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Title: Joe Leslie's Wife; or, a Skeleton in the Closet

Author: M.D. Alexander Robertson

Release date: December 24, 2020 [eBook #64125]

Language: English

Credits: Transcribed from Henneberry Company edition by an anonymous UK volunteer


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOE LESLIE'S WIFE; OR, A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET ***


Transcribed from Henneberry Company edition by an anonymous UK volunteer.





                            JOE LESLIE’S WIFE


                                    OR

                         A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET

                                * * * * *

                                    BY

                        ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, M.D.

                                * * * * *

       _Author of_ “_Gold-Maker of Lisbon_,” “_Little Sweetheart_,”
            “_Phantom Smuggler_,” “_Diana Thorpe_,” “_Frozen_
                   _Hearts_,” “_Nora’s Legacy_,” _etc._

                                * * * * *

                                 CHICAGO
                          THE HENNEBERRY COMPANY
                            554 WABASH AVENUE




CONTENTS

    CHAPTER                                           PAGE
          I  The Office of a New York Detective         17
         II  Two of a Kind                              28
        III  The Tell-tale Scrap of Paper               39
         IV  The House on Twenty-seventh Street         50
          V  The Man Dressed as a Bull-fighter          61
         VI  Marian                                     73
        VII  A Brand from the Burning                   83
       VIII  The Jehu Adds to the Mystery               94
         IX  Joe’s Secret                              105
          X  That Meerschaum Pipe                      116
         XI  All is Forgiven                           127
        XII  The Opium Joint                           138
       XIII  A Terrible Doom                           149
        XIV  Another Link in the Chain                 160
         XV  Comparing Notes                           171
        XVI  The Locked Saratoga                       182
       XVII  The Artist is Defiant                     193
      XVIII  Fortune’s Favors                          204
        XIX  The Time Draws Near                       215
         XX  For Plunder                               226
        XXI  The Cottage Beyond the Harlem             237
       XXII  Almost                                    248
      XXIII  The Messenger with Good News              259
       XXIV  Conclusion                                268




CHAPTER I
THE OFFICE OF A NEW YORK DETECTIVE


The little clock in the dingy office of Eric Darrell was just pointing
out the hour of four when there came a rap on the door.  Within the
proprietor sat alone, his feet elevated upon the top of a desk, and from
his position it was evident that his thoughts were far away, for although
he took an occasional whiff at his cigar, it was in an absent-minded way.

At this summons, his interest was at once aroused—his feet came down from
their elevated position, and an expression appeared on his face that
might have been a smile.

“A woman, by Jove!” he muttered, giving his handkerchief a flirt over the
desk where his feet had been so recently deposited.

There was no guess-work about this, neither had the detective been able
to distinguish anything feminine about the knock.

Over the door was a peculiar little contrivance, which by means of
several small mirrors would tell the occupant of the office who summoned
him—a useful affair under the circumstances, as the detective might at
some time have a visitor bent on taking his life, and under such
circumstances he would be warned.

Jumping to his feet he approached the door—had it been a man he probably
would have sung out: “Come in,” and been done with it.

A lady stood there.

She was deeply veiled, and yet there was that about her dress that
bespoke the lady.

Darrell saw this at the first glance, and also judged from her figure
that she was young.

“Is this the office of Mr. Darrell?” she asked, in low, pleasing tones.

“Yes, madam,” replied the other, respectfully.

“Is he in?”

“I am Eric Darrell, at your service.  If you wish to see me on business
will you come in?”

He stepped aside as he spoke.

“Thank you, I will.”

As the lady entered the room, the detective closed the door, and with the
pressure of his thumb secured it so that no one could enter without
knocking.  It was not his intention to be rudely interrupted in his
interview—he had from time to time all sorts of visitors, and did not
mean that one of the men he employed should come in upon them while they
were engaged in talking.

The lady had already seated herself, and seemed to be looking around the
room, through her veil, with considerable interest.

Perhaps it was her first visit to the office of a detective, and she was
taken with the strange assortment of mementoes that hung around the room.

Eric Darrell swept his eyes about him, and something akin to a smile came
over his face as he viewed his curiosity shop—there were scores and
scores of murderous tools and ingenious contrivances, each of which was
connected with some crime or criminal in the past history of New York,
and in the pursuit of his chosen business he had been brought into
connection with the affair or the individual.

The detective was a little proud of his collection, as well as the
Rogue’s Gallery over the desk, where some hundreds of faces were
represented, many extremely brutal and some good-looking, while the
pictures of women were not infrequent.

“My clerk is out this afternoon, madam—we are quite alone, so that you
may speak without any fear of being overheard,” he said, as he took a
chair, and sat down facing his unknown client.

“I am glad of that, Mr. Darrell, for what I have to say to you must be
kept a dead secret.”

The detective was more than ever convinced that he had to deal with a
young woman—her figure was exceedingly pleasing, and her voice a
sympathetic one.

“Madam, I am daily entrusted with secrets by all manner of persons.  You
can rely upon it that anything you tell me in confidence will be as safe
as though whispered in the ear of a father confessor.  That is my
business—we detectives rival the family doctors in being made the
repository of secrets.”

This was well put and quite reassuring, as he had intended it should be.

The lady must have confidence in him now.

“Mr. Darrell, I want your assistance in a little domestic matter.  I am a
young married woman—have been married a year, and my husband is a man you
would call one in a thousand—a truthful, honorable gentleman, a favorite
with every one he knows.

“I love him deeply, esteem his noble qualities, and believe we could be
happy through life, but there is a canker sore eating my heart—Joe has a
secret, a terrible secret, and the knowledge of it is making me
miserable.”

She seemed a little overcome, and Darrell waited; meantime he grimly
thought to himself how many Joes here in this wicked city of New York
kept terrible secrets from their wives—yes, and the boot was on the other
leg too.

His business had brought him into contact with many such scenes.

“Pardon my feeling so badly, Mr. Darrell.  These things are an old story
to you, but with me it means the wrecking of my whole life, and I am weak
enough to be troubled by it.”

He hastened to reassure her that he fully sympathized with her feelings.

Thus encouraged she went on:

“If ever a woman had reason to trust her husband I have—and yet, as I
said, Joe has a secret from me, the knowledge of which is making me
miserable.

“I would not have him ever suspect that I came to consult you about it,
but I am determined to know the truth—I am his wife—if he is gambling in
secret, connected with any secret society or going to see some other
woman I am resolved to know the worst.

“It is hard for me to explain my position, Mr. Darrell—I believe in and
trust my husband as much as nearly any woman could, but I know he is
keeping something from me, which excites my curiosity greatly.”

This was an old story with Darrell.

He had seen other Joes before.

In his own mind he was immediately convinced that the man was guilty.

He believed Joe to be an unmitigated scoundrel to treat his young and
pretty wife in this way—for the detective had already decided this
question and believed the owner of this voice and figure must also be
handsome.

So he began to dig for facts, a little ruthlessly perhaps, because it was
business.

Your professor of anatomy does not waste time when getting down to a
certain nerve or muscle which he wishes to expose to his class—the knife
is applied without stint.

So the detective asked questions in order to expose as much of the game
as possible.  “You have no hint of the truth, madam?”

“None.”

“Before marriage, was your husband a man of the world?”

“He was always steady and quiet.  I have never heard that my Joe ever had
an entangling alliance before we were married.”

Even this did not reassure Darrell—he was a little skeptical with regard
to such a man, being inclined to reflect that still water runs deep.

His daily business brought him in contact with so much of the evil of
life that he had a rather poor opinion of mankind in general—though ready
to bow before woman’s goodness, even after having had experience with
numerous confidence women and others, who were more difficult to manage
than male criminals.

For instance, here was a case in point—a confiding, loving wife—a cruel,
deceiving husband.

“I understand, madam.  How long have these strange visits been going on?”

“I do not know.”

“How long have you been aware of them?”

“For two weeks.  By accident I discovered that Joe was in the habit of
leaving his office at half-past four, and he never reaches home until an
hour and a half later.

“Even this did not do more than pique me a little to think he dallied so
long, when he should have hurried home to me—but three days later, again
by accident, I saw him enter a house on Twenty-seventh Street.

“At first I could not believe my eyes and I felt as though I would swoon.
It was just five o’clock, and he seemed in a dreadful hurry.

“What impressed me as being the strangest part of the business, was the
fact that he did not ring or even knock on the door, but with a key let
himself in as though he belonged there!”

Of course—Darrell’s eyebrows went up, but he made no remark—he could see
through a millstone with a hole in it.

“I don’t know why I hurried home but I did so with a trembling heart.
Joe came in at his usual time, and I endeavored to be myself so that he
might suspect nothing.

“On the next day, however, something impelled me to go to Twenty-seventh
Street again.

“Opposite to this house was a French restaurant, and about ten minutes to
five I entered here and ordered supper, sitting at the window and yet far
enough back not to be seen.

“It lacked but one minute to five when Joe came down the street from the
elevated station, walking very fast, and went in that house.

“I sat there until twenty minutes of six, when he came out again, and
walked more slowly down the street.

“Mr. Darrell, I shall say nothing about my feelings—you can understand
them well enough.  What I want you to do is to discover who lives in that
house, and why Joe Leslie spends the better part of an hour there every
day.”

“Who—Joe Leslie—good heavens! it can’t be the Joe Leslie I know!”

The lady seemed surprised at his words, and swept her veil aside.

Then Darrell saw he had made no mistake in believing her to be pretty—she
was more than that, really handsome.

“My husband is Joseph Gregory Leslie.”

“Then he is the man I know—a man whom I have always believed the best of
men, liked by every one acquainted with him.  It seems incredible that he
should be engaged in anything of this character.”

“Because you know him, will you refuse to take my case?” she faltered.

“Not at all, Mrs. Leslie—in fact, I shall do the work all the more
eagerly, hoping it may all prove to be a mistake.”

“I too hope so, but my heart is filled with fears.  I seem to have lived
years since making this discovery.  At first I meant to ask my husband
plainly to explain it, but something held my tongue—for my life I could
not—and only as a last resort have I come to you.”

“Kindly write the number of the house here—you know it, of course.”

“Indeed it is burned on my brain as with letters of fire,” and she obeyed
him.

“Now, Mrs. Leslie, you are to leave this matter in my hands and think of
it as little as you can.  At home appear as natural as you may, and
believe that I will serve your interests faithfully, first, last and all
the time.

“Joe is a friend of mine, and yet if he is a villain—which I cannot
believe—I will discover the proofs of it and hand them to you.”

“Mr. Darrell, I thank you,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

“There is no occasion for it, madam—this is business with me, leaving
sentiment aside—I shall charge you my regular price for such work; but at
the same time I honestly hope your husband will be able to prove his
innocence.”

“Amen!” she said, solemnly.

At this moment there came a loud rap on the door—Mrs. Leslie uttered a
little scream, which was pretty well muffled by the cobweb of a
handkerchief she thrust up to her mouth.

As for Eric Darrell, the detective, he glanced up at the small tell-tale
mirror just inside the transom over the door—his face was screwed up into
a pucker, and pressing his finger on his lips he said in a low voice:

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!  The man who knocks is your husband,
Mrs. Leslie.”




CHAPTER II
TWO OF A KIND


The pretty little lady came very near swooning when she heard this.

Darrell arose from his chair.

“Come with me through the inner office,” he said in low tones.

She followed him, trembling like a leaf, and looking back as though she
expected the door to be broken in, and an angry husband to make his
appearance on the scene.

“He must have followed me—he will be so angry—oh! what shall I do—how
shall I look him in the face again?” she moaned.

“He need not see you now—here is a door that lets you out into the
passage around the corner, and you can descend the stairs without being
discovered.  As for looking him in the face again, you have no reason to
shun him, my dear madam—you are innocent of wrong-doing at any rate, and
if anybody is going to be ashamed let it be him.  Good-bye, madam, trust
me to the utmost.”

She gave him one pitiful look that haunted the old bachelor for many
days, and then, allowing her veil to fall over her pretty face, passed on
toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, the knock on the other door had been twice repeated—the man
without was evidently growing impatient.

Mr. Darrell walked over to the door and opened it.

“What! you, Leslie, my boy?  It’s good for sore eyes to see your face.”

They shook hands warmly.

Leslie walked in.

The detective had seen on the instant that his old-time friend was
disturbed—Joe’s countenance had a gloomy look, totally at variance to the
cheerful expression that generally marked it.

Of course Eric Darrell wondered to what he owed this visit.

Was it brought about by the fact that Joe’s wife had just been seated in
the very chair he now threw his long form upon?

Since Joe’s marriage he had seen very little of him—their lines ran apart
and seldom crossed, yet they had once been pretty good friends.  Again
the detective closed the door and fastened it against interruption.

Whatever the cause of Leslie’s visit, he meant to have a quiet chat with
him.

If the husband of the pretty lady who had just quitted his office
demanded to know why Lillian Leslie had visited him, he would have to
confess the truth, but he knew enough to keep a close tongue until the
lay of the land was made manifest.

Before sitting down himself he took up a box of cigars and offered it to
Joe.

The other looked at it rather sheepishly and then declined with a wave of
the hand.

“Ah! sworn off, eh?  Something I never expected such an old smoker as you
to do; but every man to his taste.  Now, old fellow, to what am I
indebted for this visit—a desire to talk over old times, or business?”

Leslie seemed to swallow a lump in his throat, and playing nervously with
the paper-cutter on the desk—which was a dagger taken from a notorious
assassin whom Darrell had assisted to the gallows years before, said
huskily:

“Eric, you are the only man in the world I would come to with domestic
troubles.  What I am about to confide in you now I do as to a friend.  At
the same time I ask for your assistance in a professional way.”

Then he seemed lost in deep thought for a minute, and was no doubt
collecting his energies to speak to the point.

As for Eric Darrell, he surveyed the other in deepest surprise.

What was coming?

Was Joe Leslie deep in the mire, and had he come to have his old friend
extricate him?

One thing seemed certain—he did not appear to know that his pretty wife
had been in this very room less than five minutes before.

Believing this, the detective considered it a peculiar freak of fate that
these two should visit him on the same day and almost the same hour, each
without the knowledge of the other.

At length Joe had recruited his energies to equal the occasion.

He looked up.

The detective was leaning back in his chair and calmly observing him,
wreaths of blue white smoke curling up from his Havana.

“Eric, you never met my wife?” he said.

The other did not by any start betray himself.

“That is your fault, old man.  You were married in Chicago, and after
settling down here you never invited us old bachelors to visit you,” he
replied, quietly.

“Forgive me.  But see, here is her photograph.  Take a look at the girl
who captured the man who used to laugh at all Benedicts.”

Darrell took the picture.

It was the same face he had so recently sat _vis-a-vis_ with in this very
office, with one particular difference—the photograph was of a happy,
loving girl, while the other had been the face of an anxious woman.

Mentally he noted this fact, while looking long and earnestly at the
photograph.

“Well, what do you think of her?” asked Leslie.

He was a tall man, perhaps thirty-five years of age, not handsome, but
with a face that won him friends everywhere, for Joe Leslie had a warm
heart and was ready to champion the cause of any poor devil in distress.

“She’s handsome, Joe—a beauty.”

“Anyone can see that—look deeper, man.”

“I can see qualities there such as might make her a wife to be proud of,
and whom any man might well hesitate to offend.”

At this Joe groaned.

The shrewd detective thought he had driven one nail home—that his
allusion must have hit Leslie in a tender spot—but for once he made a
mistake.

Just then he was not thinking of his own shortcomings—that groan was the
result of mental agony brought about by something else.

“Eric, I am in trouble,” he said.

The other knew it before he spoke.

To himself he was saying:

“Now, here’s a surprising thing—I am already retained by the wife, and
the husband has come to confess his sins.  Shall I listen—he must not
bind me to a promise not to tell.”

Aloud, he said:

“I’m sorry for that, Joe.  Tell me all about it and heaven knows I will
aid you all I can.”

“Thank you, old friend—I knew it before you spoke—that was why I finally
determined to come here and unbosom myself.”

“It’s coming,” muttered Darrell, smiling grimly.

He fully expected to learn the secret of that mysterious house on
Twenty-seventh Street.

“To think,” said Joe, looking around him at the walls and ceiling, “that
here in this den where I spent so many careless, happy bachelor hours
with you, I should now be detailing the tribulations of married life.”

“Singular—of course,” nodded Eric, apparently observing the ashes on the
end of his cigar, but all the while watching Joe’s face.

“For of course,” Joe continued, “what I have to say to you concerns—my
wife.”

“Yes.”

The detective was wondering how Joe meant to bring out his confession.

He did not dream of anything else.

“You have seen that face, Eric”—tapping the photograph—“would you say
there was any deceit there?”

