A firm of photographers who generously invite officers to have their portraits taken free of charge, now offered the plate for a consideration to the illustrated papers; and even as I write these lines many months later, my picture is dished up again in this week's issue of an illustrated magazine as among the dead.
In short, during those few weeks which followed my fall, I became as dead and completely buried as modern conventions demanded.
It is expensive to die and not be dead, for clothes of mourning cannot afterwards be hidden under any other disguises; and it is a peculiar feeling to be called upon to pay for your own funeral expenses.
And when once you are officially dead it is very difficult to come officially to life again. Months have passed, and I am still waiting for the official correction to appear.
As I walk through the streets of London my friends stare at me as though I were a ghost. I feel as though I am a living apology for the mistake of others.
To the illustrated magazine I have just referred to I wrote assuring the editor that I had every reason to believe he was wrong in his contention. He replied, enclosing my photograph, and asking me if I was sure I was not some other person, as the picture referred to an officer who was surely dead.
Perhaps even now I am wrong. Yet, I ought to know.