominates the scene.) 
 
 Johnson. Yes, sir. 
 
 Arvin {zvhispering). He will not be back. He has 
 taken passage on the Alameda for Australia. He 
 will go aboard early this evening. Wait for him at 
 Spreckels' dock. 
 
 Johnson {looking at Arvin searchingly) . You are 
 giving me the straight tip, sir? 
 
 Arvin {has gone to telephone). Yes — he will sail 
 in the morning. 
 
 Johnson {zvinking to Arvin). I think not, sir. 
 I'll be going right away. Exit. 
 
 Bland enters, stops and exchanges a few words 
 with Johnson in doorway. 
 
 Arvin {at telephone — he has already secured his 
 number). Mr. Grane — yes — this is Arvin — I must 
 see you at once at the office. It is vital — to you. At 
 once — yes. Good-bye. 
 
50 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Bland (sJiuts door after Johnson^ tunts and hows 
 to ladies). You see, ladies, I am promptitude itself. 
 Ah, Mr. Arvin — you wished to see me, I believe. 
 
 Arvin {leaving telephone). I did. Some other time 
 will be better. 
 
 Bland I am glad to hear you say that, sir, for 1 
 have a most important matter to take up with Miss 
 Manning. {Produces the photograph. They all ex- 
 amine it). That is the photograph of Sara Relton, 
 to whom belongs, beyond all peradventure of doubt, 
 the entire Relton estate of something over eighteen 
 million dollars according to the last appraisement. 
 Miss Relton, I desire to be the first to offer you my 
 sincere congratulations. 
 
 Sara {shrinking). Thank you — ^but I shall not — 
 {to Arvin). Do you wish it? 
 
 Arvin. Not a penny of it. I am rich now beyond 
 all my dreams of avarice. 
 
 Sara {quietly). I shall not claim the estate. 
 
 Bland {gasping). Why — er — pardon me! You can- 
 not mean? 
 
 Arvin Yes. Exactly what she says. 
 
 Bland. My dear sir — you don't mean — ? 
 
 Arvin {directly to Bland). The situation is 
 changed. I went to your office to return that money. 
 But now it occurs to me to put it ,to another use. 
 You will not mind? 
 
 Bland. That sum is a mere bagatelle, Mr. Arvin. 
 We will waste no time considering it — if you will 
 pardon me. The young lady — your fiance — if I may 
 presume ? 
 
 Arvin. Yes. 
 
 Bland. We can establish her claim within thirty 
 days. The English heirs will not care to contest 
 further, I am sure. Our firm will handle the matter 
 very expeditiously, I assure you — and at the usual 
 five per cent, sir. 
 
 Sara {appealingly) . There must be some way to 
 escape this burden without publicity? 
 
 Bland {gasping). Well — well — er — my dear young 
 lady — of course the English heirs that our firm did 
 represent — they will naturally inherit if you make no 
 appearance in the case. But such a course — 
 
 Arvin. That is probably the solution of the mat- 
 ter. You may consider that we have settled the 
 point, Mr. Bland. {Turns to Sara.) 
 
 Bland {to Mary). I beg pardon, Miss Lambson, 
 but may I suggest that your friend is acting most 
 extraordinarily. I should say now — ah — that she were 
 not mentally sound in her views — that she were 
 non compos mentis, as we sometimes say. 
 
The Fourth Act 51 
 
 Mary. I suppose she isn't quite sane. She's in love, 
 you know — that makes a difference. 
 
 Bland. Decidedly, I should say — and yet — if I 
 may — 
 
 Mary. But she is very determined. I have talked 
 to her about it, and there is no use trying to move 
 her. She will not inherit the estate. 
 
 Bland. How extraordinary ! most extraordinary 
 thing I ever heard of! Can it really be true, Miss 
 Lambson ? 
 
 Mary. Absolutely true. You are coming in con- 
 tact with extraordinary persons today, Mr. Bland. 
 
