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.”
“Dear me,” I said, “how very sad!” I could think of nothing else to say at the moment.