This was something of a staggerer—the other had not expected the electric
fluid to strike in such a quarter at all.

“Deceit—in that little woman—well, I’m an old bachelor, Joe, but my
judgment is generally conceded sound, and I tell you your wife is a woman
of a thousand.  Her face speaks of purity and charity—one could not look
into the depths of those eyes and not read truth there.”

“Good heavens, man! you describe Lillian as I have believed her—one would
think you had met her,” cried Leslie, starting out of his moody fit.

“A good photograph can be easily read nowadays, my boy,” replied Darrell,
quietly; at the same time conscious that he had made a break that had
better not be repeated.

Joe gave a great sigh, and resumed his despondent attitude, nervously
playing with the paper-cutter.

“Eric, perhaps there are men who love their wives better than I do mine,
but I am completely wrapped up in Lillian, and if I lost her I’d go to
the dogs devilish quick.

“You know my nature—I’m not a suspicious fool, nor am I constitutionally
jealous, but I suppose I have a certain amount of the latter in my
disposition—every man but an idiot has.”

“That’s so.  Remember Othello’s declaration about keeping a corner in the
object of his love for other people’s uses.  I reckon that’s the first
corner we have any record of.”

Joe’s face had flushed at the reference made by his companion.

Quietly he went on:

“As heaven is my judge I do not wish to harbor any unjust suspicion
toward my wife—I would shield her with my life from the folly of her
imprudence, if such it prove to be—but I am a man, and I cannot shut my
eyes to certain facts set before me.  I have done everything in my power
to explain the matter to myself, offering all sorts of excuses for her,
but it is useless, and I feel now that I must know the truth or go
crazy.”

“My dear fellow, this is indeed serious.”

“Serious, Eric—may you never know the awful feeling that has pressed upon
my heart during the last few weeks.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Yes, for two weeks I have noticed a difference in Lillian—she has hardly
looked me in the face at all.  Poor child, she is not accustomed to
deceit, and a secret weighs upon her.”

Darrell came near laughing, as he believed he had the key to the puzzle.
Unaccustomed to deceit, forsooth—when it was his own mysterious actions
that had disturbed Lillian.

“Two weeks, you say, Joe?”

“Well, I knew something about it before then.  Accident revealed it to
me.  I will tell you all, and you can judge for yourself.

“You know we live in a comfortable little house up on Eighty-sixth
Street.  I generally spend my days down-town at business, but I had a
call up-town one morning, and my cabman drove me past my own house—I took
a cab because the party I wished to see lived at a point inconvenient to
the elevated, and besides I had a bushel of papers, more or less, to take
him.

“While passing my house I naturally looked in.

“At that moment Lillian was opening the door and a fine-looking man
entered whom she seemed to greet cordially.  I wondered who he was, but
forgot all about him until I came home in the evening.  Somehow his face
came up again before me—I waited to see if she would speak, and even made
an opportunity for her to tell me of her visitor—she said nothing and I
thought looked a trifle confused.

“Eric, believe me, I dropped the matter then and there—who could look
into those eyes—well-springs of truth as you have just observed—and
believe deceit rested there?

“The next day I again found it necessary to use the cab in going to the
house of my client, and, as I passed my own dwelling, I was somewhat
nettled to see the same military-looking gentleman ascending the steps.

“I looked at the time—it was ten exactly, the same hour as on the
preceding day.

“Again, that evening, I gave Lillian the opportunity to tell me of her
visitor, but she made no mention of it.

“Eric, the demon of jealousy had his birth in my heart in that bitter
hour—my wife had a secret from me—she was receiving clandestinely a
gentleman whom I did not even know.

“I battled with the fever, heaven knows how terribly, but it conquered
me, and although I despised myself for doing so despicable an act I set
about watching Lillian.”

The large man buried his face in his hands and groaned aloud in his
suffering.




CHAPTER III
THE TELL-TALE SCRAP OF PAPER


Darrell had by this time come to the conclusion that he was entering upon
one of the oddest cases in his experience.

He had his sympathies aroused also, and while he generally worked for
conviction, in this instance it would be otherwise, his desire being to
prove the parties innocent.

Presently Leslie went on:

“I pretended to go to my office, but, instead, hovered in the
neighborhood, sometimes in the drug-store on the corner.

“Thus I have discovered that regularly every morning at ten o’clock,
Saturday omitted, this fine-looking foreign gentleman enters my house,
and the door closes behind him.

“At eleven he appears again—it is always my wife who lets him in and sees
him to the door.

“Eric, this thing is killing me—sooner than believe Lillian could be
false to me I would discredit my own mother; and yet here is something
very, very strange—something that must be explained before my peace of
mind comes back to me again.  In a few words, I want you to find out who
this man is, and why he calls to see my wife invariably at ten o’clock
when I am supposed to be down-town money-making, and why she has never
breathed one syllable of all this to me.”

“I will do it, Joe, for old friendship’s sake, and I most heartily pray
it may turn out all right.”

“Oh! I haven’t any doubt of that.  My dear fellow, don’t imagine for an
instant that I suspect my wife of anything wrong, but—well, you see—hang
it, Eric, I must know the truth, and if my thoughts have wronged Lillian
I shall go down on my knees before the little woman.”

On his part, Mr. Darrell had, while Joe was speaking, conceived a sudden
idea that would possibly explain the matter.

He did not mention it, because the explanation hinged upon his other
client’s case, but he kept it in mind all the same.

It was to this effect:

Perhaps Lillian had sought the advice of some other detective before
coming to him, and it was this party calling at a certain hour every day
to deliver his report, whom Joe had seen.

Possibly little or no progress had been made, and hence she had finally
determined to change, just as a patient, becoming dissatisfied with his
doctor, calls in another physician.

Luck alone had brought her to his office—perhaps it was the sweet little
cherub that watches over the affairs of lovers.

At any rate it was a piece of good fortune for all parties concerned.

He proceeded to question Joe, desiring to learn all he could of the case.

“You say you had never seen the gentleman before?”

“Never.”

“Not in your wife’s album?”

“You mean that he might be one of her old beaux—no, not even there.  He
is a stranger to me.”

“But if you met him you would know him?”

“Well, rather.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“I can do better—show you a picture of him just as he leaves my front
door.”  With that he held out a card, upon which was a round photograph,
or rather picture, which Eric saw had been taken with a Kodak camera,
just coming into general use at that time.

The scene was a door-step with a number over the door—a man was
descending—the lower part of his body could not be seen, but his body and
head were well taken.  He carried something under his arm like a flat
book.

Eric Darrell studied the face as well as he could upon such a small
surface—he wanted to know it again.

Then he looked further.

Just above, a lady stood outside the door, as if seeing the gentleman
depart.  It was Lillian Leslie without a doubt.

“How in the deuce did you get this?” he asked in some surprise, “it’s as
clever a piece of business as I know of.”

“I hired a young fellow to do it for me.  He took this man several times
afterward.  See, there is one that shows his face better, because there
is little else—it was taken close.”

Darrell examined this picture also.

“Seems to me I’ve seen this man on the street or somewhere—I can’t just
place him though,” he muttered.

“Is there anything more you wish to tell me, Joe,” he asked aloud.

“Unfortunately—yes.”

“Proceed.”

“It seemed as though fate had been pleased to conspire against my peace
of mind.  I picked up a piece of paper from the floor to toss into the
grate in the library when certain words caught my eye, and instead I put
it in my pocket.”

“When was this?”

“Last evening.”

“Have you the paper still?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it, if you have no objection.”

“Certainly not.  I want everything to be placed before you now.”

“Everything but your own secret,” thought the detective, as he took the
paper.

It was evidently a portion of a torn note and had been twisted around.

Darrell smoothed it flat and then read in a woman’s fine chirography:

    “—we will hope for the best.  At any rate, fair Lillian, your secret
    shall never be betrayed by your sincere friend, BARBARA.

    “P.S.  Be sure and burn this.  B.”

“What do you think of that?” asked Joe.  “It has a peculiar look.  One
thing is certain—Lillian made a mistake—she did not burn it up.”

“But tore it to pieces instead.”

“You found it in your library?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a waste paper basket there?”

“Yes, but we throw papers in the grate and when they accumulate touch a
match to them.”

“Perhaps you might find the balance of this letter.”

“In the grate?”

“Yes.”

“That would be impossible.”

“Why so?”

“Unfortunately, one of the first things I did upon arriving home
yesterday evening was to apply a match to the papers in the grate, and
they have all been consumed.”

Eric shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s hard luck, I take it, but men of my line never cry over spilt
milk.  What’s the use?  Now, regarding this scrap—it is signed Barbara.
Have you any idea who the author is?”

“Yes, certainly—a young married lady who lives back of us.  I have always
entertained much respect for Mrs. Goodwin, and am surprised to think she
would enter into a conspiracy with Lillian to deceive me.”

The detective hardly knew what to think.

Here was a man whom he had known and considered a first-rate fellow in
the past, grieving over the fact that his wife was keeping something from
him, when, all the time, he was nursing a secret within his guilty heart.

What was Darrell to make of it?

Those who live in glass houses should be careful how they throw stones.

“It’s pretty hard, Joe, I admit, but when it comes to secrets, who among
us is above reproach?”

“Eh?”

Joe Leslie seems to color up in a manner altogether unnecessary.

“You, for instance, old man—I warrant you do lots of little things that
you would hardly care for your wife to know.  But”—seeing the other’s
evident confusion—“let that pass.  I will undertake to clear up this
mystery for you, Joe, as speedily as possible.”

“What shall I do?”

“Try and act as though your suspicions were not aroused—do everything
just as you would under ordinary circumstances.  Even treat this false
friend Barbara warmly—anything but to give our game away in the start.”

“I presume I can go on in the same old rut, provided it is not for long.”

“I’ll promise you that the whole thing will soon be cleared up.  There is
a screw loose somewhere, and I’m going to find it.”

Again Joe blushed at the emphasis laid on that word, though Eric was not
looking at him, and it did not seem as though he meant any personal
reflection.

A guilty conscience, Darrell concluded, needs no accuser, and this man
feels the finger of suspicion pointed at him, though he cannot tell from
whom it comes.

Used to reading human nature, the detective knows guilt when he sees it.

Although he refrains from making any remark upon the subject, he is in
reality quite out o£ patience with his friend who has thus early betrayed
his trust—he could never have believed it of Joe Leslie—he ought to be
ashamed of himself, doing anything to make such a sweet woman unhappy,
and if it turns out to be so the detective is determined that he shall
eat the husks of remorse, drinking the bitter cup to the very dregs.

“Let me keep these, Joe?” holding up the pictures and the scrap of paper.

“Certainly, and I most earnestly pray they may be the means of proving
Lillian’s innocence.  My life will be wrecked if she proves false.”

He did not seem to think of what a position his own secret action placed
him in.

“We will hope for the best, Joe.”

“Whatever you discover must be a secret between myself and you.  I shall
in my own way decide what must be done.”

Darrell looked at his face while he spoke.  He found nothing vindictive
there—instead, he saw a look of deep pain.

To himself he thought:

“If I had done anything wrong, I would like to be tried by a judge like
Joe Leslie—he would be merciful.  If his wife has erred, he is not the
man to shoot her down—he would fight like a tiger in her defense—but I
believe under such painful circumstances Joe would cry like a baby—and
forgive her.”

That was his estimate of the man he had known so long—he forgot just then
that Joe was also under a cloud, and that there was something in his life
that needed the calcium light of an investigation thrown upon it.

Thus the detective’s opinion went up and down like a shuttle-cock—he
hardly knew how to take this good-natured giant.

The latter was plainly ill at ease, and having said all he desired,
picked up his hat to go.

“Sure you won’t smoke, Joe?”

Another wistful glance and a shake of the head.

“I promised Lillian I would never smoke another cigar until she gave me
voluntary permission; and as she hates tobacco smoke I presume I must
keep my promise always.  That is one of the little penalties a man
sometimes has to pay when he captures a darling.  You can’t have your
pudding and eat it too—so some of our bachelor freedom must go.”

“Well, the chains are golden ones, forged by love, and if ever I meet a
little woman like your wife, by Jove! I’ll be tempted to have her forge
some.”

“You talk as though Lillian and you were old friends.  You must meet her,
Eric—I’ll be proud to have you know her—when this thing is settled.”

“All right, my boy, I’ll keep you to your word.  Perhaps she may have a
sister, you see.”

“She has that, and very much like Lillian.”

“Consider the thing fixed and invite me when her sister is on from
Chicago.”

“I certainly will—what did I do with my hat—ah, here it is on the desk—I
will see you again to-morrow, Eric—”

He ceased talking in the middle of a sentence, bent his head down, for
the light was gradually fading in the detective’s office, and then
turning suddenly, said:

“Hello!  Darrell, old man, where did you get that—who’s been writing down
the number of my Twenty-seventh Street house?”

Darrell had forgotten to remove the paper upon which Lillian had written
the address, with her gloves on, and Joe Leslie now held it in his hand.




CHAPTER IV
THE HOUSE ON TWENTY-SEVENTH STREET


This was what might with considerable propriety be called a
_contretemps_.

If Joe Leslie recognized the writing as that of his wife, the game was
up.

He had no doubt had many letters from her during their courtship days,
and knew the style of the chirography well.

One thing favored Darrell.

Any one who has endeavored to write with gloves on will bear witness to
the fact that as a general rule they could not swear to their own hand
when cold.

So the chances were about ten to one that Joe could not recognize the
hand.

The detective was ready to accept the chances.  He maintained his cool
demeanor through the emergency.

That was the result of education in his business.  Raising his eyebrows
with an expression of surprise, he said:

“You don’t mean to say that house is yours, friend Joe?”

“That’s just what I do!”

The detective was looking for signs of suspicion about the other.

Surprise and curiosity he plainly saw, but it was not so easy to discover
the other.

“Come, now, what have you been looking up my house for?”

“On my honor, Joe, I’ve never set eyes on the building and don’t know
whether it’s stone or brick, three story or two.”

“Then what in the deuce—?”

“Patience!  Is your house in the market?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps it is one of a number given me by a real estate agent to
look up for a friend of mine.  I’ll preserve the slip,” taking it from
Joe and folding it up.

“It looks like a woman’s writing.”

“Yes, all writing does after a man has fallen into the habit of looking
for letters day by day—letters that are delayed—Come, you married men are
very suspicious.”

With that he dexterously whipped the subject around and began talking
about something of decided interest, so that Joe, completely hoodwinked,
speedily forgot about the singular little coincidence that had brought
this address under the eyes of the owner of the house.

He was not quite done with Joe yet.

“You must own a good deal of property in and around the city, Joe?”

“I do—property left to me by my mother.”

“You have no need to work.”

“Well, perhaps not.  Some day when I take the notion I mean to figure up
my income from this property, and if it’s a good sum, by Jove! I’ll fling
business to the winds and take my little wife to Europe for a year—that
is, if—”

Darrell did not let him finish.

“Why, man alive, you talk as though you didn’t hardly know what property
you owned, yourself.”

“Neither do I—it’s all come to me since I married, and I’ve been so much
taken up with my wife that I haven’t found time to attend to it as I
should.”

Darrell winked hard.

He knew certain facts that would seem to indicate that Joe found time to
spend an hour every afternoon with some one besides Lillian.  If so then
this was rank perjury.

What was he to think of a hypocrite?

“Jove! that’s a queer case.  I don’t suppose your wife has any idea of
where your property lies—never saw such places as this Twenty-seventh
Street house, for instance?”

“Heavens! no.  That house is an eyesore to me.  The neighborhood is not a
good one and I will only let it to decent tenants.  No, Lillian will
never know I own a house there.”

Darrell was satisfied.

He had made his point.

Soon after Joe bade him good evening, and hurried away.

It was not far from five o’clock.

Darrell snatched a disguise from a hook and changed his appearance in one
minute.

All he wanted was to effect such a change that Joe might not recognize
him.

Then he left the office and bolted down stairs after his friend.

Joe was discovered in the crowd, making his way toward the elevated
station, and knowing his destination Darrell arrived there first.

They got in the same car.

At this time in the evening it was pretty crowded and both had to stand
up.

At Twenty-seventh Street a number left the train and those we follow with
the rest.

Darrell observed Joe eagerly consult his watch.

“He’s late this evening and no doubt expects a scolding,” was his mental
comment upon seeing the frown upon Joe’s usually good-natured face.

The giant walked along so fast that Eric could hardly keep his place
behind him.

They approached the fatal number.

Truly Joe acted like a guilty wretch—he glanced up and down the street as
if to make sure no acquaintance was passing.

Deception was a novelty to him—this was the first time Darrell had ever
seen his friend acting in a mean role.

When they reached the steps Joe ascended them, took a key out of his
pocket and deliberately opened the front door.

