"Of course."

Bingham rose and took up his perfect stick and gloves.

"There is really nothing more to be said, Mr Grant," he said coldly.
"What you are trying to explain to me may be a joke--a slightly
unfeeling joke. It may be your sincere view, in which case I ask your
pardon for the former suggestion. But, in any case, it appears quite
irrelevant to my duties. The mental morbidity, the mental downfall, of
Professor Chadd, is a thing so painful to me that I cannot easily endure
to speak of it. But it is clear there is a limit to everything. And if
the Archangel Gabriel went mad it would sever his connection, I am sorry
to say, with the British Museum Library."

He was stepping towards the door, but Grant's hand, flung out in
dramatic warning, arrested him.

"Stop!" said Basil sternly. "Stop while there is yet time. Do you want
to take part in a great work, Mr Bingham? Do you want to help in the
glory of Europe--in the glory of science? Do you want to carry your head
in the air when it is bald or white because of the part that you bore in
a great discovery? Do you want--"

Bingham cut in sharply:

"And if I do want this, Mr Grant--"

"Then," said Basil lightly, "your task is easy. Get Chadd L800 a year
till he stops dancing."

With a fierce flap of his swinging gloves Bingham turned impatiently
to the door, but in passing out of it found it blocked. Dr Colman was
coming in.

"Forgive me, gentlemen," he said, in a nervous, confidential voice, "the
fact is, Mr Grant, I--er--have made a most disturbing discovery about Mr
Chadd."

Bingham looked at him with grave eyes.

"I was afraid so," he said. "Drink, I imagine."

"Drink!" echoed Colman, as if that were a much milder affair. "Oh, no,
it's not drink."

Mr Bingham became somewhat agitated, and his voice grew hurried and
vague. "Homicidal mania--" he began.

"No, no," said the medical man impatiently.

"Thinks he's made of glass," said Bingham feverishly, "or says he's
God--or--"

"No," said Dr Colman sharply; "the fact is, Mr Grant, my discovery is of
a different character. The awful thing about him is--"

"Oh, go on, sir," cried Bingham, in agony.

"The awful thing about him is," repeated Colman, with deliberation,
"that he isn't mad."

"Not mad!"

"There are quite well-known physical tests of lunacy," said the doctor
shortly; "he hasn't got any of them."

"But why does he dance?" cried the despairing Bingham. "Why doesn't he
answer us? Wh