The Club of Queer Trades
there; you can just hear him talking to himself.'
"Perhaps he's talking to us," I said.
"No," said Rupert, "he'd shout if he was. I've never known him to talk to himself before; I'm afraid he really is bad to-night; it's a known sign of the brain going."
"Yes," I said, sadly, and listened. Basil's voice certainly was sounding above us, and not by any means in the rich and riotous tones in which he had hailed us before. He was speaking quietly, and laughing every now and then, up there among the leaves and stars.
After a silence mingled with this murmur, Rupert Grant suddenly said, "My God!" with a violent voice.
"What's the matter—are you hurt?" I cried, alarmed.
"No. Listen to Basil," said the other, in a very strange voice. "He's not talking to himself."
"Then he is talking to us," I cried.
"No," said Rupert, simply, "he's talking to somebody else."
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