The detective was passing at the time, but his quick glance failed to
reveal anything of interest.

Evening was coming on, and the shadows of the approaching night had
evidently gathered in the hall of the house—he could just see the glass
globe of the hanging gas jet in the hall, but it was not lighted.

For that matter there was no light about the house at all, though the
neighbors were beginning to illuminate their houses.

Passing down the street a little distance, Eric Darrell crossed over, and
came up the other side.

He now noticed that there was a light in the second story front room,
though almost ready to swear it had not been there previous to the
entrance of the proprietor.

The inside blinds were closed in such a way that Darrell could see
nothing.

He was deeply interested.

Whatever this strange mystery attached to Joe’s daily visit here might
mean, Darrell could not forget that the other was his friend.

He would act as a surgeon might when one whom he regarded highly was
brought before him for attention—his fingers would be very tender, but
the cruel knife must do its duty.

He was walking slowly along when he almost ran into a female who stood on
the edge of the pavement opposite the house.

Her black attire and the veil she wore attracted his attention
immediately.

Besides, she was looking upward toward the windows where the glimmer of
light could be seen.

A suspicion flashed into his mind.

He touched the arm of the lady in black.  “Lillian—Mrs. Leslie,” he said
in a low voice.  A cry came from under the veil.

“Who speaks to me?” gasped the lady.

“It is I—Eric Darrell.  This is no place for a lady, especially at such
an hour.  You may be insulted here.”

“But he is here—Joe, my husband, and where he is his wife should not be
afraid to go,” she said with some bitterness.

“Theoretically true, madam, but there are lots of places in this wicked
city where men daily pass and ladies dare not go.  You promised to leave
this to me and you must keep your word.  Take my arm and let me see you
to the elevated station.”

She might have rebelled, but there was a touch of gentle but firm
authority in his tone, and being a woman she yielded, knowing he was
right.

On the way to the elevated station she was silent, but finally, upon
reaching the steps, she turned to her companion.

“Mr. Darrell, does my husband know that I have sought your advice?”

So intensely interested was she in the answer, that she even held her
breath.

“To my knowledge, Mrs. Leslie, Joe does not even suspect you of ever
having seen me.”

“Thank heaven,” she almost gasped, a world of relief showing itself upon
her face, for, the better to look at her companion when expecting his
answer, she had brushed her veil aside.

“You need not borrow trouble on that score.  Act naturally, as though you
suspected nothing and had no reason to evade his eye.”

She moved uneasily at his words.

Darrell had spoken them with a purpose, just as the surgeon probes for
the bullet before making any attempt to extract it.

He believed he had met with a certain share of success too.

“What did he want with you?” she asked, as if to cover her own confusion.

“Merely a matter of business.”

“Did he mention me?”

“He said I must come up and meet you sometime—whatever this may turn out,
Mrs. Leslie, I know Joe fairly worships you—never doubt that fact.  Some
things seem hard to put together, but when the truth shines upon them
they will be found very simple.”

“Like Columbus and the egg, for example.”

“Yes, indeed.  Now, if at any time you and I should meet in Joe’s
presence, don’t forget to treat me as a stranger.”

“I will not.”

“Then I shall say good evening, and as a last word, advise you to leave
this to me.”

“I shall, Mr. Darrell.”

She flitted up the station stairs and Darrell, with a long sigh, turned
down the street again.

Somehow the pretty wife of his friend quite fascinated him, and he found
himself wishing the sister would be like her.

Walking down the street, he soon reached his old stamping ground.

The light burned in the second story room and he believed Joe had not
left the house.

For perhaps ten minutes things went on this way.

Then the light suddenly vanished.

A minute later Joe Leslie came out.

Darrell listened intently to see if he spoke to any one at the door but a
wagon rattling by prevented his making sure.

Then Joe descended the steps and set briskly off for the elevated
station.

The detective did not follow him.

He desired to do a little work around that region, and knew Joe was bound
for home.

The house seemed to be dark and deserted, but others were in the same
condition, the shades being drawn and shutters closed.

New York people, many of them, act as though their houses were meant to
be dungeons, being hermetically sealed to shut out the light.

Darrell surveyed the building a few minutes, crossed over, looked at it
more closely, started up the steps, then shook his head negatively.

“Not yet—I’ll wait a little,” he muttered.

Glancing up and down the street he saw a small grocery store on the
corner.

People must eat, and these venders of daily provisions generally know
more about those who live in the neighborhood than any other class.

The gossip and small talk of the street passes current here, and the
proprietor hears all.

So Darrell made for the grocery.

It was not a very extensive establishment—the owner and his clerk were
not busy, and Darrell, picking out the former, asked:

“Can you tell me who lives at No—?”

The man looked at him with a smile.

“A young woman named Mrs. Lester, whose husband I believe is in
California—she was in here once or twice—quite a fine-looking lady,”
returned the groceryman.

“Thanks,” replied the detective, turning and leaving the store as
suddenly as he entered.

“Jacob, what number did he ask about?” said the proprietor, turning to
his clerk.

The boy gave it, at which the other whistled.

“That’s what they call a bull on me.  I was five numbers out of the way.
But let it pass.  He didn’t want to buy nothing.”

The blunder was destined to give Darrell trouble however.




CHAPTER V
THE MAN DRESSED AS A BULL FIGHTER


When Eric Darrell left the little grocery on the corner, it was with a
bad feeling at his heart.

It seemed as though a cold, clammy hand had suddenly come in contact with
that member of his anatomy, and chilled it.

Could this thing be?

If Joe Leslie turned out to be that moral leper, a bigamist, Darrell
believed he would never put any trust in human nature again.

Did it not look like it?

Nothing was lacking.

Good heavens! even the names were almost alike—Leslie and Lester.

He was horrified—dazed—dumfounded.

Then his teeth came together with a snap, and he swore he would solve
this mystery—the man might be living two lives—others had done it
before—perhaps many in New York are doing it to-day.

In his time Darrell had met with just such cases as this, and he believed
his experience justified him in solving the puzzle.

So her husband was in California.

It was a likely story.

California must be very near by if he could drop in six times a week.

He passed the house again and found that there were still no signs of
light.

Evidently those who lived there, perhaps enjoying the luxuries of the
season, knew how to hide their light under a bushel.

Darrell remembered what Joe had said—he had long since despaired of
renting the house, and probably did not try very hard.

Then again about his income—no wonder he did not know how he stood if he
had to keep two separate establishments running.

They might do that economically out in Salt Lake City among the Mormons
but it is quite an expensive luxury in New York.

So the detective made his way down to Twenty-third Street and entering a
dairy kitchen where a thousand were being served to the music of an
orchestra, had his dinner.

He took his time over it, read the evening paper, and when he finally
passed out it was well on to eight o’clock.

Then he smoked a cigar and watched the passers by for half an hour more.

Then he sauntered away.

At nine o’clock he found himself one of a little crowd gathered at the
door of a hall.

A masquerade was to take place here, and as carriage after carriage drove
up, depositing nymphs and devils, cavaliers and knights, upon the
pavement, the crowd laughed in a good-natured way.

Some of the rougher element might have indulged in jeers or remarks that
would have brought on trouble, but for their fear of the law, which was
represented by two stalwart policemen, armed with their long night sticks
which are a dread to the heathen of the slums.

Darrell was interested too, and stood with the rest, looking on.

While thus engaged, a gentleman and lady left a hack and walked toward
the entrance.

He represented a Spanish bull fighter, and with his splendid figure made
a remarkably good _matador_, while his companion, as a lady of cards,
caused a ripple of admiration among the lookers-on.

Both were fully masked, and, having wraps over their costumes, only a
portion of the latter were seen; but it was evident that the lady was
possessed of a lovely figure, her arms were rounded and perfect, while
her neck, glimpses of which could be seen, was dazzlingly white, and
royally built.

Darrell looked at her with interest.

Then his eyes fell on her escort.

He started.

Surely that figure was owned by none other than Joe Leslie.

What was he doing at the ball?

Was this his wife?

Of course it must be—the figure and beautiful neck corresponded with what
Darrell remembered of Mrs. Leslie.

Still, he could not help but think it odd, even at that brief moment, for
Joe to bring his lovely wife here to this ball.

True, it was a respectable affair, and many good people attended it, but
none of the first families in New York would dream of being seen at the
public masquerade—at least if they came they went away without unmasking.

As the couple passed him he could not resist saying aloud:

“Hallo! Joe!”

The man seemed to start, and muttered something to his companion, at
which she laughed, but he did not look around to see who had spoken.

Others were following them.

Darrell stood a while longer, and then left the scene.

Somehow or other he was troubled—he knew not exactly why.

If that was Lillian with her husband, it was all well and good—although
surprised at Joe taking his wife to such a carnival, so long as her
husband was with her it was all right.

But was it Lillian?

This thought kept crowding into his brain.  He could not expel it.

After a little he became angry with himself for brooding over the matter
so.

“Hang it, I can settle the matter easily,” he muttered, as he found
himself at the foot of the stairs leading to the elevated station.

So up he ran.

It was not a great while later when he found himself walking along the
street on which the Leslies lived.

He had never seen their house before, but having the number speedily
found it.

Of course it was one of a row.  How neat and clean everything looked up
in this region when compared with the neighborhood of the Twenty-seventh
Street house.

His sympathies naturally ran in favor of Lillian—he seemed to believe she
was the more innocent of Joe’s dupes—provided the case was really as bad
as it seemed.

Making sure he had the right number, as the houses were built pretty much
alike, he ran up the steps and pulled the bell.

A minute later a girl came to the door.  “I wish to see Mr. Leslie.”

“He is out, sir.”

“Ah!”

Darrell’s suspicions took firmer ground.

The girl held the door open a crack, as though it were secured by a chain
bolt.

“Mrs. Leslie will do—can I see her?”

He almost held his breath waiting for the answer—it seemed as though the
fate of a seemingly happy household depended upon it—whether Joe Leslie
were saint or sinner.

“Mrs. Leslie is in—what name, please?”

“You may say—stay, here is my card,” believing the girl would have no
chance to read it on the way.

He handed her a calling card which simply bore his name.

In a minute she came back.

“Mrs. Leslie will see you, sir.”

The door opened.

Eric Darrell found himself under the roof of Joe Leslie’s little “bird’s
nest,” as the latter was fond of styling it.

Everything around him showed evidences of good taste and plenty of money.

Poor bachelor Eric heaved a sigh as he noted the comfortable air of the
cozy house.

“What a fool,” he muttered, “but some men never know when they’re well
off.  With a wife and a home like his, Joe ought to be the happiest man
in New York.  Seems to me these things generally go to the ones least
capable of appreciating them.”

By this time the philosopher, in following the servant along the hall,
came to the open library door, through which she motioned him to enter.

He did so.

Here his old bachelor soul was worse rattled than ever—such a dream of
bliss may have come to him over his post-prandial cigar, but he had never
believed it could be realized to a human being here below.

The soft lights, the cases of books, the cheery fire in the large grate,
and, chief of all, the pretty little lady seated at the table engaged in
some delicate fancy work—it all took poor Eric’s breath away.

He had sense enough to walk up and shake hands.

“You see the plight I am in—you will forgive my not rising, Mr. Darrell,”
she said, referring to her lap full of silk threads and such odds and
ends.

“Certainly, Mrs. Leslie, don’t move, I beg.  I will find a seat near by,”
he returned.

She was looking at him eagerly.

“Mr. Darrell, it is not accident that brings you up here to-night?” she
said, and there was a question in her eyes as well as in her voice.

He cannot get out of this.

“I came on a little business.”

“You asked to see Mr. Leslie?”

“In reality I expected to see you.”

“Ah! you have already solved our terrible mystery—tell me the worst—does
Joe visit that awful house to play cards?”

It is hard work dealing with a woman—she is apt to ask so many questions
and demand an answer—then, if important facts are told her she may in a
fit of pique or anger disclose them to the very one who should not know.

Darrell knows all this.

He understands how to manage the gentler sex, and in the present instance
does not mean to tell one whit more than is necessary.

“I am sorry to say, Mrs. Leslie, that the case is not yet closed—indeed,
the complications are growing more serious—but,” as he observes the look
of pain on her sweet face, “I expect and hope to soon clear it all up.”

“Heaven grant it,” she replied.

Luckily Lillian had considerable reserve force in her nature, and now
that this was brought into play, she gave promise of rising to meet the
exigencies of the occasion.

Darrell admired her courage.

He found it harder to believe evil of her than he did of Joe, for he had
great respect for the gentler sex, and believed all men had a good share
of the old Adam in them—some fought the good fight and conquered—others
lay down their arms and surrendered, while many ran to meet the evil half
way, so misshapen were their souls.

Alone, when speculating upon this strange double case, he might figure
out this thing or that by force of logic; but when looking upon that
truthful, lovely face, and into those calm eyes, he was ready to exclaim:

“Shame upon you, Eric Darrell, for ever even thinking this little woman
and wrong could have anything in common.  She’s an angel if ever there
was one on earth, and I hope her sister is built upon the same pattern.”

“Where is Joe?” he asked, suddenly.

“You haven’t seen him then?”

“I—no, indeed, not to speak to since he was in my office this afternoon.”

“I—thought he had gone to you—he spoke your name in connection with the
matter.”

“What matter, may I ask?”

“The sad affair that took him from me to-night.”

Sad affair!

As Darrell saw again in imagination the gay surroundings of the hall
where the grand _bal masque_ was being held, he ground his teeth in
silent rage, but knowing that a pair of sharp eyes were upon him he did
not allow his fury to find a vent.

“Indeed!  I am just as much in the dark as ever, Mrs. Leslie—enlighten
me.”

“I presume it’s the same sad business he went to see you about to-day.”

Darrell thought not.

“You know he has a young clerk and cashier in his employ, Georgie
Kingsley, of whom Joe is very fond.  Of late he has been led to believe
the boy is getting a little wild—reports have been reaching Joe of little
things, showing that Georgie is keeping bad company, and gambling.  I
know this has worried Joe of late.”

Darrell thought something else might be giving him a nervous spell too—no
man can live a double life except at a great mental strain, for the risk
of sudden exposure must be terrible.

“So he’s gone to try and save poor Georgie to-night, has he?
Noble-hearted old Joe.”

She could not help but catch something of the sneer under his words, and
trembled as she realized that the detective had grave doubts.

“He said he would probably go to your room and get your company.”

“He changed his mind, no doubt,” muttered the detective—indignation was
apt to make him tell more than discretion warranted.

“What do you mean—you know something that you do not want to tell me.  I
insist on your speaking.  Have you seen my husband?”

“I believe I have.”

“Where was it?”

“Entering the hall where a _bal masque_ was being held—quite a large
affair.”

“Alone?” breathlessly.

“No—with a lady.  Good heavens!  Mrs. Leslie, take it calmly, I beg of
you!”




CHAPTER VI
MARIAN


He need not have been so alarmed.

True, the blood seemed to leave Lillian’s face, and she gasped for
breath, but a moment later she appeared so calm that even the detective
was amazed.

His admiration increased, for he saw this woman was no pretty doll, to
faint at the first breath of adversity.

“Do you know this as a fact, Mr. Darrell?” she asked in steady tones.

“I do not, positively, and I think we ought to give Joe the benefit of
the doubt.”

“I shall do more than that.  Until with his own lips he acknowledges such
a thing to me, I will believe him innocent—I will trust him as I have
always done, as the best and truest man on earth.  And yet it cuts home
to even have such suspicions aroused—oh, if Marian were only here!”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, the sister I love so dearly, and who would be such a comfort to me.
She always believed in Joe.  It would be a great shock to her.”

Eric was struck by a sudden thought.

They always came with a rush, and at times might fall under the name of
an inspiration.

“Have you your sister’s photograph handy, Mrs. Leslie?  Your husband
spoke of her so much and said I must meet her some day.  I am quite
interested, and would like to see her picture.”

“That is it on the mantel.”

She did not evidently suspect the awful thought that came into his brain.

He walked over and looked at the photograph.  It attracted him very much.

The face was very like Lillian’s, only the hair and eyes were dark.

“I shall expect an invitation here when your sister comes on, Mrs.
Leslie.  She is in Chicago now, I believe.”

“That is her home, but she is now traveling in California with a party of
friends.”

California!

The mention of that far-away State sent a cold chill down his back.

Was it not the grocery man who had said the beautiful Mrs. Lester’s
husband was in California?

Somehow he made the application, and the effect was a decided chill.

It was growing blacker for Joe.

“I shall take a run down and see if I can find Joe—he may be at my room
waiting for me—who knows?  Can I trust you to keep this matter from him,
Mrs. Leslie—supposing this is all a mistake and that he is innocent,
would you ever want him to believe that you harbored such suspicions?”

“No, no, I would not,” she sobbed.

