It is true, for the matter of that, all women of any kind think all men of any kind mad.

But they don't put it in telegrams, any more than they wire to you that grass is green or God all-merciful.

These things are truisms, and often private ones at that.

If Miss Chadd has written down under the eye of a strange woman in a post-office that her brother is off his head you may be perfectly certain that she did it because it was a matter of life and death, and she can think of no other way of forcing us to come promptly." "It will force us of course," I said, smiling.
"Oh, yes," he replied; "there is a cab-rank near." Basil scarcely said a word as we drove across Westminster Bridge, through Trafalgar Square, along Piccadilly, and up the Uxbridge Road.
Only as he was opening the gate he spoke.
"I think you will take my word for it, my friend," he said; "this is one of the most queer and complicated and astounding incidents that ever happened in London or, for that matter, in any high civilization." "I confess with the greatest sympathy and reverence that I don't quite see it," I said.

"Is it so very extraordinary or complicated that a dreamy somnambulant old invalid who has always walked on the borders of the inconceivable should go mad under the shock of great joy?
Is it so very extraordinary that a man with a head like a turnip and a soul like a spider's web should not find his strength equal to a confounding change of fortunes?
Is it, in short, so very extraordinary that James Chadd should lose his wits from excitement ?" "It would not be extraordinary in the least," answered Basil, with placidity.