When he had departed, and was in his room again, he locked the door, and buried himself in reflection.
“What is to come of all this?” he thought. “Do I love Florence Darley? Has her loveliness so soon made me a slave? I fear that it is so, for thoughts of her crowd everything else from my mind, and her picture is before me every instant. Oh, Florence, I do love you! But it must be a secret, unwhispered, unhinted at. For to play the suitor under this false name and character would be dishonorable. But if my innocence is proven, if Carlos Conrad ever stands before the world again with character unblemished, then will the homage and devotion of a human heart be laid before you.”
The days went on. The music lessons were given regularly, and all the while Karl Zikoff’s passionate adoration of his pupil grew in strength. Oftentimes, sitting by her side, he would find himself gazing into her face, so absorbed with the feelings that stirred him as to be entirelyunconscious of whether the lesson were well or illy played. Then he would suddenly recollect himself, and, with a pang at the thought of the great barrier between them, offer a sharp criticism at random, and shortly afterward take his leave with an abrupt and formal “good-day.”
In the meantime, he prospered well, receiving in his new vocation a large and profitable patronage. Society opened its arms to him, and he received the homage due to true refinement and real talent. In the eyes of the world there was nothing lacking to fill him with contentment. But there were two secrets gnawing at his heart—his unconfessed love, and his real identity—that made life far from a round of pleasure, and imposed on him a burden that was at times hard to bear.
Bleak November came, and afterward the snows of December. The Christmas holidays came, and still his life went on in the same dull monotony. He had observed closely the habits of Geoffrey Haywood, and had made two visits to Rocky Beach. But he had failed to make any discoveries. Mr. Haywood’s secret was well guarded, and there was no clew or suspicious circumstances to seize upon.
Many of Herr Zikoff’s lessons were given in his music-room, on Main street, and it was here, one day, early in January, that he received another visit that filled him with forebodings.
A lesson was nearly finished, when heavy, shambling footsteps were heard slowly ascending the stairs. The door was opened a few inches, and a rough-looking face peered in. It was quickly closed again, however, and the visitor waited outside until the lesson was finished, and the pupil had departed.
Then a man of large stature and rude appearance entered, and stood for a moment in awkward silence.
Karl Zikoff instantly recognized him as Jake Heath, the man at whose house he had stopped on the night of the murder. A thrill of wonder and apprehension shot through him, but he had his outward demeanor well under control, and welcomed the visitor in courteous broken English.
“You’re the music-master, I s’pose?” said Mr. Heath.