“Then do your part—you can act it I am sure.  Appear natural—show no
unusual coldness or warmth of affection—try not to meet his eye or your
own may betray you.  If he insists on finding out what ails you, retreat
in the usual plea of a headache.”

“I will not fail you, Mr. Darrell.  You go about your work with the
prayers of a faithful wife following you.”

He believed it then—he would have staked his life on her truth—and yet in
the near future such terrible doubts were to arise.

“Surely that talisman ought to keep any man who is half a man, from
evil—a loving mother and a faithful wife are the lodestones that have
saved many a weak man from the pit of destruction.  Good-night, Mrs.
Leslie.  Remember, should the worst come, you can depend upon Eric
Darrell as your brother.”

He had said more than he intended to, but he was not cold-blooded like a
fish, and the evident distress of this angel on earth had wrought up all
his feelings.

Just then he felt as though he could have pommeled Joe Leslie with the
greatest of pleasure.

Any man was a brute who would give a woman like this sweet creature,
pain.

So Eric strode away angry with the wickedness of the world in general,
and this friend of his in particular.

If Joe Leslie turned out a rascal he could see no palliating circumstance
connected with the case, and according to his ideas the man ought to be
drawn and quartered.

Hardly knowing where he was going, Darrell brought up at the hall where
the _bal masque_ was in progress.

It was still early—not later than half past ten, and the affair had only
started.

Any one could get in on payment of the regular price, two dollars,
although none were allowed on the main floor but masks.

Darrell went in.

He had seen these things before, and hence had little interest in the
ball itself.

Most of the characters were old too, although here and there some genius
had devised something new, and worth looking at.

Eric had other ideas in view.

Monks, flower girls, Indians, Chinese, knights, fortune tellers, dames
and the endless chain of historical personages such an event gathers,
passed before him without exciting more than a slight smile or a single
glance of admiration.

He was looking for the couple upon whom he meant to bestow his interest.

Soon he sighted them.

From that time on Eric seldom took his eyes off the pair.

He imagined he detected certain little peculiarities in the man’s walk
that marked him as Joe Leslie.

As for the woman, Eric became quite interested trying to make her out—in
figure she certainly resembled Lillian, and this only added to his eager
pursuit.

Another point he noticed—her hair was dark.

Was she the one who had entered his mind?

He noticed that when they danced it was always together—other couples
might separate but the Spanish bull fighter and the Lady of Cards seemed
inseparable.

Probably they were greeted with more or less lively sallies in the
badinage that passed current among the dancers, but the size of the bull
fighter deterred any envious swains from attempting to relieve him of his
partner.

Darrell noted the envious actions of some of the male maskers who could
not find partners, and made up his mind there would be trouble yet unless
the couple withdrew early.

The detective had managed to get below by bribing a keeper.

He did not go out upon the floor, but remained under the gallery.

It was not very light here.

Now and then some promenading couple would pass by, chatting and
laughing, a red clad Mephistopheles fanning a pretty shepherdess, or a
portly friar joking with Queen Elizabeth.

One thing is always noticeable about these _bal masques_—the ladies never
assume a grotesque costume, always endeavoring to appear charming,
according to their own ideas, and leaving the funny part of the business
to the male sex.

The couple whom Darrell was anxious to watch had mingled with the crowd
dancing and for some little time he lost sight of them.

He began to grow a little anxious and was just thinking of changing his
quarters, when all of a sudden they appeared in view close by.

They were heading for the dark spot under the gallery where, only a few
persons had gathered.

The lady was holding both hands up to her head, as if to keep her, mask
from falling while her tall escort forced a passage.

Eric shrank back behind a pillar.

The two came within ten feet of where he stood, and there halted.

“Can you fix it?” he heard her ask.

“I will try, Marian,” was the reply.

That name—it confirmed the detective’s worst fears—he could believe
anything now.  The Lady of Cards handed her mask to her companion, who
immediately endeavored to refasten the string that had broken loose.

Meanwhile she stood with her face bared, looking out upon the throng.

What a miserable thing it was that the light was so poor under the
gallery.

Darrell just then would have given a hundred dollars for one good square
look at her face.

Oh, for an electric torch to suddenly light up the scene and reveal those
features to his gaze.

He used his eyes to the utmost, but it was not at all satisfactory, for
her face was in the shadow; but he had an idea she was very like the
picture he had looked at recently—the photograph of Lillian’s sister.

Presently the bull fighter had succeeded in re-securing the string.

He tied the mask on for her.

His manner was very courtly and gentle, but one spectator did not enjoy
it at all.

This was Eric.

His thoughts would go, in spite of him, to that heavenly room where he
had left a sweet and faithful wife waiting for her Joe to return.

Somehow Eric felt savage to-night, and he wondered whether it would not
serve this man just right if he did get into trouble with some of the
envious young beaux who followed him about as though only waiting a good
chance to carry off his partner by force.

A traitor deserved such punishment.

“I’ll never believe in a man again,” said Eric to himself, filled with
shame and disgust for his sex; “by Jove! they’re all alike, a miserable
crowd of deceivers, every one.”

He forgot that he belonged to the same sex, and that his very indignation
proved his words exaggerated, since he could not share in such evil
plottings, and there must be others like him.

He wandered up and down.

Now and then he saw the couple, but much of the time they were lost to
his view.

Darrell remained near the exit.

It was nearly twelve o’clock, when the order to unmask would be given.

Some who did not care to remain and be recognized were already flitting.

He believed those whom he watched would do likewise, and it was his
desire to get outside at the same time to hear the directions given to
the driver if any were uttered.

Just at this moment, close by, he heard sounds of an uproar.

These things are generally prevented at public balls by the presence of
the police, but no officers were in sight now—perhaps they had gone into
the refreshment room.

Darrell instantly had a suspicion of the truth, and his eyes were
immediately directed toward the _melee_.

Just as he suspected, in the struggling crowd he saw the tall form of the
Spanish bull fighter—the man was dealing blows right and left and had
already sent several audacious assailants rolling in the dust of the hall
floor.




CHAPTER VII
A BRAND FROM THE BURNING


The detective was a man.

He admired courage and grit, no matter in whom it was found, and when he
saw the Spanish bull fighter holding his own against the number who had
assailed him he could not but express this feeling.

It seemed as though these young bloods were furious because the other
kept his partner to himself, and allowed her to dance with no one else—it
is always the case that a pack of such hot heads may be found at a public
gathering, and trouble often ensues.

Perhaps the Lady of Cards, secure behind her mask, had flirted with some
of them, and had driven them wild.

It is human nature to covet what we cannot have and their anger toward
the giant bull fighter had grown intense.

As we have seen, it culminated in what threatened to be a riot.

The woman was frightened now—she trembled, and cowered behind her
protector.

He stood up like a rock before her.

Twice his arm had shot out and on each occasion one of his assailants had
gone down.  They pressed him hard.

The bull fighter turned to the right and left and defended himself
gallantly, while he shielded his companion as best he could.

It was a singular spectacle to be seen at a New York public ball.

When passion rules men’s minds their surroundings have no effect on them.

They would fight in a tomb, over the dead.

Seeing that in all probability the rascals would get the better of the
man, Darrell pushed that way; at this moment one of the men grasped the
lady by the wrist.

She screamed.

The bull fighter turned like a mad tiger, saw what was transpiring, threw
the assailants who were clinging to him, and plunged at the man who was
grasping the lady’s arm and endeavoring to drag her away, for the music
still kept up, and many were dancing all unconscious of the _melee_.

There was a tremendous rush, the bull fighter caught the wretch and
whirled him, spinning like a teetotum, ten feet away.  Never did a
dancing dervish spin so merrily.

Then came an awful crash, as the man struck a swaying column of dancers,
who immediately toppled over upon him.

By this time the detective was at the side of the bull fighter.

“Keep back, you young fools!  Keep back, I say, or I’ll land the whole of
you in the Tombs!”  His words were heard.

Backed up as they were with the shining barrel of a revolver, they
commanded respect.

By this time the management had succeeded in getting the officers from
the supper-room to the spot, and upon seeing them come, the young fellows
who had been the cause of the disturbance slunk away, losing themselves
in the crowd.

The management apologized to the bull fighter when they learned what had
occurred, but his companion seemed to have received a nervous shock—at
any rate they retired for their wraps.

Darrell moved outside.

There was something more he desired to learn and the chance must soon
come.

He waited.

Just at twelve they came.

The hour for unmasking had arrived, and there was quite a high time
within.

This displeased the detective, for he was afraid lest he might not hear
what he desired.

The couple walked down the pavement in search of the carriage, which was
waiting near by, the driver having received instructions.

They soon reached it.

Darrell hovered near.

The bull fighter assisted his companion in and then entered himself.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver, probably not knowing but what they had
another engagement at some private ball.

A burst of laughter from the house deadened the reply, but Darrell’s keen
ears caught:“—Twenty-seventh Street.”

It was enough.

He felt down-spirited.

In so far as he could see ahead, the case was a settled one—Joe Leslie
was guilty.

He seemed to feel it as keenly as though it were a brother of his.

Poor Lillian! that it should come to this in one short year.

It would have seemed incredible, but he was used to meeting with strange
things, and being of a philosophical train of mind could take things
pretty much as they came.

So Darrell turned homeward.

There was nothing more to be done that night.

He remembered that on the morning he had engaged to watch the house in
which the Leslies lived.

That strange man would come and must be tracked to discover his identity.

It was a task Darrell did not like.

Every time he thought of it he saw the face of Lillian before him, and in
the depth of those liquid eyes there appeared such a world of truth that
the detective was fain to shake his head.

Experienced man of the world as he was, he could not believe her guilty.

There must be some mistake.

So he made his way to his rooms, feeling depressed over the events of the
night.

He hated the thought of his next meeting with the lady—how could he face
her and tell her what he had seen and heard?

“Hang the foolish fellow—how could he treat such an angel in that way?”

Hold on, Mr. Darrell, before twenty-four hours have flown you will
perhaps have changed your mind and concluded that even angels may be of
the earth, earthy.

When he arrived at his apartments it was about half-past twelve.

As he opened the door he saw a card below.  When he had applied the
burning match to the gas, he picked this up.

“Hello!” was his exclamation.

His eyes had fallen upon a name.

“Joseph Gregory Leslie.”

Turning the card over he found, scribbled in pencil, the words:

“Called to see you—may come in later to-night.  Some important business.”

When he had read this the detective scratched his head and mused.

“How is this—he must have run down here first.  Come in later, eh?  Well,
who knows but what after he has seen _Marian_ home he may run down?”

He stopped to listen to a carriage rumbling along the street—at this time
of night they were not very frequent here, and when it stopped in front
of the house he smiled.

“Ah, he has seen her home and come down to carry out his promise to
Lillian.  The story of the erring clerk may not be all moonshine.”

He put his head out of the window.

The carriage lamps shone below.

It was a hack, drawn by dark horses.

So had the other been.

Darrell had not the slightest idea but that they were one and the same—he
flattered himself that he could read Joe Leslie like a book, for the man
was a poor plotter.

Just as he suspected, there were footsteps on the stairs.

Some one was coming.

A knock sounded on his door.

Opening it, who should be standing there but Joe Leslie in the flesh?

“You are home at last—I have been here twice before and found you out,”
he said.

Darrell believed once would answer, but of course he made no such remark.

“Well, come in and sit down.”

“No, I haven’t time.”

“What do you want with me?” asked Darrell, just as though he did not
already know.

“Can you give me an hour or so?”

“Yes.”

“I have a favorite clerk—I am afraid he has fallen into bad company.  For
his mother’s sake I want to rescue him before it is too late.”

Darrell admired the motive however much he distrusted the man.

“Wait a minute and I will go with you.”

He kicked off his slippers and drew on his shoes.  Then a coat and hat
followed.  The minute was not yet over when he announced himself in
readiness.

Truly, Eric Darrell would do for a lightning change artist on the stage.

They passed down the stairs of the house, which had apartments for
gentlemen only.

New York is full of these bachelor dens, some of them having suites of
rooms furnished in a gorgeous manner that speaks of the sybarite taste of
the rich young or old owner.  The bachelors of to-day live for their own
comfort, surrounded by all the luxuries money can purchase for them.

No one thinks of pitying them any longer, least of all do they themselves
feel forlorn.

People who love a home may sigh at such a picture, but it is the truth in
all large cities and New York above the rest.  On the way down Joe spoke:

“You know the places where such a young man is apt to be found, Eric?”

“Well, I ought to—my business carries me into them every week,” replied
the other.

“Then let us make the rounds.”

He spoke wearily.

Why not?

When a man has been dancing for several hours, he cannot feel as fresh as
a daisy—it does not stand to reason.

They entered the hack.

Darrell gave his first address to Joe who repeated it to the driver.

Away they went.

“Hello! what’s wrong with your hand?” asked the detective.  The carriage
lamps gave enough light for him to see that Joe had his handkerchief
wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand.

“Took a tumble up a dark flight of stairs when I was looking awhile back
and bruised my knuckles.”

Darrell smiled but made no remark.  He thought he knew how that hand had
become bruised—it was in a more honorable business than falling up
stairs—in defending a weak and helpless woman against ruffians.

“You know some of these places then, Joe?”

“My driver knew of several, but I had hard work getting in.”

Darrell thought so.

“Perhaps they did not think I wanted to play, and may have been
suspicious of my intentions.”

“No doubt.  If you rescued some young fellow from their clutches, it
meant less money for their pockets.”

They lapsed into silence.

Soon the vehicle stopped.

They entered a gambling den.

Joe quickly declared his clerk was not there and they proceeded to
another.

Four had been visited, and in the last one he discovered the young man at
the green baize, his face flushed with wine and excitement.

The detective drew him out and brought him to his employer, at sight of
whom he turned white and put his hands to his eyes.

Joe Leslie talked to him beautifully—even that hard-hearted detective,
Eric Darrell, who had seen so much of the world, had to turn his head
away and wink hard to dry up his tears.

As for the boy—he was hardly more—what he heard so affected him that he
caught hold of Joe’s arm and sobbed outright.

“As heaven is my judge, Mr. Leslie, from this hour I will never again
yield to temptation in any shape.  What you said about my mother has
taken the scales from my eyes and I see.”

Even Darrell knew he would stand firm.

Joe Leslie had saved one soul.




CHAPTER VIII
THE JEHU ADDS TO THE MYSTERY


It gave Eric Darrell a strange feeling to hear Joe talk in the vein he
did.

Of all men on earth—or women either—he despised a hypocrite.

Could he believe Joe sincere in what he said about deceit, when such a
load of suspicion was resting over his own head?

Eric was badly rattled.

He believed and yet doubted.

Something must soon come up to decide the question one way or another.

On the way to his rooms, where Joe was to put him down, the latter fell
asleep in the corner, so no words passed between them.

When the hack came to a stop Joe woke up.  “Hello here, where are we?”

“At my den;” and Eric got out as the driver opened the door.

“Then I can have another nap before I reach my home.”

“Good night, Joe.”

“Don’t forget to-morrow morning, Eric.”

“I shan’t, you may depend upon it.”

As a sudden thought flashed through his mind he turned and looked at the
driver.

Surely this was not the same man who had driven Joe from the _bal
masque_.

The detective did not remember the number of the other vehicle, but had
seen the man—both wore the regulation tall stove-pipe hat, without which
no cabby is ever seen in New York, if he has any respect for himself, but
there was a decided difference in the height of the men.

This again puzzled Eric.

“What is your name, driver?” he asked, as the other was about to mount
his box.

“John Mulligan, sor.”

“German, of course?” smiling.

“Yis, sor, direct from Cork.”

“Where can you be found in the morning about ten o’clock?”

The man gave his stand.

“Then consider yourself engaged by myself from ten to twelve, and wait
for me.”

“All right, sor.”

The hack rattled down the street.

Darrell looked after it and shook his head—he did not know really what to
think.

In all the strange cases he had handled in the past, he could not
remember one which had presented such a confusing front as this.

It faced both ways.

He was not yet ready to believe either side until stronger proofs were
presented.

At any rate another day would surely develop new features bearing on the
case, and from these he would be able to get conclusions.

He retired at a quarter to three.

It was his intention to rise at eight, and when he jumped out of bed the
clock lacked but a few minutes of the hour.

Before nine he had breakfasted in a neighboring cafe.

The other inmates of the bachelor apartment house had no idea of the
occupation the detective followed.

He was a quiet fellow and did not seek acquaintances—besides, in New
York, people get acquainted only through regular channels—two families
might live next door for several years and their ways and hours are so
different that the members hardly know their neighbors by sight.

It was now getting on toward the time when he ought to be up town.

He ran down to his office first, and blossomed out as a first-class
masher, of the type who frequent the matinees—real lady killers.

