He was right, and I remained silent.
As I moved to go, the superintendent took my hand again.
"You have met with a great misfortune, Monk,—a little carelessness on your part, a bagatelle which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, would have resulted in nothing, has, by force of circumstances, driven you from a post which you have filled with much energy and ability. And if I am not mistaken, a greater misfortune has befallen, or, in any case is likely to befall, one whom you hold dear. With regard to the first, you are a man of energy, and it is hardly necessary to ask you not to lose courage; you have done nothing wrong, and the world is wide and generally repays one for one's labour. As for the latter, I have also some advice. Wait patiently! I read plainly in your face what you intend doing—you will use all your strength and energy in trying to prove this lady's innocence, against whom everything now seems to tell, and it is far from my intention to dissuade you in this—perhaps you will succeed. This much, experience has taught me,—that nothing is impossible. But should you not succeed—and who can tell? do not make the mistake of ruining your life for the sake of a woman—kinder to yourself and to her to break and have done with, it at once, before it shall be too late. Remember, too, that what is, is inevitable, and that one cannot build a house of bricks which are already crumbled to dust; break with it, the earlier the better—before it is too late—and do not attempt to produce the impossible from a thing which has already proved to be dust. If I can ever help you, now or later, then come to me without hesitancy."
These were my superior's friendly and fatherly words. In the years which have passed by I have only spoken with him once since then upon this matter.
* * * * *
I was at that time twenty-seven years old, and when the next day dawned, my courage and energy had returned.
The superintendent was right when he had read in my face the determination to leave no stone unturned, in order to prove the innocence of my fiancée—for she was still my fiancée. But I was not to proceed far in the matter before I discovered that my position at the time—for I was no longer at the head of a large detective department of the police—made my work both difficult and unremunerative. It seemed as if an inexorable fate had decided that the drama, as it had begun, should be played out to the end, and that no human intervention would be tolerated.
"Didn't you see Sigrid at once?" asks Clara, suddenly.
"No, it was impossible; I'll tell you just how matters stood: the very next day all the papers in the town began to speak of the conduct of the police as it was called. Some even hinted that I should be prosecuted, as my concealment of the truth had almost led to an innocent person being convicted. This, however, soon passed over, as my resignation was accepted without delay. But the result was that in many places I was received with distrust, and that the superintendent, with whom I had corresponded about the matter, dared on no account to give me permission to see the young girl who was under arrest."
I have here some notes from my diary, following from that time on; let me read them to you. It is not my habit to keep a diary; that kind of self-confession has never been to my taste, but at that time I did it from purely professional reasons—in order to have notes to help me in my work.