"Why, I can tell you that, Basil," he said graciously as he idly
plucked leaves from a plant in the window. "I took the precaution
to get this man's address from the constable last night."
"And what was it?" asked his brother gruffly.
"The constable will correct me if I am wrong," said Rupert,
looking sweetly at the ceiling. "It was: The Elms, Buxton
Common, near Purley, Surrey."
"Right, sir," said the policeman, laughing and folding up his
papers.
There was a silence, and the blue eyes of Basil looked blindly for
a few seconds into the void. Then his head fell back in his chair
so suddenly that I started up, thinking him ill. But before I could
move further his lips had flown apart (I can use no other phrase)
and a peal of gigantic laughter struck and shook the ceiling--
laughter that shook the laughter, laughter redoubled, laughter
incurable, laughter that could not stop.
Two whole minutes afterwards it was still unended; Basil was ill
with laughter; but still he laughed. The rest of us were by this
time ill almost with terror.
"Excuse me," said the insane creature, getting at last to his feet.
"I am awfully sorry. It is horribly rude. And stupid, too. And also
unpractical, because we have not much time to lose if we're to get
down to that place.
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