Then he next made his way up town on the elevated road, and got off at
Eighty-ninth Street.

In a short time he was in the drug store near the home of the Leslies.

The proprietor was talkative and friendly.

It was just three minutes of ten when a gentleman passed along the
pavement in the direction of the house under surveillance.

He turned and came into the drug store ostensibly to buy a cigar, but in
reality, as the detective guessed, to pass the time.

Just as the clock was about striking he hurried out and was soon mounting
the steps leading to the Leslie mansion.

Eric shrugged his shoulders.

“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he muttered.

“Yes,” laughed the druggist, “he picked out the poorest weed in the box.”

But Darrell was thinking of something else.  He had in mind the stalwart
figure and pleasing face of Joe Leslie.

Between the two he saw no choice.

Still, this man was in a way distinguished by his poetical appearance—his
face was smooth, all but a wavy mustache, and he wore his hair down upon
his shoulders.

Eric spent some time talking to the druggist, but he kept watch upon the
Leslie domicile.  At eleven the stranger came out.  He was given egress
by Mrs. Leslie, and Darrell was put in mind of the photograph Joe had
shown him.

His business now was to discover who this gentleman was.

He followed him to the elevated railroad, and went in the car next to
that which the man under surveillance entered.

Thus, at about eleven twenty-three, he followed the other along
Twenty-third Street and saw him enter a certain building among the
handsome stores.

Still pursuing his man, carefully keeping him under his eye, he watched
until the other had entered a room on the top floor.

There was a door-plate in sight.

Going closer the detective read:

“Paul Prescott—Artist.”

He knew the name—the owner had quite a reputation as a painter, but Eric
had never as yet heard of him as a lady killer.

His next work was to get some information concerning Mr. Prescott.

There were other offices below, and entering one which seemed to be that
of an ivory carver, he introduced the subject by saying that he had
occasion to make use of an artist at his home, and wished to make certain
inquiries concerning the gentleman above.

“I do not like to say anything,” remarked the ivory carver.

“Oh, I’m not going to ask about his work—that stands on its own
merits—but as he would have to be a member of my family for a time if he
undertook the job, I would like to know if he is a perfect gentleman.”

“I have no occasion to believe otherwise.”

“Married?”

“N—no.”

“You seem to hesitate—am I to infer that you have any reason to believe
otherwise?”

“I used to think he was, but of late he told me he was a widower.”

“Oh, that’s it.  I suppose he has lots of people visit his studio?”

“Quite a number.”

“Ladies and gentlemen?”

“Ladies particularly—he’s very fond of the gentle sex, and they quite
make a hero of him.”

Darrell smiled.

He had seen stage favorites whom the silly women of New York were wont to
rave over, and knew just how foolishly they could act.

Thank heaven all women are not alike, and yet their weak points are more
or less developed in the whole sex, as with men.

He sighed as he thought of it, and then he turned again, loyal to the
resolve he had made not to condemn Lillian without the most absolute
proof.

As he left the building he remembered the hack driver.

Could he reach his stand before twelve?

He started off—a street car assisted him up Sixth Avenue, and he arrived
just five minutes before the noon hour.

John was there.

He had the same horses as on the previous night, and showed no marks of
his late hours.

At sight of the detective he made no sign of recognition, which was quite
natural, for the latter’s disguise was complete.

“Hello, John, I want your vehicle,” Eric said.

“I’m engaged just now, sor.”

“Yes, warming your heels.  John, I’m the gentleman who engaged you last
night.”

The man made a peculiar face.

“Tell that till the marines, sor.  Ain’t I got eyes—phat good are they if
I don’t see?”

“Well, they’re no good if they can’t see that—five dollars, pay for the
two hours you’ve waited.”

The man looked at the bill and took it.  “Faith an’ now I know ye’re the
gentlemon,” he said with a leer.

It is strange yet true that such a man can always see better with a bank
bill over his eyes.  “Did my friend Leslie get home all right?”

“Yes, sor.”

“Anybody waiting up for him?” carelessly.

“His wife I reckon, sor—leastways she let him in directly the kerriage
stopped.”

This was a point for the detective.

He made a note of it.

“Have you driven for Mr. Leslie before?”

“Several times, sor.”

“Fine fellow.”

“That’s where yees are correct—he’s a man I could do lots for.”

This was not flattery—the true ring could be detected in such praise—it
came from the heart.

“How did it come he had another driver earlier in the night?”

“Him—Mr. Joseph Leslie—sure I took him from his house and brought him
back and divil another driver did he have at all.  Phat are yees drivin’
at?  I dunno!”

“I made a mistake, John—I see it now.”

To himself, however, this hunter of men was saying:

“Probably Joe has bought this fellow up, body and soul—that would account
for his desire to serve him.”

Nothing could be more easily done, for the man looked like one who would
be faithful.

If this were the case it would be love’s labor lost to attempt to get any
intelligence out of such a man.

Still, Eric Darrell prided himself on his manner of cross questioning,
and he began to work the jehu in a manner that was novel to say the
least.

Thus he found that to all appearances John had driven down town, and
taken the gentleman to several places besides the apartment house where
he held forth.

Altogether they had visited three houses where games of chance were going
on but there was so much trouble effecting an entrance to these places
that it had consumed much time.

If this were true it would make the puzzle darker than ever.

The question was, could John be trusted?

He had to watch the man keenly in order to read him at all.

An Irishman can dissemble about as well as the next one, and this jehu
was a particularly bright boy, from the “ould dart.”

“Did you meet any one you knew about a quarter of twelve?” asked the
detective.

“Did I—yes, it was just striking the midnight hour when I spoke to Mike
Crotty, the night police at the corner av Broadway and Worth Street.”

“I know him—what remarks passed?”

“We both spoke av the bells—and Mike towld me about a dancing in the
moonlight he saw wanst in ould Ireland, when the fairies came out to
howld their only ball—it was at this hour he seen it and lost his mind.
Whin he found it again the beastly work had stopped and the fairies were
gone.”

“Well, I guess it’s too late for me to do what I meant to.  I won’t need
you to-day, John.  Sometime I may want your help.”

With these words Eric Darrell coolly turned and walked away.  The
Irishman looked after him quizzically.

“He’s an odd genius, but, d’ye know, I rather like the man.  Just as if I
don’t know where he’s gone.  Hope he finds Mike Crotty on deck this fine
day.”




CHAPTER IX
JOE’S SECRET


Mike Crotty was on deck.  Eric readily found him.

The man was a stranger to him, but there is a mystic tie between the
detectives and police in a great city—they work in harmony.

Soon the two men were conversing with the greatest freedom.

Crotty had often heard of Detective Darrell, and was only too glad to
supply any information that lay in his power.  He remembered meeting the
hackman and spoke of the bells ringing out the midnight hour.

There could be no mistake.

When Eric left the officer, he was a badly puzzled man to be sure.
Instead of having solved the mystery it was assuming even darker
proportions, and the chances seemed equally divided.

Was Joe guilty or not?

If, as these men agreed, he was at a certain place just as the solemn
midnight hour rang out, how could he have been at the _bal masque_—it was
at that hour of unmasking the Spanish bull fighter and his consort, the
Lady of Cards, drove away in another vehicle and yet—that man possessed
the stalwart figure of Joe Leslie—Eric believed he would know it
anywhere—he had answered to the name of Joe, while his companion was
Marian.

The difficulties in the way might have daunted a less persevering officer
than Darrell.

They only spurred him on to renewed exertions.  He gloried in a puzzle.

To a man of his nature it was the most pleasurable work in the world,
studying the intricacies of a mystery, grasping a thread in the
labyrinthine maze, following it along inch by inch, until the whole thing
resolved itself into a solved problem.

Then, when the end came, how proud he would be to survey his work.

He began to give Joe the benefit of the doubt.  This was one point
gained.

It is a rule in American courts never to adjudge a man guilty until he
has been proven so—the law looks upon him as innocent, and all efforts of
the prosecutor are directed toward proving the charges.

In some other countries the opposite is the case and the accused has to
prove his innocence.

Eric Darrell was gradually applying this former principle to the case in
question.

Perhaps Joe might be innocent, and this cloud hanging over him be the
result of circumstantial evidence.

At any rate the detective hoped so.

He looked at his watch mechanically.

Just now the thought came into his head that he must find out all about
Joe before another night had spread its mantle over the city.

The time dragged along.

He had some work to do in his office, and this consumed something like an
hour.

Then he made his way slowly in the direction of Twenty-seventh Street.

It was about four when he came in sight of the house around which
clustered so much that was mysterious.

Sauntering along, he kept watch for Joe, feeling almost sure the other
would come.

Sure enough, at the regular time his tall figure came in view.

Darrell managed it so that at this moment he was nearly opposite the
house.

He could see Joe without looking in a particular manner across the
street, and he saw that the other appeared nervous and worried.

Was his guilty secret wearing on his mind?

Something undoubtedly disturbed him.

Any one could see that from the expression on his face.

As usual, when he came in front of the house, he turned and looked up the
street, as though he were afraid lest some one whom he knew would
recognize him.

Then he went up the steps.

There was no ringing the bell.

With a key he opened the door as though proprietor there.

Then Darrell, passing on, lost sight of him.  The detective crossed the
street beyond, and came on down, intending to pass the house again.

He changed his mind.

When just opposite, looking up he saw that fortune beckoned him.

The door was ajar.

Joe had been a trifle careless, and made a mistake when he thought he
closed the door.

What could be better?

Mr. Darrell was a man quick to make up his mind, and he instantly saw a
chance here to further his plans.

Without hesitating an instant he advanced up the steps, stood upon the
door-step, and seemed to glance around carelessly, when in reality he was
listening to catch any sound that might come from the interior.

Another moment and he had entered.

Perhaps some one saw him, but he had put on an air of proprietorship such
as Joe wore, and curious eyes must have simply reached the conclusion
that his coming was but another link in the chain of mystery surrounding
the house.

Once in the hall, the detective quietly closed the door, making sure it
was fast.

Enough light came in through the glass above to show him the stairs.

There was carpet on the floor.

Near by were folding doors, and, as they stood ajar, Darrell poked his
head through, not merely out of curiosity, but because he felt that he
had an interest in the matter.

The parlor was furnished.

It was no empty house into which he had come thus surreptitiously.

He listened.

Not a sound from within.

How strange it seemed.

What could it all mean?

Vague and even terrible ideas flashed into his mind—was Joe connected
with some secret cabal or society that met here every day?

Perhaps some awful secret was gnawing at his vitals, and daily sapping
his life.

What was that?

A door slammed above.

Eric was glad to hear it, for he realized that the house had something
human about it.

As near as he could judge the sound came from upstairs.

Then he would not have to grapple with the demons of the underground
world.

At times even the oddest fancies will surge through the most prosaic
mind.

One of the thoughts that had come to him was that possibly Joe had become
connected with some gang of counterfeiters—he had heard of things just as
strange—and although it seemed a preposterous idea in connection with
Joe, still it had already become apparent that there was something very
strange connected with him and why not this as well as any other?

Lately Eric had been reading Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and his mind was
full of strange fancies concerning the awful change that was wont to come
over that unfortunate being, who lived two lives, each unknown to the
other.

It did not seem possible that Joe Leslie could be doing this exactly, but
he might be carrying on two characters successfully.

At his business and his home up-town he was known as Joseph G. Leslie—on
Twenty-seventh Street he might be Mr. Lester.  To tear the mask away and
expose the truth was what brought the detective here now.

In the interest of justice he was bound to do this much.

Then again he thought of Lillian.

In his indignation he wished she could be there to face her husband when
his guilty secret was laid bare.

It might seem cruel—so does the hot iron of the doctor when applied to
the marks left by the teeth of an enraged dog, but it is done with
kindness—heroic treatment saves one from something more terrible beyond.
Perhaps, if faced by Lillian, Joe would break down and receive a shock
that would last him all the rest of his natural life.

So the detective made up his mind not to betray his presence now if he
could help it, but reserve the _denouement_ to a later date, when it
could be made more dramatic.

All he meant to do now was to secure certain evidence for future use.

The stairs, being carpeted, gave forth no sound when he began ascending.

He felt rather peculiar about this whole business—had this man been a
stranger he would not have experienced this same uneasiness; but Joe
Leslie—to think that he should be upon the track of his old friend, and
with such a purpose in view.

Once the stairs creaked under his weight and he stood still—the sound was
preternaturally loud in an empty house; but there was no result, so that
he presently continued his course of exploration.

Vehicles rumbled past the house—he could hear them plainly, as though
some window were open near at hand.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs a cough reached his ears—it was
a man who gave utterance to it, probably Joe.

No voices?

How singular!

Eric Darrell’s wonder arose with each passing moment—strange to say, he
was trembling all over now with excitement.

No living soul had ever seen this man in such a condition before, which
fact went to prove how deep his interest was in the game he was now
pursuing.

Not for worlds would he have stopped, now that his hand was on the plow.

The end must be near, and Joe’s deep secret could not long remain such—it
must be met and dragged to the light.

Darrell looked around him, since he was now at the head of the stairs.

The house seemed to be furnished throughout, and yet there seemed an air
of desertion and loneliness about it, as though it lacked the daily care
of a housekeeper—little things seemed to be lacking that would indicate
the fact of its being a habitation that was occupied—where human beings
lived and moved.

Somehow this fact impressed itself on the detective’s mind.

He did not have much time for thought, as action was necessary.

When the brave soldier finds himself face to face with the enemy, he does
not spend the minutes in reflection, but acts.

So with Eric—he had looked forward to this period for quite a time, and
now that it had arrived, he was not the one to tarry.

Where was Joe?

As nearly as he could place them the sounds had come from the front room.

He crept silently along in that direction—the door was open, and nothing
prevented his seeing the interior of the apartment.

It was furnished, but did not contain a single occupant—light crept
through the inside blinds, sufficient to show him this fact, and his
wonder was simply increased to a fever heat.

In the name of heaven, what did all this strange mystery mean—where was
Joe—what freak induced him to come here, and—

An odd, crackling sound reached his ears—ah! it proceeded from a small
room used as a dressing-room, the door of which was closed.

Eric crept over to it and listened—all was as still as death within.

Baffled in this endeavor, he leaned against the door, pressing his ear
close to the panel, to catch any voices—if conspirators were gathered
there they must talk—this silence could not be long maintained.

The door must have been on the latch—at any rate it was not fastened, and
as Eric leaned against it this impediment to his vision slowly gave way,
opening a foot or so, and Joe Leslie’s terrible secret was revealed to
the detective’s eyes.




CHAPTER X
THAT MEERSCHAUM PIPE


In his time Eric Darrell had seen many strange sights, and experienced
odd sensations; but the spectacle that now presented itself to his
wondering eyes created a feeling within him such as had never yet come
upon him.

He gaped in amazement, scarcely able to believe his senses.

To such a high pitch had his expectations been drawn that he looked for
something of a startling nature.

The shock was tremendous, and yet it rather proceeded from a sudden
revulsion of feeling, than because the scene exceeded his expectations.

There was but one occupant in the small apartment, upon the threshold of
which he stood when the door gave way so unceremoniously.

This was Joe.

He was dressed differently than when Eric had seen him enter the house,
and seemed to have on an old suit of clothes, while a soft hat was drawn
down upon his head.

He lay back in an easy chair, from which he started up in wonder and
alarm as the door was thus burst open.

Darrell noted one thing.

In his hand Joe held a large meerschaum pipe and the white smoke was
curling upward from the end of it in wreaths.

Before him was the conspirator, caught in the act, red-handed.

No wonder Joe turned fiery red.

The inside blind was closed, but the window appeared to be open.

Joe had a lamp lighted—doubtless the gas was turned off from the house,
as it generally is from an empty or unoccupied building—and most men
prefer to see when smoking.

Over Eric Darrell there swept a wave of feeling.  All his old regard for
this good-natured giant rushed back to him.

He held Joe’s secret.

Thank heaven it was not more serious.

As for Joe himself, not recognizing the other, he sprang up in a
belligerent way.

“Hello, here!  What’s wanted?” he demanded.

“Joe!”

“The deuce take it—who are you?” uneasily.

“Eric.”

That was enough.

Leslie advanced, holding out his hand in a sort of hesitating, shamefaced
way.

“Ah! old man, glad to see you, but I declare I didn’t know you at first.”

“Nor I you, Joe,” calmly.

“That’s so—I do look like a tramp, don’t I?” with a glance at his own
person.

“It wasn’t that, but I was amazed at finding you engaged in such a
business when you declared to me you had quit smoking.”

Joe turned still redder in confusion.

“Darrell, you’re mistaken—I’ve never told a living man that!” he cried.

“What! didn’t you refuse my cigar?”

“Yes.”

