'Is there anything wrong with me ?' he thought, with a pang; and drawing in a seat, obstinately persisted in his attempts to ravish silence, now with sparkling arpeggios, now with a sonata of Beethoven's which (in happier days) he knew to be one of the loudest pieces of that powerful composer.

Still not a sound.

He gave the Broadwood two great bangs with his clenched first.

All was still as the grave.

The young barrister started to his feet.
'I am stark-staring mad,' he cried aloud, 'and no one knows it but myself.