 Bland. And do you — might I be so bold — do you 
 share — ah — the j^oung lady's strange — er — hallucina- 
 tion? That is, I mean, do you sympathize with her 
 remarkable views? 
 
 Mary. I think she is right — for her — and very 
 wise. 
 
 Bland (shrinking back). Mad as a March hare! 
 All mad here! (Then a bright idea suggests itself.) 
 But think, how the possession of such wealth would 
 rehabilitate the lady's social standing. That — er — 
 old mistake in her life — 
 
 Mary. Quite true. The presence of eighteen mil- 
 lions would obliterate the absence of a ring on her 
 third finger — is it the third finger, Mr. Bland? 
 
 Bland. Assuredly, Miss Lambson. 
 
 Mary. The usages of society are not entirely un- 
 forgiving — I gather? 
 
 Bland. There always may be exceptions. We must 
 not underestimate the advantages of wealth in the 
 social scale. 
 
 Mary. I presume not. But you may accept her 
 word as final. She cares as little for the social scale 
 as she does for the Relton millions. 
 
 Bland. Most extraordinary ! 
 
 Arvin (leaving Sara). I am sure it can be ar- 
 ranged. (To Bland, drazving him aside, while Sara 
 purposely engages Mary) It is Miss Manning's wish 
 to settle a yearly sum on Miss Lambson. But the 
 source of the income must remain unknown. Couldn't 
 it be arranged as an unexpected balance from her 
 father's old estate — say a newly discovered stock 
 certificate, or enhanced mining shares? Any way, so 
 that it appears to be her own — just enough to place 
 her beyond the need of the daily grind? 
 
 Bland (rcAectively). Why — yes — it can be done. 
 It will be an interesting conspiracy, I am sure. 
 
 Arvin. The ends of which will be entirely defeated 
 should it become known to her, or her mother. 
 
 Bland. You can rely on my discretion, Mr. Arvin. 
 
52 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 Now, as to any wish of Miss Manning — remember 
 the entire fortune is at her disposal. 
 
 Arvin. But she doesn't want the entire estate and 
 will not have it — 
 
 Grane enters suddenly and noisily; goes to Arvin. 
 
 Arvin (hurries to Grane and whispers — while 
 Bland stares in surprise). This is too bad — a mo- 
 ment too soon. The police. They have the foreign 
 papers. 
 
 Johnson enters ponderously but hurriedly; looks 
 to Blanu and in response to his affirmative look 
 moves to Grane, zvho is mute and stolid. 
 
 Arvin (interposing quickly). Mr. Bland, you are 
 evidently mistaken. This is not Mr. Grane ! 
 
 Bland. Why! — Why! — What can you mean? 
 
 Arvin (looking very fixedly at Bland). I repeat, 
 sir, that you are entirely mistaken in this gentleman. 
 (Bland and Arvin stare at each other, the one ques- 
 tioningly and half in anger, the other trying to con- 
 vey zmthout words the fact that he is going to shelter 
 Grane from arrest. For a moment it is a duel. Bland 
 zvavers, and the he doesn't understand, he assents.) 
 
 Bland (to Johnson, reluctajitly hut authoritative- 
 ly). Y-e-s — ]\Ir. Arvin is right. This is not your 
 man, sir. 
 
 Arvin. Mr. Lawson, a patron of our firm. 
 
 Johnson is at the door, doubtful. At a sign from 
 Bland he goes out. 
 
 Arvin. Mr. Lawson, I must speak with you at 
 once. Mr. Bland, I will call at your office in the 
 morning. 
 
 Bland, (aside). Mad — all mad here. I will say 
 good-afternoon, ladies (bozvs — muttering as he goes 
 to door) Most extraordinary! 
 
 Mary (opens door for him). Extraordinarj' per- 
 sons — as I told you. 
 
