Of all the stains in the world - wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, and even blood-stains - none are more difficult to eradicate than the stains of a soiled reputation, and there is no infallible compound that can make good a man's name once it has been dragged through the mud. The story of Mr Headstone's misadventure in Pentonville and his subsequent incarceration had been widely reported in the newspapers, and in such lurid terms that any reader not wholly acquainted with the pedagogue would have believed his character to be of a most reprobate nature. A cut-throat, a highwayman, a cracksman or a magsman might profit from such a badge of infamy, but, as a practitioner of pedagogy, Mr Headstone soon discovered the rumours of his villainy were not entirely conducive to his continued success as a private tutor to the young children of the mercantile class.
Walking through the noisy, bustling streets of London, Mr Headstone noticed that, as he passed amongst the jostling crowds, fingers pointed at him and marked his progress. Heads turned to watch him go by, and bowed together in whispered remarks. Was it the mark of Cain impressed upon the pedagogue's frowning brow that attracted the attention of the populace? Was there some dark aura of guilt that drew the eyes of the curious upon him? Or were they simply alarmed by the commotion of an enraged tom cat struggling to escape from the hessian sack thrown over his shoulder?
