Morbid sort of fancy I call it, but I’ve got to do what the Memsahib tells me.  Would you believe that the man she hired it from tells me that all four of the men, they were brothers, died of cholera, on the way to Hardwar, poor devils; and the ’rickshaw has been broken up by the man himself.  Told me he never used a dead Memsahib’s ’rickshaw.  Spoilt his luck.  Queer notion, wasn’t it?  Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one’s luck except her own!” I laughed aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it.  So there were ghosts of ’rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the other world!  How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men?  What were their hours?  Where did they go?

And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal thing blocking my path in the twilight.  The dead travel fast and by short-cuts unknown to ordinary coolies.  I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad.  Mad to a certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in my horse at the head of the ’rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington “good evening.”  Her answer was one I knew only too well.  I listened to the end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should be delighted if she had anything further to say.  Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the thing in front of me.

“Mad as a hatter, poor devil—­or drunk.  Max, try and get him to come home.”

Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington’s voice!  The two men had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me.  They were very kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered that I was extremely drunk.  I thanked them confusedly and cantered away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings’ ten minutes late.  I pleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down.

The conversation had already become general; and, under cover of it, I was addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describing with much broidery his encounter with a mad unknown that evening.  A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half an hour ago.  In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed.  There was a moment’s awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered something to the effect that he had “forgotten the rest”; thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built up for six seasons past.  I blessed him from the bottom of my heart and—­went on with my fish.

In the fullness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty—­as certain as I was of my own existence that It would be waiting for me outside the door.  The red-whiskered man, who had been introduced to me as Dr. Heatherlegh of Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay together.  I accepted his offer with gratitude.