"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.
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