"Papa persists in making fun of me because I see a connection between what happened six years ago, and the things that have been coming up lately, but I leave you to judge. There have been no tricks on us, no disturbances about the house, but there have been stories circulated, perfectly outrageous stories,--"
"The highwayman story?"
"That is one of them."
"But surely the best way to treat that is with silent contempt!"
But Leslie shook her head.
"That isn't papa's way. He answers back. And it certainly is annoying to have your neighbors repeating such tales, and humiliating to find that they are ready to go more than halfway in believing them."
"It is not only humiliating; it is expensive," murmured Dr. Underwood, letting his head fall back against the cushions of the couch, and closing his eyes a little wearily. "You can't expect people to call in a doctor who is suspected of robbing the public and occasionally poisoning a patient. I have practically nothing left but charity patients now, and pretty soon they will consider that it is a charity to let me prescribe for them."
Burton's eyes were drawn to Leslie's face. She was looking at her father with a passion of pity and sympathy that was more eloquently expressed through her silence than by any words. Mrs. Underwood broke the silence with her judicial speech.
"I do not think," she said, "that there has ever been anything in your treatment of your patients that would at all justify the idea that you poisoned Mr. Means. Therefore, you can rest assured that the story will do you no harm. We really can suffer only from our own acts."
Underwood opened his eyes and looked at Burton with portentous gravity.