d 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. 'Spoiled 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, caug