“And say—”

“I had quit smoking cigars at the request of my wife.  Well, I have, and
not a cigar has passed my lips since that day.”

Eric burst out laughing.

“Ah!  Joe, my boy, I see it all.  You were unable to keep to the letter
of your promise and you have been maintaining this bachelor’s hall ever
since, where once a day you have crept in to have a good smoke.”

“Eric, what you say is true—I am a slave to the weed, and I dare not
confess it to my wife.  She despises such slaves.  My ears have tingled
many a time at the sarcastic way in which she referred to such poor
devils, at the same time thanking heaven that she had a husband with
stamina enough to give up the vile habit when he became civilized.”

Joe groaned and looked at his meerschaum pipe with a strange mixture of
disgust and veneration.

He had a sympathetic auditor, for Eric was just as deep in the mud as he
was in the mire, so far as smoking was concerned.

“What you say may be true, Joe, and yet it would be well for you to drop
on your marrowbones at once and confess all to your wife.”

“Good heavens! do you mean it?”

“I do, indeed.”

“But I can’t—she will despise me.  I had better make a determined effort
to throw off this wretched habit, even if it kills me.”

“You make a mistake in one thing, old man.  I believe your wife, instead
of reproaching you, will throw her arms around your neck and tell you to
smoke after this when you please.”

“Goodness gracious! why should she do this?”

“Because she will be so delighted to discover that it is no worse.”

“No worse—it is as bad as it could be in her estimation.  I shall feel
like a criminal,” and the good-natured giant shuddered.

He was not accustomed to deceit.

“Well, you mark my words—she will reproach you less than you believe.”

“You speak in riddles—why should she be delighted to know it is no
worse—why are you here—Heavens alive, man, has she employed you to watch
me—does she already know I am engaged in this shameful deceit?”

He poured these questions out.

Already a light was beginning to shine before his eyes.

The detective smiled.

“Thank your stars, Joe Leslie, that when you face your sweet wife you
have nothing more serious to confess than this fault.”

“What did you suspect—what does she think?” he asked, almost
breathlessly.

“That you were false to her.”

“Darrell, I’d sooner be torn to pieces than be such a wretch,” he
declared, vehemently.

“I believe you now, Joe, but must confess that up to this very hour
things looked black for you.”

“How was that?”

“Circumstances were against you.”

“Tell me all, Eric—everything.”

The detective sees no reason why he should not.  He believes in this man
thoroughly now, and would trust him through everything.

So he begins and tells him all.

Joe’s head rests upon his hand—the detective could not see his face, but
he knew how it worked with feeling, and when he described how Lillian was
dreadfully shocked when she heard of the _bal masque_ and Joe’s apparent
presence there, he was not at all surprised to see a large tear drop upon
the arm of the chair.

With tears in his eyes Joe looked up.

“Darrell, you ought to know me better than that.  I am not that kind of a
man.  My whole life is wrapped up in my wife, and if I should lose her,
either by death or any other means, it would kill me outright.”

“I believe it, Joe, I do indeed.”

Then he finished his story.

Joe was greatly wrought up.

“I shall go to Lillian at once—she shall hear the truth from my lips
first, not yours.  Perhaps she will forgive me.  If she says the word I
will break my pipe”—with a sort of sob—“and quit the whole infernal
business if it kills me.”

“I can arrange it so that she will beg you to smoke, Joe.  Depend upon
it, Lillian has learned that there are evils a thousand times worse than
the one habit to which you are addicted.”

“See here, Eric, you don’t believe this thing of my being at the _bal
masque_?”

“I do not, and yet just see how circumstantial evidence will hang a man.
The chain of evidence was complete.  You went out on an apparent quixotic
errand; I saw a man with your figure escort a lady into that place; his
name, singularly enough was Joe, and I heard some one say she was a Mrs.
Lester or something of that kind, while I heard her tell the driver
Twenty-seventh Street.”

“Good heavens!” muttered poor Joe, appalled.

“Worse still, your wife showed me a picture of her sister, at my request.
I pretended to be interested and spoke of your joking me, and my promise
to call when that sister came from California.

“To my horror I heard that man whom I supposed to be you, call that
dark-haired lady at the masquerade by that name.”

“Marian?”

“Yes.  You can imagine the awful feelings it aroused within me; the whole
thing seemed so plain that I was appalled.  Joe Leslie dropped from the
high place he held in my esteem and at that time I almost hated you.”

“I don’t wonder at it, old fellow, and think all the more of you for it.”

“Later on I became vacillating—several things occurred that broke me up
completely, among others the statement made by your driver.”

“How was that?”

“He declared you were down town all the evening and to prove it stated
that he had talked with an officer I know just at midnight.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I proved this true, and that aroused my suspicions for the first time.
If you were down town you could not be at the _bal masque_ at the same
minute—for it was a few minutes before midnight that the melee occurred
and the man I thought to be you floored his assailants.”

“I see.  I must hunt up this Joe Lester and discover who and what he is.
Perhaps we have been playing the two Dromios again.”

Joe had knocked the ashes from his pipe and locked the treasure up in a
closet in the larger front room, where his clothes were hanging.

The artful villain was wont to change his garments when he entered here,
in order that he might not go home saturated with tobacco smoke.

Eric saw the whole thing plainly.

He felt in exuberant spirits.

So far as Joe was concerned, the whole business had turned out
delightfully.

Just then the detective’s mind did not turn in any other direction.

He forgot all about the other side of the case, and seemed to consider
the matter settled.

Peace would again come upon the disturbed family relations of his friend
Joe, and all be as lovely as of yore.

Of course Lillian would be only too glad to close up the matter by
forgiving her husband.

His sin was not a grievous one, and so great would be her relief at
finding him faithful and true that she would gladly forget it all.

Under these circumstances Darrell watched Joe get into his clothes with
sincere satisfaction.

He had never been more worried over anything than he was with this, and
now that it had all turned out so well, he felt a satisfaction that
seemed to permeate his whole system.

When Joe had dressed himself, he seemed to have made up his mind about a
certain thing.

Taking the beloved meerschaum pipe out of the closet, he laid it in a
case and tucked the whole under his arm.

“What’s that for?” asked Eric.

“She shall smash it to pieces—I cannot.”

“Well, I don’t believe Lillian ever will.  Make a clean breast of it, old
fellow.”

“I intend to.”

“Then you are safe—she is too gentle not to forgive, and I expect to see
you soon smoking a cigar on the street like other men.”

“No, no, I can’t do that—I would feel like a wretch to ever do that.”

“Mark my words, she will insist on it—her scruples must vanish, and I
expect she will really enjoy the flavor of a fine cigar soon, when her
Joe is at the other end of it.”

Joe smiled dismally—he realized that he had business before him that
would try his nerves, for as a man he had pride and must now humble
himself before the woman he loved!  But his mind was made up, and he
actually felt already as though a load had been taken from his
shoulders—just as the prodigal son, as soon as he decided to return to
his father, experienced a new feeling of peace.

They left the house and parted at the elevated station, one going up, the
other down town.

As he reached the platform, the detective suddenly felt a cold shiver go
over him at sight of a man.

It was Paul Prescott, the artist.

There rushed over Eric the memory of that other half of the mystery, and
he groaned—this time his sympathy was with Joe and not his wife.




CHAPTER XI
ALL IS FORGIVEN


Joe Leslie never felt so mean in all his life as when he approached his
house up town on this evening.

He knew he had been playing a miserable part in deceiving his wife with
regard to his smoking, but subterfuge was something generally foreign to
Joe’s nature, and this made it seem all the worse to him.

Still, he did not sneak along in a cringing way.  Never had he walked
more uprightly—for he could look people in the face now, at least, and
was determined to make a clean breast of it.

Lillian was watching from the parlor window, herself hidden from view.

She thought she had never seen Joe looked so manly, as when he walked up
to the house, and her heart seemed cold to think that it may have been
the smiles of some rival that brought this look of pleasure to his face.

Thus a man may feel mean, and at the same time appear joyous.

When Joe entered the house he saw a light back in the library.

Straight in that direction he walked.

Lillian was seated there apparently reading—how was he to know she had
hastily flown hither from her lookout?

Joe softly closed the door.  Another minute and he stood before his wife.

“Lillian, my wife, look up.”

Somewhat startled, she did so.

“Why, Joe!”

“I want you to know what a base man you have for a husband, Lillian.”

“You mean—” she gasped.

“That I have a confession to make, and I am determined to make it now.”

“A confession, Joseph—” and the little woman gained her feet.

Her face was white with a sudden fear—she even believed Joe was about to
tell her some terrible truth—that he had never loved her—perhaps had been
married ere he knew her.

At any rate she was dreadfully alarmed.

“Yes, I have been a villain to treat the best little woman in all the
world so, but this old love was with me long before I knew you—it had
become a part of my very life.  I never knew how strong it was until
lately.  God knows I have tried to shake it off, and be faithful to my
promise, but I am weak.  I have sinned, Lillian, my wife, and I stand
here humbly to ask if you can ever forgive me.”

He stood there with bowed head, proud even in his humility.

“But oh, Joe, to think—that woman—” and she burst into a torrent of
tears.

He seized her hands and took them down from her face.

“Good heavens, Lillian, I forgot that you believed that.  It is no
woman—I have never been unfaithful to you in word or deed—that was not I
whom Darrell saw at the _bal masque_ last night, dear.  I am yours,
wretched man that I am, but yours alone, always.”

“But what—I don’t understand—you say you have sinned and yet that you are
innocent.  Oh, Joe, please tell me everything.”

“I would be a base wretch if I did not.  Do you remember making me give a
promise before we were married, Lillian?”

“Not about your cigars, Joe?”

“That’s it,” eagerly; “and for a time I suffered terrible torments in
keeping it to the letter; but after a while the devil tempted me.  He
said, ‘You promised to give up cigars—nothing was said about your pipe.’
Lillian, like a weak fool I gave in, and daily almost, for months, I have
gone to the house I own in Twenty-seventh Street, changed my clothes and
enjoyed half an hour’s smoke.

“It was a cruel deception on you, and I have felt like a sneak in doing
it.  Thanks to Darrell my eyes have been opened and I am here to confess
all, asking forgiveness.”

Lillian could hardly believe her ears—she turned a face illumined upon
her husband.  “Joe, dear Joe, is this your dreadful secret?”

“It is,” solemnly.

“You are sure you have told me everything?”

“There is not another thing I have ever kept from you, my darling.”

“And you love no one else?”

“Not a living soul but my wife.”

“Oh! I am so glad.”

With these words she flew into his arms, and Joe, bending down, gravely
kissed his own.

“You are sure you can forgive me, dearest?”

“Forgive you—oh, Joe, I shall _love_ tobacco after this.”

“See, I have brought my pipe here for you to destroy—I couldn’t quite do
it myself, for I’ve had it many years.  But you shall be the
executioner.”

“Not for worlds—if this is the only rival I have to fear I can share my
place in your heart with it.  You shall smoke after dinner, and I myself
will fill your pipe.”

He kissed her fingers tenderly.

“Ah! dearest, what a fool I have been all this while, to suffer as I have
when by confession I might have long since been absolved.  But I am
sincere in my resolve to stop smoking.”

“And I am just as firmly resolved that you shall not.  I am cured of my
folly.  But for that foolish prejudice you would never have been led to
deceive me.”

They held sweet communion for some little time, and all seemed as lovely
as during the bright days of their courtship.

Then the dinner bell rang.

Together they went down, Joe’s arm around his wife, as though they were
lovers.

After the meal was over they again sought the library, and chatted.

“Now for your pipe, Joe, dear,” said Lillian.

He protested.

It was of no avail—she was determined that he had suffered enough—better
love with a cigar in the house than the absence of both.

Few men will condemn Joe’s weakness.

In other respects he could be adamant, but he owned up to being very fond
of a smoke.

So Lillian took his bag of tobacco out of the case which also held the
pipe, filled the bowl and brought it to him.

He kissed her on the spot—what else could he do?

“A match, please, dear, since you insist upon it—I am out of them.”

“And the holder is also empty—stay, here is a scrap of paper that will
do.”

She took a piece out of the waste basket and, without looking at it,
twisted a lighter.

This she held in the gas jet, and, lighted, brought it over to Joe, who
calmly laid it on his pipe, puffed a few times, and then, blowing out the
flame, knocked the red ashes off the lighter, laying it on the table for
possible use again.

Then he eyed his wife quizzically.

She was looking at him with a smile.

“I feel like a brute, Lillian, to inflict such a torment upon you.  Say
the word, and the whole thing goes forever.”

“Not I,” she replied; “I never knew how fragrant the odor was.  If you
must smoke, my husband, you shall do it as other gentlemen do, in your
own home, but always smoke the best cigars and few of them.”

This was charming, Joe thought.

He had not been so happy for months.

It often happens that the skies are clearest just before the worst of
storms.

Joe saw no cloud on the horizon.

All the same it was there, and ready to blot out the sunshine like magic.

It came about in a peculiar way.

Lillian had settled down to read a book she was interested in, and Joe
had his paper.

While he read he mechanically fingered the lighter with the charred end,
and untwisted it.

Finally he looked over his paper at his wife and mused.

How good she was to make his penance so light and how happy he ought to
be in the possession of such a dear little woman.

Evidently Joe had forgotten something.

He found his pipe had gone out during his musing, and taking hold of the
paper she had twisted for him, was about to make a lighter out of it
again, when he received what seemed to be an electric shock.

A name had caught his eye on the paper.  He held it up closer.

Yes, there could be no mistake—it was a note his wife had twisted up—by
some mistake it had come into his waste basket.

What was left of it after the burning he read:

    “if you can contrive to conceal it from your husband until then, all
    will be well.  I think I can rely upon your discretion—everything
    goes on well, and our secret is, I believe, safe.

                              “Faithfully yours,

                                                          “PAUL PRESCOTT.”

When poor Joe had taken this in he felt as though he had been plunged
into an icy bath.

The joyous spirit of contentment that had pervaded his whole being was
gone.

Suspicion, jealousy, unrest, came trooping in with renewed force.

His own late experience should have been a lesson to him, but it was not.

The first thing he did was to fold the paper up and put it in his pocket.

Why he did this he often wondered later on, when the right course would
have been to have handed it to Lillian for explanation.

He looked at his paper again, but did not see that he had it upside down.

Thought was busy.

He was trying to convince himself that it was none of his business
anyhow—that he had had his secret and why not Lillian.

Then again he remembered that she was his wife—what concerned her
concerned him.

At any rate Joe’s sudden happiness was overcast—clouds had covered the
sky.

He began to feel miserable.

As it was not his design that Lillian should see this, he assumed a
cheerfulness he was far from feeling.

The evening passed.

Joe wished to get in a closet at one end of the room, but found it
locked.

“I wonder where the key of this door is.  I’m sure I didn’t take it.”

Accidentally he chanced to look toward Lillian while speaking, and was
almost startled to see the color fly into her face.

“I believe I left it up-stairs, Joe.  If you really want it I might go up
and see if I can get it.”

“Oh! no, dear, it doesn’t matter.  Another time will do as well,” he said
carelessly.

At the same time, for the life of him he could not help associating her
action with the letter received from Paul Prescott.

It worried him.

He was diverted from this state by Lillian, who asked about the clerk, so
Joe told all that had been done the night before—he had spoken of it ere
now, but had not given particulars.

Woman-like she was interested, and declared she loved him better because
of the mercy he had shown for the boy.

Then Lillian retired.

Joe sat there a long time thinking.

Finally he got up and went over to the closet as if to effect an
entrance, trying several of the keys on his bunch but with no success.

Then he walked up and down.

At times he was dejected and again his face seemed to speak of sudden
passion.

Human nature is a strange thing.

A man enters an omnibus and frowns to hear the growls of those
comfortably settled as they make room for him—presently another comes in,
and his growls at being forced to squeeze into a smaller compass exceed
the rest.

Joe, upstairs, discovered the missing key on the dainty dresser of his
wife’s room—he took it in his hand, started for the door, stopped, made
an impatient gesture, and returned the key to the place where he found
it.

“Suspect her—never,” he muttered, and yet at the very moment his feelings
had gotten beyond his control—it was pride that kept him from venturing
to pry into her secret and discover what lay hidden in the library
closet.

Thus Joe had won and lost a victory.




CHAPTER XII
THE OPIUM JOINT


Eric Darrell watched the man whom he had thus met on the platform of the
elevated station.  He wondered what magical power Paul Prescott possessed
over Joe Leslie’s wife.

The man was odd looking, as a genius is ever supposed to be, but there
was nothing about him to indicate that he might be a masher or a
heart-breaker.

Darrell looked him over, taking a mental measurement of the man, as he
had a dim idea the time might be near at hand when they would be on
opposite sides.

The other left the train.  Darrell followed him.

