But it was not to be. From India he wrote to me that he was coming
home. I had not met the Fawley woman for some time, and she had
gone out of my mind until one day, chancing upon a theatrical
paper, some weeks old, I read that "Miss Fawley had sailed for
Calcutta to fulfil an engagement of long standing."
I had his last letter in my pocket. I sat down and worked out the
question of date. She would arrive in Calcutta the day before he
left. Whether it was chance or intention on her part I never knew;
as likely as not the former, for there is a fatalism in this world
shaping our ends.
I heard no more from him, I hardly expected to do so, but three
months later a mutual acquaintance stopped me on the Club steps.
"Have you heard the news," he said, "about young Harjohn?"
"No," I replied. "Is he married?"
"Married," he answered, "No, poor devil, he's dead!"
"Thank God," was on my lips, but fortunately I checked myself.
"How did it happen?" I asked.
"At a shooting party, up at some Rajah's place. Must have caught
his gun in some brambles, I suppose. The bullet went clean through
his head.
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