In weary melancholy Johanna said to herself: “How runs the stage-direction in the old comedies? Exit. Yes, exit. Short and sweet. Exit Johanna. Go your ways.” She threw a last look around the dim room, and, lean and shadowy, was the last to slip through the door. XXXIV When, two days later, Letitia and Crammon arrived in Stolpische Street, they were told that Christian Wahnschaffe was no longer there. Both flats had been cleared of furniture and were announced as to let. Nor could any one give them any light on whither he had gone or where he was. The house-agent said he had told his acquaintances that he was leaving the city. To Crammon’s discomfort, a little crowd of people gathered around the motor car, and jeering remarks were heard. “Too late,” Letitia said. “I shall never forgive myself.” “Oh, yes, you will, my child, you will,” Crammon assured her; and they returned to the realms of pleasure. Letitia forgave herself that very evening. And what could she have done with so questionable a burden on her conscience? It was but a venial sin. The first tinkle of a glass, the first twang of a violin, the first fragrance of a flower obliterated it. But at Crammon that neglect and lateness gnawed more and more and not less. In his naïve ignorance he imagined that he could have prevented that extreme step, had he but come two days earlier. Now his loss was sealed and final. He fancied that he might have laid his hand on Christian’s shoulder and given him an earnest and admonishing look, and that Christian, put to shame, might have spoken: “Yes, Bernard, you are right. It was all a mistake. Let us send for a bottle of wine, and consider how we may spend the future most amusingly.” Whenever, like a collector who examines his enviously guarded treasures, Crammon turned over his memories of life, it was always the figure of Christian that arose before him in a kind of apotheosis. It was the Christian of the early days, and he only--amid the dogs in the park, in the moonlit nights under the plantain, in the exquisite halls of the dancer, Christian laughing, laughing more beautifully than the muleteer of Cordova, Christian the seductive, the extravagant, the lord of life--Eidolon. Thus he saw him. Thus he carried his image through time. And rumours came to him which he did not believe. People appeared who had heard it said that Christian Wahnschaffe had been seen during the great catastrophe in the mines of Hamm. He had gone down into the shafts and helped bring up the bodies of men. Others came who asserted that he was living in the East End of London, in the companionship of the lowest and most depraved; and again others pretended to know that he had been seen in the Chinese quarter of New York. Crammon said: “Nonsense, it isn’t Christian. It’s his double.” He was afraid of the grey years that drew nearer like fogs over the face of the waters.