Presently he saw a woman join the artist and hand him a note, which he
seemed to read with great eagerness, then he hurried off.

The keen eyes of the detective had noted something of extreme importance.

When Prescott believed he put the note away in his pocket, in reality it
fluttered down to the pavement as he hastened away.

In just five seconds by the watch it was in the possession of Eric
Darrell.

He then continued on his way to his rooms.

Reaching his den he changed his appearance, and appeared in his natural
figure.  Then he took out the paper just found and eagerly scrutinized
it; not that he was particularly interested in the secrets of Paul
Prescott, but the artist had crossed his path, and hence all that he did
should be scrutinized.

As he suspected, the writing was in a lady’s chirography—so many ladies
write alike, as though taught by a certain school, that individuality is
lost.

This is what the detective read, and it opened his eyes in an astonishing
manner:

    “My beloved Paul—I consent at last to your proposition—in flight
    alone we can be safe.  I shall be ready when you come to take me.
    _He_ will be like a tiger let loose—I know his passion.  I believe he
    would have killed me ere now had he suspected our secret.  Carry out
    your plan—I understand, and am willing to fly from an uncongenial
    home to the one you will make for me.

                             With love, your own

                                                                       L.”

That was all.  Heaven knows it was enough.  Darrell let the paper drop on
the table with a sharp cry of pain.

“Poor Joe! poor honest old Joe!  You thought you were deceiving your wife
past forgiveness because you chose to smoke a pipe in secret, and here
she conspires to leave you in the lurch.  Joe is the ogre referred to,
savage as a tiger.  Woman—well, I’ll be hanged if I want to know her
sister after all.  I never was so deceived in all my life.  It is a
shame—an accursed shame, and that villain shall pay dearly for it all.”

Then he examined the note again, endeavoring to read between the lines.

His indignation grew apace.

Joe had proven himself pure gold, and he had more confidence in him than
ever, but there was something here that needed investigation, and the
case looked black for Lillian.

The note was signed with an L.

However, Darrell, always cautious, was not ready to condemn without a
hearing—what he had already seen this night taught him the fallacy of
circumstantial evidence.

First of all he must secure a scrap of Mrs. Leslie’s handwriting and
compare it with that which he held in his hand.

That could be done in the morning he had no doubt—it would not prove a
formidable task to one of his executive ability.

There was an ugly look about the business he did not like, and he was
anxious to be at the truth.

About eight o’clock, having had his supper, and made certain inquiries
that put him into possession of facts he desired to know, Darrell found
himself watching for Paul Prescott at the lodgings of the artist.

It was the desire of the detective to acquaint himself with some of the
customs of the man whom he meant to investigate.

This was always his plan when engaged in such a business—he found it paid
to size a man up and see what his habits were.

When a man was suspected of being a forger, or a check raiser, or a
defaulter, Darrell’s very first action was to discover who his usual
companions were, where he passed his leisure time, and whether he was
addicted to little vices.  His secret character always told the story.

A young man might be a Sunday-school teacher, and apparently as straight
as a die to all outward appearances, but if Darrell on tracking him found
that he secretly frequented gambling houses he knew he had his man.

What does it avail if the outside of the peach is fair to gaze upon when
all is rotten below?

So he now desired to learn what this peculiar looking artist really was.

He had a good reputation among people generally, but then this counted as
little.

Much dross might be taken for pure gold did not the assayer apply his
tests.

That was what Darrell did—looked into each man’s private character,
unknown to the individual under the scrutiny.

He seemed to take it for granted that the artist would come out, and in
this he appeared to make no mistake.  Sure enough Prescott appeared.

He was evidently off for the evening, but did not dress as though he
meant to spend it in fashionable society.

Darrell followed him to a certain club where artists were wont to
congregate, and here the other seemed quite a favorite.

At half-past eleven Prescott left this place.  He did not head toward
home.

On the contrary he seemed ill at ease, and looked around him once or
twice as though he were afraid lest some of his fellows at the club
should be near.

This action in itself was suspicious to Eric—it indicated that the artist
had certain habits which he desired to keep a secret even from those who
would have thought the least of it.

Darrell’s curiosity was at once aroused.

He realized that now the game would probably be worth the hunting.

At any rate, since the opportunity was now given him, he was determined
to learn more about the artist than he had known before.

Paul Prescott headed down town, boarding a Third Avenue street car near
Fourteenth Street.  On the same car, out in front, stood Eric, enjoying
the bracing night air.

He could see without being seen, and managed to keep an eye on the
artist.  When he saw the other finally rise he knew he was about to leave
the car, and the detective forestalled him.

Once on the pavement he waited for his man and then shadowed him.

Darrell was not greatly surprised at what he learned—the place he entered
was an opium joint, kept by a Chinaman and an American in partnership,
probably the largest about town.  Here a good class of customers were
wont to resort, and among others several actors, a doctor, a well known
jurist, a writer, together with several women, whose attire and jewelry
proved them to belong to the upper circle.

Many a man’s history received a downward impetus dating from the hour he
first entered this den of iniquity.

Darrell knew it well.

He had been in it a number of times in the course of the last year—those
whom he hunted had come here.

A clerk had robbed his employer for money to pay the opium fiend—once the
habit gains full sway and the victim will do anything on earth in order
to get money to pay for a few pipes and an hour of the peculiar drunken
fancy.

Knowing the ropes was of assistance to the detective now.

He went in, and assuming the eager, trembling manner of an habitue
demanded a bunk and a pipe.  All the while he used his eyes.

The room was supplied with lounges and settees—the usual bunks were in
another apartment where the Chinese and cheaper grade of smokers could
indulge their pet vice for a smaller sum.

This place was furnished with something of Oriental splendor, and the
detective could not but admire the barbaric taste of the proprietor.

The couches spread around were soft and inviting, Turkish in their
make—some had curtains partly drawn, so that the occupant was half
screened.

Three of these were occupied by women.  This was no uncommon sight.

That two of them wore veils was evidence that they had not yet been
hardened by the drug; but all this would come in time.

The third had thrown her veil back, and her set face could be seen, the
eyes staring into vacancy, as though sightless.

Wretched sinners that they were, drawn onward by the inexorable god at
whose altar they worshiped, there was no escape for them—just ahead lay
the black gulf of despair, toward which they were hurrying so rapidly,
and soon it must close over them.

Then—eternity!

Darrell never entered here without a feeling of commiseration for the
poor souls thus linked with the skeleton arms of death.

Had the opportunity ever offered he would gladly have tried to save one
or more of them; but he was well aware what a difficult and well nigh
impossible task it is to endeavor to save a man against himself.

Luckily Eric possessed a peculiar disposition—what little opium he smoked
had no effect on him, and he had no longing for the drug as the
generality have.

On the contrary it almost nauseated him, and he could only have become an
habitual opium fiend by long and persistent practice.

He glanced around to see where the artist had deposited his frame, and
discovered Prescott on the couch next the second veiled lady.

Whether this was accident or design the detective was unable to decide as
yet, but he had an idea and steadily nursed it.

His feeling of mingled disgust and pity was greatest for these women—he
knew the one whose face he saw was a well-to-do widow up on Lexington
Avenue, and perhaps the others were friends who had come here first in a
spirit of bravado and daring curiosity, perhaps upon a wager, and whom
the fascination of the drug had already chained to the chariot wheels of
the ogre Opium.  Those wheels revolved slowly but remorselessly—sooner or
later they would crush out the life of all who clung to them.

Had Prescott anything in common with this rich and brazen widow and her
friends?

That he knew the former Darrell had already guessed, for her set
expression had momentarily changed at sight of the man, and the detective
caught a look of deep cunning, which was returned with a smile and a nod
from the man.

Eager to learn all he could of the artist’s private character, the
detective determined to watch for all he was worth.

He was also ready to find out who the two veiled women were, who set
aside all modesty and came to this public opium joint because they could
not properly prepare and enjoy the drug at their homes.

At a certain hour no doubt a closed carriage would be waiting to convey
them all home—perhaps the dashing widow had some male friend present who
would serve as an escort.

Prescott received his pipe, prepared his pill and was soon smoking
quietly.

Silence rested upon the place—people came not here to converse, but to
dream with open eyes, seeing the beautiful things that danced before
their eyes like a bright _ignis fatuus_, always eluding their grasp, yet
luring them deeper and deeper into the toils.




CHAPTER XIII
A TERRIBLE DOOM


Before Eric Darrell had been in the place ten minutes he made a discovery
that had a strong bearing on the case.

This was in reference to the artist.

Paul Prescott had shown all the signs of an opium smoker’s eagerness to
have a draw at the subtle drug when he came in.

Nevertheless, Eric had already decided that much of this was assumed.

His own experience showed how such a thing could be; hence, he believed
another might copy the same signs of distress with equal success.

Then Prescott had a reason for coming here other than the desire to
smoke.

What could it be?

Darrell had eyes, and he was able to form conclusions very speedily.

He knew that the presence of the dark-veiled woman in the bunk adjoining
that taken by the artist, was what had drawn him.

Circumstances pointed to this fact—their heads were close together, one
resting upon the right, the other upon the left side.

The detective’s thoughts were busy.

He remembered the note.

Could this veiled creature be the party signing that missive?

According to the conclusions he had already drawn this could not be so,
for he had made up his mind that the writer must be Lillian, and only
waited to prove this fact.

Who then was the veiled lady?

Bah! such a man as Paul Prescott might be engaged in half a dozen little
love affairs at one and the same time.

He would finally abandon all the rest for the charmer who held his fickle
heart most heavily chained, or else whose bank account was the most
promising.

To a man of Darrell’s steadiness of purpose, there was something almost
revolting about such a character as this, and yet he found certain things
to study in the artist’s face—points that rather puzzled him when
scrutinized.

The man was worthy of being analyzed.  There might be more to him than
even appeared upon the surface.

Darrell was wide awake, although he pretended to be already under the
magic influence.

He was soothed by the odor of the opium, without giving way to it, and
watched the couple across the way.

The hanging curtains partly concealed him, and he was sure a note passed
from one to the other.  If the girl thus heavily veiled was in the charge
of the widow, the latter did not seem in a condition to watch over her
ward, for she had given herself up wholly to her dreams.

In the silence of this den of human misery, where each victim was bound
to his neighbor by the same chains that made him a slave, a long stride
was taken on this night toward the oblivion of death.

Strange scenes sometimes occur in these places, and one was on the tapis
for this night.

So interested had the detective been in watching the couple opposite,
that he seldom glanced at any of the others.

By mere chance his eyes alighted upon the second veiled woman, and at the
same moment he saw that something was wrong.

She had swept her veil aside, and the light revealed a face at once
handsome and dissipated—she had been a beauty earlier in life.

Just now this face was distorted.  Pain racked it.

Eric Darrell saw the awful hand of death there—he knew the wretched woman
must have some heart trouble which was aggravated by the opium, and that
she was dying.

He beckoned to the Yankee who represented the American side of the firm.

Then he pointed to the struggling woman.  The other sprang to her.

There was a gasp and all was over—death had come to her in the opium den.

By this time Eric was out on the floor, and it was well he happened to be
there, for the man showed the white feather at once, fearing lest a thing
of this kind would ruin his business.

Luckily a strong hand was at the helm.

The orders Eric gave were obeyed—no one was allowed to leave the place.

Most of those present manifested no interest in the game—their minds were
wholly taken up with heavenly visions—death might come and go without
their notice.

Eric knew what must be done.

The woman was elegantly dressed—she was no doubt the wife of a wealthy
citizen, and if it were known that she had expired in this fashionable
opium joint the shame would be terrible.  He aroused the widow.

The other veiled lady was trembling, having gained her feet, but she
would answer no questions, only sob and wring her hands, while the artist
pretended not to notice any one, though eagerly taking it all in.

When the dashing widow was brought out of her dreams and made to realize
the truth, she too seemed overwhelmed.

Eric took hold of her.

His strong mind controlled hers, and he soon made her see how essential
it was that this awful business be kept a dead secret.

She must confide in him, giving the name and address of the deceased—he
would then see that the body was taken there unknown to a living soul
save the driver, and the secret would be locked in the breast of her
husband.

The world she moved in would attend her funeral, and never dream that she
had died in any other place than at home.

This gave the widow hope.

She whispered the lady’s name and residence to the detective, who wrote
them down.

He was surprised to discover that her husband was a prominent business
man down town.

It was an awful business, but he managed it with great circumspection—the
body was placed in a hack, and the driver did not know but what she was
merely sick.

Eric had also discovered the name and address of the other veiled
lady—the widow had given it upon his assurance of good faith.  It was
Mrs. Collingwood.  Her address was Lexington Avenue.

Darrell’s actions were right to the point in a business light.

His main desire was to save the poor husband all the shame and
mortification possible.

Leaving the hack at the curb he was presently in the presence of the
gentleman, to whom he broke the awful news as gently as possible.

At first the other was dreadfully shocked, but upon learning what bold
measures the detective had taken to conceal the actual facts, he
overwhelmed the other with thanks.

Between them they got the body into the house, Darrell speaking to the
supposed sick lady in a reassuring way.

The driver was heavily feed and cautioned to hold his tongue under any
and all circumstances.  Darrell assisted the stricken husband to get his
dead up into her room.

Then in the library he heard the full particulars from the detective.

Afterwards, he insisted on telling his story—how his once lovely and
affectionate wife had secretly taken to the deadly drug from injections
given to make her sleep during a spell of sickness.  The harrowing tale
has been often repeated in such a city as New York—her power of
resistance became less and less strong, until he could do nothing with
her.

Knowing that she had heart trouble he had been expecting such a
catastrophe, but nevertheless, it had fallen with crushing force.

He was greatly indebted to the detective for his assistance—it was
possible that the real facts might be covered up, and with the help of
his family physician the death be given as simply one from heart disease.

When Eric felt the gentleman’s grasp at parting, and saw the tears upon
his sad face, he knew that his visit to the opium joint had not been
without its reward, since he was enabled to bring deep satisfaction to
this soul long harrowed by the fear of such a catastrophe.

Meanwhile, he had the address of the veiled woman with whom the artist
had been in communication at the opium joint.

At his leisure on the morrow he could look her up and learn all there was
connected with his case.

Such a scene as the one thus briefly described has occurred at an opium
den in the great metropolis—who the ill-fated lady was no one knew, at
least the facts were never made public, and only a few guessed the truth
by watching the death column in the dailies.

The opium habit gains strength slowly in our midst, but there are more
people slaves to the vice than the public suspects.

Knowing the joint would in all probability be closed for the remainder of
the night, Eric made no attempt to go there but sought his apartments to
rest.

The committee appointed to examine into the strange case of Leslie vs.
Leslie could report progress.

On the morrow the work would be resumed, and a long stride taken toward
the end.

This man had a wonderful power over his mind, and could control it at
will.  When he was ready to sleep he dismissed all thought and secured
solid rest, so that when he woke up his mind was as clear as a bell.  To
such a fact he owed much of his success.

With the morning he was up and out.

It was a fair day, and Eric hoped he might look upon this as an emblem of
luck—that his case might prove as clear.

His first thought was to get some specimen of Mrs. Leslie’s writing.

To do this he must visit the house but waited until Joe would probably be
on his way down to his business.

Then he went to the dwelling up town.

He asked to see Mrs. Leslie and was shown in.  Being left alone for a
short time he glanced around as if in hope of seeing an opportunity to
carry out his design.

A desk caught his eye—if he only had the opportunity to look through it
he felt sure he could find what he wanted, for it was undoubtedly the
property of Lillian Leslie.

There were several books on the library table.  These he examined
hastily.

He hoped to find one that Lillian might have written her name in, for he
believed that it would be easy to compare the writing and pronounce
sentence from that.

In this, however, he was disappointed.

Joe’s name was in several, the books being inscribed, with love, to his
wife.  This only proved his great love.

Eric was ready to swear by it now, and did not mean to let the case drop
until he had sifted it thoroughly—such honest affection as Joe’s should
never be made sport of in a friend of his, even by the prettiest witch
that ever trod the earth—at least not with his approval.

The rustle of female attire drew his attention, and, turning, he found
himself face to face with the lady of the house.

He had not sent up his name and she appeared quite surprised at seeing
who it was.  “You, Mr. Darrell?”

“At your service, Mrs. Leslie.”

“What do you wish this morning, sir?”

There was something of coldness in her tones.  He could not tell whence
it sprung, as there were several things that might cause it.

Perhaps she felt humiliated in his presence because she had let him see
her weakness, jealousy of her husband’s affection.

Then, again, if she were guilty she might fear him because he was a
detective and Joe’s friend.

He suspended judgment and resolved to study this fair creature more
closely than he had as yet had a chance to do.




