John Barrington Cowles

It might seem rash of me to say that I ascribe the death of my poor
friend, John Barrington Cowles, to any preternatural agency. I am
aware that in the present state of public feeling a chain of
evidence would require to be strong indeed before the possibility
of such a conclusion could be admitted.

I shall therefore merely state the circumstances which led up to
this sad event as concisely and as plainly as I can, and leave
every reader to draw his own deductions. Perhaps there may be some
one who can throw light upon what is dark to me.

I first met Barrington Cowles when I went up to Edinburgh
University to take out medical classes there. My landlady in
Northumberland Street had a large house, and, being a widow without
children, she gained a livelihood by providing accommodation for
several students.

Barrington Cowles happened to have taken a bedroom upon the same
floor as mine, and when we came to know each other better we shared
a small sitting-room, in which we took our meals. In this manner
we originated a friendship which was unmarred by the slightest
disagreement up to the day of his death.

Cowles' father was the colonel of a Sikh regiment and had remained
in India for many years. He allowed his son a handsome income, but
seldom gave any other sign of parental affection--writing
irregularly and briefly.

My friend, who had himself been born in India, and whose whole
disposition was an ardent tropical one, was much hurt by this
neglect. His mother was dead, and he had no other relation in the
world to supply the blank.

Thus he came in time to concentrate all his affection upon me, and
to confide in me in a manner which is rare among men. Even when a
stronger and deeper passion came upon him, it never infringed upon
the old tenderness between us.

Cowles was a tall, slim young fellow, with an olive, Velasquez-like
face, and dark, tender eyes. I have seldom seen a man who was more
likely to excite a woman's interest, or to captivate her
imagination. His expression was, as a rule, dreamy, and even
languid; but if in conversation a subject arose which interested
him he would be all animation in a moment. On such occasions his
colour would heighten, his eyes gleam, and he could speak with an
eloquence which would carry his audience with him.

In spite of these natural advantages he led a solitary life,
avoiding female society, and reading with great diligence. He was
one of the foremost men of his year, taking the senior medal for
anatomy, and the Neil Arnott prize for physics.

How well I can recollect the first time we met her! Often and
often I have recalled the circumstances, and tried to remember what
the exact impression was which