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.
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