The Club of Queer Trades
"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 some what 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
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