“And if I do want this, Mr Grant—”
“Then,” said Basil lightly, “your task is easy. Get Chadd £800 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—”