It had come now.
At the very moment of delivering a judgement for the salvation of a fellow creature, Basil Grant had gone mad.
"Your whiskers," he cried, advancing with blazing eyes.

"Give me your whiskers.

And your bald head." The old vicar naturally retreated a step or two.

I stepped between.
"Sit down, Basil," I implored, "you're a little excited.

Finish your wine." "Whiskers," he answered sternly, "whiskers." And with that he made a dash at the old gentleman, who made a dash for the door, but was intercepted.