"If one may quote the Bard, sir, in this connection"--Mr.
Basket wound up his recital--"like an insubstantial pageant faded he
has left not a rack behind; that is to say, unless the letter in your
hands may be considered as answering that description."
"There's only one explanation," the Doctor declared. "The man must
be mad."
Mr. Basket considered this for a moment and shook his head. "We left
him, sir, in the completest possession of his faculties. In all my
long acquaintance with him I never detected the smallest symptom of
mental aberration; and last night--good God! to think that this
happened no longer ago than last night!"--Mr. Basket passed a hand
over his brow--"Last night, sir, I recognised with delight the same
shrewd judgment, the same masculine intellect, the same large outlook
on men and affairs, the same self-confidence and self-respect--in
short, sir, all the qualities for which I ever admired my old
friend."
"Nevertheless," the Doctor insisted, "he must have been mad when he
penned this letter."
"Of the contents of which, let me remind you, I am still ignorant."
The Doctor glanced at Miss Marty, then handed the letter to Mr.
Basket with a bow. "You have a right to peruse it, sir. You will
see, however, that its contents are of a strictly private nature, and
will respect this lady's confidence."
"Certainly, certainly." Mr. Basket drew out his spectacles, and,
receiving Miss Marty's permission, seated himself at the table,
spread out the letter and slowly read it through.
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