I was walking down it too, that morning, and I overtook Hay and asked him what the trouble was.

He turned a lustreless eye upon me and said: "My case is beyond cure.

In the most innocent way in the world I have committed a crime which will never be forgiven by the sufferers, for they will never believe--oh, well, no, I was going to say they would never believe that I did the thing innocently.

The truth is they will know that I acted innocently, because they are rational people; but what of that?
I never can look them in the face again--nor they me, perhaps." Hay was a young bachelor, and at that time was on the "Tribune" staff.
He explained his trouble in these words, substantially: "When I was passing along here yesterday morning on my way down-town to the office, I stepped into a bookstore where I am acquainted, and asked if they had anything new from the other side.

They handed me a French novel, in the usual yellow paper cover, and I carried it away.