I noticed a considerable change in the old gentleman’s manner and appearance in the last ten days.  His bright red colour was nearly faded, his eyes had grown larger and less bright, he had lost flesh, and his tone was subdued in the extreme.  He came from his dressing-glass to greet me with a ghost of the old smile on his face, and his hand stretched eagerly out.

“My dear Mr. Griggs, I am sincerely glad to see you.”

“I have not been in Simla two hours,” I answered, “and I found your note.  How is Miss Westonhaugh?  I am so sorry to——­”

“Don’t talk about her, Griggs.  I am afraid she’s g—­g—­goin’ to die.”  He nearly broke down, but he struggled bravely.  I was terribly shocked, though a moment’s reflection told me that so strong and healthy a person would not die so easily.  I expressed my sympathy as best I could.

“What is it?  What is the illness?” I asked when he was quieter.

“Jungle fever, my dear fellow, jungle fever; caught in that beastly tiger-hunt.  Oh!  I wish I had never taken her.  I wish we had never gone.  Why wasn’t I firm?  Damn it all, sir, why wasn’t I firm, eh?” In his anger at himself something of the former jerky energy of the man showed itself.  Then it faded away into the jaded sorrowful look that was on his face when I came in.  He sat down with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his scanty gray hair, his suspenders hanging down at his sides—­the picture of misery.  I tried to console him, but I confess I felt very much like breaking down myself.  I did not see what I could do, except break the bad news to Isaacs.

“Mr. Griggs,” he said at last, “she has been asking for you all the time, and the doctor thought if you came she had best see you, as it might quiet her.  Understand?” I understood better than he thought.

People who are dangerously ill have no morning and no evening.  Their hours are eternally the same, save for the alternation of suffering and rest.  The nurse and the doctor are their sun and moon, relieving each other in the watches of day and night.  As they are worse—­as they draw nearer to eternity, they are less and less governed by ideas of time.  A dying person will receive a visit at midnight or at mid-day with no thought but to see the face of friend—­or foe—­once more.  So I was not surprised to find that Miss Westonhaugh would see me; in an interval of the fever she had been moved to a chair in her room, and her brother was with her.  I might go in—­indeed she sent a very urgent message imploring that I would go.  I went.

The morning sun was beating brightly on the shutters, and the room looked cheerful as I entered.  John Westonhaugh, paler than death, came quickly to the door and grasped my hand.