 Arvin (stops Bland at door, looks at him mean- 
 ingly). There must be no reprisal in this. I speak in 
 Miss Manning's name. It will be safe for Mr. — 
 Lawson — to leave here in a few minutes? I must 
 have your word — 
 
 Bland (looks at Sara, zi'ho has come partly tozmrd 
 the door — she returns a glance of entire sympathy 
 with Arvin'.? attitude). It will be safe if he leaves 
 the city at once. 
 
 Arvin. I will answer for that. (Bland goes. Turns 
 to Grane). Now we part with you, Mr. Grane. 
 
 Grane (perplexed, half cowed, but preparing to 
 assert himself). Look-a-here — what does all this 
 mean? 
 
 Arvin (shortly). The law is after j^ou. I sold those 
 
The Fourth Act 53 
 
 foreign papers to Holdt & Reech — 
 
 Grane. You sneak ! 
 
 Arvin. Yes — it was a mean thing to do, but the 
 slander you uttered brought to the surface in me the 
 same kind of demon that is always uppermost in you. 
 
 Grane. Hell, if they have the papers — 
 
 Arvin. Now to business. I received twenty thou- 
 sand dollars for my villainy (takes envelope from 
 his pocket) — and am going to turn it over to you 
 (Grane reaches for it) — if you answer a few ques- 
 tions straight and square. 
 
 Grane. What's your questions? 
 
 Arvin. Is Miss Manning the daughter of Herbert 
 Relton ? 
 
 Grane. Yes. 
 
 Arvin. She relinquishes her claim — will not touch 
 the estate. Do j'ou gather that? 
 
 Grane. Yes — she's queer. 
 
 Arvin. That leaves her with nothing — does it? 
 
 Grane. She has some S. P. stock in her own name. 
 Her father left it when he went back to England. 
 
 Arvin. In the safe? 
 
 Grane. Yes. 
 
 Arvin. Let me have it. 
 
 Grane goes to safe, opens it by combination, takes 
 out several papers and puts them in his pocket. 
 
 Arvin (to Sara, zvho shows the fatigue of the day 
 and is about exhausted, leaning upon Mary). The 
 day's work is nearly over, Sara. 
 
 Grane (returns with the papers. Arvin turns to 
 him). Here they are. 
 
 Arvin (looking them over). What do they net? 
 
 Grane. Twelve hundred, and four thousand. 
 
 Arvin. Does she know of these? 
 
 Grane. The twelve hundred — she uses that. 
 
 Arvin. And you have lived on the other? 
 
 Grane. I used it — but you don't think I lived on 
 four thousand? 
 
 Arvin. Probably not. You lived on graft. 
 
 Grane. Who don't? 
 
 Arvin (looks pointedly at Grane). I can't answer 
 you. 
 
 Grane (sullenly). It's all graft. 
 
 Arvin. Every man doesn't steal. 
 
 Grane. Everyone that don't go down walks on 
 the backs of them that does. 
 
 Arvin. I can't deny it. (Handing him the money) 
 Here's the price of my manhood and decency. I 
 have promised that you would leave the city at once 
 and not return. Go now, and quickly. 
 
 Grane (zvalks to door slotvly, hesitating, his hand 
 
W'Vk »A, i^i^t 
 
 54 Every Man Has His Price 
 
 i)i his coat pocket; at door he stops and turns to 
 Arvin, giving him a certificate). Give this to my 
 wife. It's S. P. stock — she'll need it. 
 
 Arvin. You're not all bad (Goes to door with him 
 and shakes hands in parting, then comes dozvn to 
 his desk, zvhere his Alter Egos appear). 
 
 Heart. Nor is any man all good. 
 
 Head. Some are worse than others — that's all. 
 
 Heart. Some are better than others, you mean. 
 
 Arvin unhccdingly at his desk — locks it, and then 
 turns to the zvomen, zvho have been putting on their 
 zvraps. 
 
 Head The day's work is over. 
 
 Heart. The master has found himself. 
 
 Both disappear. 
 
 Arvin. Sara, my hands are clean. 
 
 Sara. My heart is whole. 
 
 Mary. Love's miracle. 
 
 end of the play