The Club of Queer Trades · Chapter 5 (3/3)

“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 £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—”

“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.

Basil let his loose foot fall on the carpet with a crash that struck them all rigid in their feeble attitudes.

“Idiots!” he cried. “Have you seen the man? Have you looked at James Chadd going dismally to and fro from his dingy house to your miserable library, with his futile books and his confounded umbrella, and never seen that he has the eyes of a fanatic? Have you never noticed, stuck casually behind his spectacles and above his seedy old collar, the face of a man who might have burned heretics, or died for the philosopher’s stone? It is all my fault, in a way: I lit the dynamite of his deadly faith. I argued against him on the score of his famous theory about language⁠—the theory that language was complete in certain individuals and was picked up by others simply by watching them. I also chaffed him about not understanding things in rough and ready practice. What has this glorious bigot done? He has answered me. He has worked out a system of language of his own (it would take too long to explain); he has made up, I say, a language of his own. And he has sworn that till people understand it, till he can speak to us in this language, he will not speak in any other. And he shall not. I have understood, by taking careful notice; and, by heaven, so shall the others. This shall not be blown upon. He shall finish his experiment. He shall have £800 a year from somewhere till he has stopped dancing. To stop him now is an infamous war on a great idea. It is religious persecution.”

Mr. Bingham held out his hand cordially.

“I thank you, Mr. Grant,” he said. “I hope I shall be able to answer for the source of the £800 and I fancy that I shall. Will you come in my cab?”

“No, thank you very much, Mr. Bingham,” said Grant heartily. “I think I will go and have a chat with the professor in the garden.”

The conversation between Chadd and Grant appeared to be personal and friendly. They were still dancing when I left.