“To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.”
“Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.”
“So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?”
“Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have indicated.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. What difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost to me forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have a clear understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to me.”
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” Epstein demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth about it, had I foreseen this.”
“Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was my right to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case. Good-by.”
“You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come back to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.”
As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope into my hand; and vanished.
I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman, Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. Lexow. I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent and a notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real name having been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as you have paid up.”
I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the person whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to be regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.”
I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due.
“I am very sorry,” she began, “but the reputation of my house—but the other lodgers—but—”
“You needn’t apologize,” I interposed, and left the house.
It occurred to me that it would be necessary to find work whereby to earn my livelihood. I had quite forgotten that I was poor. What should I do?
The notion of giving music lessons again I could not entertain. Music had become hateful to me. I could not touch my violin. I could not even unlock the case and look at the instrument. It was too closely associated with the cause of my sorrow. The mere memory of a strain of music, drifting through my mind, was enough to cut my heart like a knife. Music was out of the question.