In the spring of 1865 I went down to Bournemouth to see, for the last time, an old friend who was dying of consumption. During a great part of the journey down I had for a travelling companion a well-dressed gentlemanly man of about forty years of age. We were alone in the , and after interchanging some small civilities, such as the of newspapers, slid into conversation. My fellow-traveller seemed to be an intellectual man, and well posted up in the doings of the day. He talked fluently and easily on various topics, and judging by his talk must have moved in good society. Although I fancied his features bore traces of hard living and dissipation, he was not unprepossessing in appearance. The greatest faults in his face were the thinness of the lips, and his eyes being a shade closer together than one cares to see. With a casual acquaintance such are of little moment, but for my part I should not choose for a friend one who them without due trial and searching proof.  
At this time the English public were much interested in an important will case which was then being tried. The reversion to a vast sum of money depended upon the testator’s or . Like most other people we duly discussed the matter. I suppose, from some of my remarks, my companion understood that I was a doctor. He asked me a good many technical questions, and I described several curious cases of which had come under my notice. He seemed greatly interested in the subject.
 
“You must sometimes find it hard to say where sanity ends and insanity begins,” he said thoughtfully.
 
“Yes. The boundary-line is in some instances hard to define. To give in such a case an opinion which would satisfy myself I should want to have known the patient at the time he was considered quite .”
 
“To mark the difference?”
 
“Exactly. And to know the of the character. For instance, there is a friend of mine. He was sane when last I saw him, but for all I know he may have made great progress the other way in the .”
 
Then without mentioning names, dates, or places, I described Carriston’s to my intelligent listener. He heard me with rapt interest.
 
“You predict he will go mad?” he said.
 
“Certainly not. Unless anything unforeseen arises he will probably live and die as sane as you or I.”
 
“Why do you fear for him, then?”
 
“For this reason. I think that any sudden emotion—violent[214] grief, for instance—any unexpected and crushing blow—might at once disturb the balance of his mind. Let his life run on in an even , and all will be well with him.”
 
My companion was silent for a few moments.
 
“Did you mention your friend’s name?” he asked.
 
I laughed. “Doctors never give names when they quote cases.”
 
At the next station my companion left the train. He bade me a polite adieu, and thanked me for the pleasure my conversation had given him. After wondering what station in life he occupied I dismissed him from my mind, as one who had crossed my path for a short time and would probably never cross it again.
 
Although I did not see Charles Carriston I received several letters from him during the course of the year. He had not forgotten our to pass my next holiday together. Early in the autumn, just as I was beginning to long with a for open air and blue skies, a letter came from Carriston. He was now, he said, roughing it in the Western Highlands. He reminded me of last year’s promise. Could I get away from work now? Would I join him? If I did not care to visit Scotland, would I suggest some other place where he could join me? Still, the scenery by which he was now surrounded was superb, and the accommodation he had secured, if not , fairly comfortable. He thought we could not do better. A to his letter asked me to address him as Cecil Carr, not Charles Carriston. He had a reason for changing his name; a foolish reason I should no doubt call it. When we met he would let me know it.
 
This letter at once me to accept his invitation.[215] In a week’s time my arrangements for leave of absence were complete, and I was speeding in the highest spirits, and well equipped with everything necessary for my favorite holiday pursuit. I looked forward with the greatest pleasure to again meeting Carriston. I found him at Callendar waiting for me. The coach did not follow the route we were obliged to take in order to reach the somewhat unfrequented part of the country in which our tent was pitched, so my............