more inclined to fall in with Heatherlegh's "spectral illusion"
theory, implicating eyes, brain, and stomach. I wrote to Kitty,
telling her that a slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse kept
me indoors for a few days; and that I should be recovered before
she had time to regret my absence.

Heatherlegh's treatment was simple to a degree. It consisted of
liver pills, cold-water baths, and strong exercise, taken in the dusk
or at early dawn--for, as he sagely observed: "A man with a
sprained ankle doesn't walk a dozen miles a day, and your young
woman might be wondering if she saw you."

At the end of the week, after much examination of pupil and pulse,
and strict injunctions as to diet and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh
dismissed me as brusquely as he had taken charge of me. Here is
his parting benediction: "Man, I can certify to your mental cure,
and that's as much as to say I've cured most of your bodily
ailments. Now, get your traps out of this as soon as you can; and
be off to make love to Miss Kitty."

I was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness. He cut
me short.

"Don't think I did this because I like you. I gather that you've
behaved like a blackguard all through. But, all the same, you're a
phenomenon, and as queer a phenomenon as you are a blackguard.
No!"--checking me a second time--"not a rupee, please. Go out and
see if you can find the eyes-brain-and-stomach business again. I'll
give you a lakh for each time you see it."