"I took the precaution to get this man's address from the constable last night." "And what was it ?" asked his brother gruffly.
"The constable will correct me if I am wrong," said Rupert, looking sweetly at the ceiling.

"It was: The Elms, Buxton Common, near Purley, Surrey." "Right, sir," said the policeman, laughing and folding up his papers.
There was a silence, and the blue eyes of Basil looked blindly for a few seconds into the void.

Then his head fell back in his chair so suddenly that I started up, thinking him ill.

But before I could move further his lips had flown apart (I can use no other phrase) and a peal of gigantic laughter struck and shook the ceiling--laughter that shook the laughter, laughter redoubled, laughter incurable, laughter that could not stop.
Two whole minutes afterwards it was still unended; Basil was ill with laughter; but still he laughed.

The rest of us were by this time ill almost with terror.
"Excuse me," said the insane creature, getting at last to his feet.
"I am awfully sorry.