e of a pas-de-quatre, Basil Grant seemed
about to turn a cart-wheel, when they were frozen in their follies by
the steely voice of Adelaide Chadd saying, "Mr Bingham of the British
Museum."

Mr Bingham was a slim, well-clad gentleman with a pointed and slightly
effeminate grey beard, unimpeachable gloves, and formal but agreeable
manners. He was the type of the over-civilized, as Professor Chadd was
of the uncivilized pedant. His formality and agreeableness did him some
credit under the circumstances. He had a vast experience of books and a
considerable experience of the more dilettante fashionable salons. But
neither branch of knowledge had accustomed him to the spectacle of two
grey-haired middle-class gentlemen in modern costume throwing themselves
about like acrobats as a substitute for an after-dinner nap.

The professor continued his antics with perfect placidity, but Grant
stopped abruptly. The doctor had reappeared on the scene, and his shiny
black eyes, under his shiny black hat, moved restlessly from one of them
to the other.

"Dr Colman," said Basil, turning to him, "will you entertain Professor
Chadd again for a little while? I am sure that he needs you. Mr Bingham,
might I have the pleasure of a few moments' private conversation? My
name is Grant."

Mr Bingham, of the British Museum, bowed in a manner that was respectful
but a trifle bewildered.

"Miss Chadd will excuse me," continued Basil easily, "if I know my way
about the house." And he led the dazed librarian rapidly through the
back door into the parlour.

"Mr Bingham," said Basil, setting a chair for him, "I imagine that Miss
Chadd has told you of this distressing occurrence."

"She has, Mr Grant," said Bingham, looking at the table with a sort
of compassionate nervousness. "I am more pained than I can say by this
dreadful calamity. It seems quite heart-rending that the thing should
have happened just as we have decided to give your eminent friend
a position which falls far short of his merits. As it is, of
course--really, I don't know what to say. Professor Chadd may, of
course, retain--I sincerely trust he will--his extraordinarily valuable
intellect. But I am afraid--I am really afraid--that it would not do to
have the curator of the Asiatic manuscripts--er--dancing about."

"I have a suggestion to make," said Basil, and sat down abruptly in his
chair, drawing it up to the table.

"I am delighted, of course," said the gentleman from the