My notion is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirtation.  He certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engagement.  Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts developed itself.  Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and killed him, poor devil.  Write him off to the System—­one man to do the work of two-and-a-half men.”

I do not believe this.  I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when Heatherlegh was called out to visit patients and I happened to be within claim.  The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice the procession of men, women, children, and devils that was always passing at the bottom of his bed.  He had a sick man’s command of language.  When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his mind.  When little boys have learned a new bad word they are never happy till they have chalked it up on a door.  And this also is Literature.

He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder Magazine style he adopted did not calm him.  Two months afterwards he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden.  I secured his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair, dated 1885:—­

* * * * *

My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air.  It is not improbable that I shall get both ere long—­rest that neither the red-coated orderly nor the mid-day gun can break, and change of air far beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me.  In the meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my doctor’s orders, to take all the world into my confidence.  You shall learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too, judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth was ever so tormented as I.

Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear, demands at least attention.  That it will ever receive credence I utterly disbelieve.  Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man who had dared tell me the like.  Two months ago I was the happiest man in India.  To-day, from Peshawar to the sea, there is no one more wretched.  My doctor and I are the only two who know this.  His explanation is that my brain, digestion and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to my frequent and persistent “delusions.”  Delusions, indeed!  I call him a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same bland professional manner, the same neatly-trimmed red whiskers, till I begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid.  But you shall judge for yourselves.