Basil Grant had gone mad.

I could imagine no other explanation of the facts, with the portly, purple-faced old country gentleman flung there strangled on the floor like a bundle of wood.
After about four hours a lean figure in evening dress rushed into the court.

A glimpse of gaslight showed the red moustache and white face of Jasper Drummond.
"Mr Grant," he said blankly, "the thing is incredible.

You were right; but what did you mean?
All through this dinner-party, where dukes and duchesses and editors of Quarterlies had come especially to hear him, that extraordinary Wimpole kept perfectly silent.

He didn't say a funny thing.