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“Precisely,” said Grant composedly.

“That this absurd payment is not only to run on with the absurd dancing, but actually to stop with the absurd dancing?”

“One must stop somewhere,” said Grant. “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? Why hasn’t he spoken to his family?”

“The devil knows,” said Dr Colman coolly. “I’m paid to judge of lunatics, but not of fools. The man’s not mad.”

“What on earth can it mean? Can’t we make him listen?” said Mr Bingham. “Can none get into any kind of communication with him?”

Grant’s voice struck in sudden and clear, like a steel bell:

“I shall be very happy,” he said, “to give him any message you like to send.”

Both men stared at him.

“Give him a message?” they cried simultaneously. “How will you give him a message?”

Basil smiled in his slow way.

“If you really want to know how I shall give him your message,” he began, but Bingham cried:

“Of course, of course,” with a sort of frenzy.

“Well,” said Basil, “like this.” And he suddenly sprang a foot into the air, coming down with crashing boots, and then stood on one leg.

His face was stern, though this effect was slightly spoiled by the fact that one of his feet was making wild circles in the air.

“You drive me to it,” he said. “You drive me to betray my friend. And I will, for his own sake, betray him.”

The sensitive face of Bingham took on an extra expression of distress as of one anticipating some disgraceful disclosure. “Anything painful, of course–” he began.