CHAPTER XIV
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN


All these things had flashed through Darrell’s mind with a rapidity that
lightning alone could equal, for there is nothing more rapid than
thought.

He maintained his suave manner.

“I have come this morning, Mrs. Leslie, for several things.  In the first
place I wish to congratulate you on the fact that Joe’s terrible secret,
as I made it out, was after all so simple a thing.  Your wifely trust and
devotion had their reward and I can appreciate the feeling of
satisfaction you now possess because of your trust which I could not
wholly beat down, in spite of the proofs I brought, and which must have
appeared ‘strong as holy writ’.”

This was artful of Eric—he thought to destroy the barrier by a little
flattery, knowing all the while that Lillian had really been jealous.

It told too.

The fair lady smiled upon him once more.

“I am happy because our bugaboo turned out to be only a pipe, and Joe has
gone off this morning with a cigar—he shall smoke when he pleases after
this.”

“And you?”

“I find that the odor from a good cigar is rather attractive.  At any
rate, Joe has done so much for me that I can afford to give in to one
little vice of his.  To think of the poor dear fellow hiding himself away
like that.  It makes me almost cry to think how miserably cruel I have
been to him.  But I mean to make it up to Joe in the future, Mr.
Darrell.”

Eric swallowed a lump that seemed to be sticking in his throat.

This, the woman whom he suspected of being false to her husband—he did
not know how it was, but whenever he came into her presence he seemed to
be in some way charmed.

She was a siren.

The same power, exercised by the nymphs of the sea in olden days, causing
the sailors to jump over to their death, is given to certain of the
gentler sex to-day.

Adam sunk all his manhood and forgot his duty to his Maker when tempted
by Eve, and from that day to this few men there are strong enough to do
the right when a beautiful woman smiles upon them and teaches them the
lesson of love.

It would be impossible to describe the influence Lillian had upon nearly
all who came in contact with her—her manner was soothing and pleasant, so
that general admiration followed her acquaintance.

Darrell was a man of strong purposes and he put down with a firm hand any
feeling that interfered with his stern sense of duty.

In a business way he was here to see whether Lillian was what she
appeared to be, or deceptive by nature.

Hence he was not to be charmed from his purpose in any way.

The human feeling of admiration must give way to the professional energy.

“You spoke of several reasons for calling to see me, Mr. Darrell—will you
kindly state what the others are?” she asked.

“With pleasure, and I trust you will not feel offended, my dear Mrs.
Leslie.  It is a custom on my part in a case like this, to take from the
party with whom I have been engaged, a little note, stating that they
have been well satisfied with my services.  I hope you may not think it
out of the way and give me this.”

She appeared troubled.

“I do not know that I ought to—such an affair is essentially private.”

“I only desire the paper for my own satisfaction, and not to show.  You
can merely state that you are entirely satisfied with the services of
Eric Darrell, and if you prefer, simply sign your initials.”

Crafty man—the initial was what he wanted above all else.

Her face brightened.

“I do not know that I would object to that, Mr. Darrell, since my
identity is concealed.  Do you want it now?”

“If you please,” humbly, but secretly exulting over his success.

She went to the desk, opened it and sat down—after a minute’s thought she
wrote something upon a sheet of paper.

“Will that do, Mr. Darrell?” handing it to him.

He glanced at it and read:

    “This is to certify that Mr. Eric Darrell has accomplished the work
    for which I have employed him, in a thoroughly satisfactory manner,
    and that I am well satisfied with his services.

                                                                     L. L.

    “New York, October 7, 188–”

Darrell smiled.

“A thousand thanks, madam.”

“It answers your purpose?” quietly.

“Yes, yes.”

Although he smiled Eric Darrell felt as though he could have wept just
then.

The one glance he had taken had revealed the fact that the capital L made
by Mrs. Leslie was very similar to the one which he had seen signed to
the note Paul Prescott had let fall.

It was a shock to the detective, even though he had in a measure expected
it.

That point gained he put the matter aside for the present and continued
to appear pleasant, though it was only with an effort he could do so.

For a little he chatted with the lady, and endeavored to study her.

Darrell thought that if his suspicions were proven true, Lillian Leslie
must be the perfection of an actress—he had never seen two such extremes
meet in an individual—she was the incarnation of good and evil.

“By the way, are you acquainted with a Mrs. Collingwood of your street
here?” he asked after a while, in a careless tone.

“Yes, I know her.”

She looked surprised, as though wondering where he could have met her.

“Last night I made her acquaintance.  She is accounted a rather handsome
woman, I believe.”

This was put out as a sort of feeler, for he had not even seen her face.

Lillian answered in a manner that declared what little interest she had
in the lady:

“I believe so, but we were never friends, and I do not know much about
the lady.”

That ended it.

Darrell soon took his leave, having gained the point for which he had
come.

When he entered a car on the elevated road he found a corner to himself,
and then, unable to wait longer, proceeded to compare the two notes.

Just as he thought, the writing was of the same order, and there was much
resemblance in the capital letters.

Still, Eric had seen enough to know that only an expert could decide this
question beyond all cavil.

Before now he had seen the chirography of two persons resemble each
other, and this was not to be accepted as conclusive evidence.

At the same time it was a point that would bear upon the final result.

He kept it in mind.

Other threads must now be taken up in turn, until the main current was
reached which would sweep him on to the sea.

He put away the document just received from Mrs. Leslie.

While still looking at the other, some one sat down beside him.

Darrell’s thoughts were fixed upon the subject which occupied his
attention, and he did not even know there was some one in the next seat
until a hand clutched his arm.

“Where did you get that paper?” said a hoarse voice close by his ear.

Turning his head at this he was surprised to see Paul Prescott beside
him.

Fortune plays some queer tricks at times, and this was one of them.

What an odd chance that this man, of all in the great city, should sit
down in the same car, at the very moment Darrell had that fatal paper in
his hand.

The circumstances were indeed so singular that Eric could not but start;
but his excellent control over his nerves stood him in good stead again.

He looked in the artist’s face—it was flushed and eager and
angry—evidently he had not missed the letter up to now.

“My dear sir, does it belong to you?” asked the detective, quietly.

“It does, sir.”

“Then take your property.”

“Very good, sir; but I have a right to ask, yes, demand of you, to
explain under what peculiar circumstances this document chanced to come
into your possession.”

“I do not question your right to ask that, and I shall readily tell where
and when I picked the letter up.”

So he gave the time and place to a dot, but did not say anything about
having seen it drop from the pocket of the owner.  Prescott remembered
that this was when and where he had received the message, and he had no
doubt of the truth of the story.

At the same time he looked at the man by his side with a frown.

“You read this?” he asked.

“Naturally so—you could not blame me.”

“And had your curiosity aroused?”

“Well, yes, but that has nothing to do with it.  Let us forget the
circumstance.”

“Willingly, since it concerns the private affairs of a very dear friend.”

No more was said.

Eric read his paper and the artist seemed occupied with his, but every
now and then he turned his eyes toward the detective as though his
curiosity was aroused.

When the artist arose at Fourteenth Street, to leave the car, Eric handed
him a card he had prepared for such occasions.

It gave his name and the address of his apartments—nothing more.

“If you should ever desire to see me, sir, you will find me there by
letter or person,” he said quietly.

At this Prescott smiled broadly.

“I hope you don’t think I dream of sending you a challenge for finding my
letter,” he said.

“Well, you looked as black as a thunder cloud, and I didn’t know but what
you might be meditating something of the sort.”

“It was rude in me to act that way, and I beg your pardon for it.”

Frankly said.

The detective liked him better for it, and there was something about the
other’s face quite attractive after all.

Somehow Eric did not seem to hate and despise him as he had done before.

When the artist had gone he fell into a fit of musing again.

Various theories were built up, only to be discarded again as unequal to
the occasion.

He remembered that the letter had been given to Prescott by a woman, who
was evidently in the pay of the party signed L.

Whom could Lillian send?

He did not know the internal arrangements of the lovely little house up
town, and this was what was now on his mind.

The office of Joe Leslie was his destination, and he made his way thither
after leaving the elevated road.

Leslie was in John Street, and carried on a business in precious stones,
of which he was one of the best judges in the city.

He was a man of considerable wealth, but being of an unostentatious
nature he did not put on much style, preferring to live quietly and well.

When Eric Darrell ascended the stairs of the large building in which his
friend had his offices, he was forcibly reminded of times gone by when
Joe was a bachelor, and the two had been warm friends, passing through
numerous scenes of pleasure in company.




CHAPTER XV
COMPARING NOTES


Joe was in.

When the detective sent his card by the same clerk whom he had helped Joe
rescue from the clutches of the gamblers, he was shown to the private
office.

Here he found his friend seated at his desk, and busily engaged with a
pile of letters that had come in the morning mail.

Joe greeted him cordially and begged him to wait a few minutes, when he
would be through with his task.

This suited the detective exactly, since it gave him a chance to watch
the other.

He was able to read a face pretty thoroughly and he saw very quickly that
Joe was still greatly troubled in his mind.

He had gotten rid of one burden, but another had come in its stead.

What could it mean?

There was little need for Eric to ask that.

He knew, beyond all doubt, that the old suspicions had arisen again in
Joe’s mind, perhaps strengthened by some circumstance.

Finally Joe leaned back in his chair and looked at his visitor.

“Eric, for a short time last night I was really and truly happy—it seemed
to me that the clouds had all rolled by.  Then, by a strange
circumstance, they were brought forward again and now I am worse off than
ever.”

“That is too bad—I am sorry for it.”

“Before, it was my foolish habit that gave me sorrow—now it is a dreadful
thought that I endeavor to banish from my mind, but which rises up again
and again in all its hideous deformity until I almost feel as though I am
mad.

“Still I keep my thoughts clear, for I know that this awful question must
be grappled with, and fought to the death.

“My whole future is concerned in it, and I mean to lay the ghost forever,
or else know the very worst.”

“Spoken like a true man, Joe.  Shake hands on that as a bargain.  I am,
in this matter, hoping to prove your wife’s innocence, but I shall take
up any evidence that comes along, and apply it where it belongs.”

“I want you to, old fellow, no matter what the pain it brings.”

“To begin with, you know all my hopes are to the end that Lillian may
prove to be as innocent as a babe.”

“Heaven grant it,” Joe groaned.

His tone betokened despair.

The detective judged from this that his friend must have made some
discovery since last they met.

“At the same time, Joe, you know as it looks at present, things are
decidedly against your wife.”

“I try to deceive myself, Eric, into the belief that it is not so, but I
cannot, I cannot.  She shall have a fair trial—I will give her the
advantage of every doubt, and then—”

He could not finish the sentence.

Poor fellow! how Eric pitied him, and in that moment, believing Lillian
guilty, cursed the hour she ever crossed Joe’s path, to blight a life
devoted to her.

Never mind—the end was not yet.

“Tell me what you have discovered, Eric,” said Leslie, throwing off the
terrible feeling that almost overcame him.

“After you, my boy.”

“How do you know I have anything to tell?” in a surprised tone.

“Your looks give it away.  Proceed.”

So, being encouraged to speak, Joe gave a brief account of the charming
scene that had taken place in his home on the preceding night.

Eric was quite interested, and his reflections upon the little woman were
flattering to her.

Then came the climax.

The note with the charred edge was produced, and submitted to
examination.

Eric looked upon it as furnishing quite a link in the chain of
evidence—he believed the secret referred to must indeed mean that which
they were looking up.

When Joe heard the opinion of his friend, he was not much
encouraged—indeed, his spirits were reduced to a lower ebb; but he shut
his teeth and said nothing.

“Now I want your opinion, Joe, as a man of some legal acumen.  It is a
little question I desire to have settled,” he said.

With that he took out the document he had received from Lillian.

“You recognize the handwriting?”

“I do—it is my wife’s,” with a shiver.

“I had another paper, but gave it up to the owner; but, as it fortunately
turned out, ere doing so I traced the signature with a piece of tracing
paper—see, here it is.”

He put the two together.

“Bend over, Joe.”

“What do you want me to decide?” nervously, as might a man who feared
lest his words might convict one he loved.

“Examine these signatures.”

“I am doing so.”

“If asked your opinion frankly as an outsider, would you incline to the
belief that one hand had made both of these?”

“You insist on a reply?”

“I think you had better give it.”

“Then, according to my humble opinion, those letters are alike, and the
chances are decidedly in favor of the same party having made both.”

“My opinion exactly—I would not swear to it but I put the chances in that
way.”

Then he turned the paper over to Joe.

“What of this?” asked that worthy.

“There is nothing out of the way in it.  I only had your wife write it
out and sign her initials in order to compare it with the other
document.”

“Tell me about the other.”

“I will reproduce it, word for word.”

Drawing some paper to him he wrote rapidly for a few minutes.

Then he placed the duplicate of Prescott’s letter in front of Joe.

“This looks like a deep conspiracy, Eric—you say this was signed that
way?”

“Yes.”

“Was it—in—her handwriting?”

“There were enough points of resemblance to make it striking.”

“Heavens!” and he beat his fist against his forehead in despair—then
recovered his calmness after an effort.

“You say you have lost this document?”

“I had compared them in the elevated coming down here, and was still
looking at that one when a hand was laid on my arm and a man asked me
what I was doing with his property.  I saw he was the owner and gave it
over—we had a few words and separated.”

“Was that man known to me?”

“By sight, yes.”

Joe shuddered visibly, as though he understood the suggestive words of
the other.

“Then it was _he_?”

“Paul Prescott, the artist.”

“Curses on him for a meddler!  Lillian has a weakness for art, and I have
often jokingly told her she should have married a painter.”

“That explains his power in a measure—he has fed her on art and won her
regard by posing as a hero.”

Joe struck the duplicate paper fiercely.

“Eric, you may think me crazy to doubt it, but unless Lillian declares in
my presence that this is the product of her pen I will never believe it.”

“Joe, my friend, I honor you for such a feeling, and I hope as I never
hoped before in my life that this thing will prove a false alarm.  All
the same I shall do my duty by you every time, as a true friend.”

“A thousand thanks.  I feel fifty years old to-day instead of
thirty-six—it is my birthday, you know, Eric,” with a sad smile.

“I wish you many happy returns, my dear fellow—just three years younger
than I am.  I wish I had a gift to give you.”

“The best gift this world could give me would be the proof that my wife
is the true and faithful wife I have always believed her.  Great heavens!
Eric, when I think of it all, a spasm comes over me—my fingers twitch as
though they would love to encircle the throat of that arch-devil and
choke his life out.”

Eric was surprised.

He had not believed this of Joe, looking upon the other as a sort of
good-natured giant whom any one could impose upon.  Now he saw him angry
he made up his mind that if ever Paul Prescott and Joe came in contact it
would go hard with the artist.

“Well, I declare, you will make a modern Othello yet, Joe.”

“No, no,” with a shudder, “I might kill him, but I would never raise a
finger against her if she deceived me time and again.  I couldn’t; I must
love her always.”

Eric shrugged his shoulders.

“Every man to his taste.  Your character is one in a thousand, Joe.  As
for me I confess I have more of the tiger about me, and if a man or woman
foully wrongs me I look forward with pleasure to revenge.”

“Don’t let us talk about it—the worst I would do to her would be to seek
a separation—but for him,” and his face grew grandly dark and gloomy, but
he did not finish.

“I wish to ask you a few questions about your home, Joe.”

“Do so.”

“In the first place you have a girl.”

“Yes, two of them.”

“What positions do they occupy?”

“One is in the kitchen—the other a sort of upstairs girl, to take care of
the rooms, answer the door, and wait upon the table.”

“Describe the cook.”

Joe laughed.

“She is as fat as she is long, almost, and as good-natured as she is
fat.”

Eric made a gesture.

“That point is settled.  Now the other.”

“Nanny is a woman too, but much smaller, and ladylike in her ways.  She
came here from Chicago with us.”

“Ah! a favorite of your wife’s?”

“Yes.  Nanny was in her mother’s employ as a girl.  She is faithful to
us.”

“Ahem!  Just the person, in fact, to be entrusted with a message of a
secret nature, that must be handed to a certain party?”

At this Joe turned red and white by turns.  “I presume so,” he admitted,
uneasily.

“Is Nanny about my height, rather slim, and quick in her actions?”

“Yes.”

“Dresses in black?”

“My soul! man, you seem to drive the nails into my coffin with each
question.”

“Answer, Joe.”

“She does dress in black—most maids do in New York now.”

“Wear a white apron?”

“No,” with a gleam of hope.

“Neither did this girl.  I knew she was a maid by the courtesy she made
when handing Prescott the letter, and also from the little white cap she
wore.”

Poor Joe’s last chance seemed gone—the other had knocked away the pins
upon which his house was built.

“That was probably Nanny, but I can not and will not believe Lillian
wrote that note.  Some other party had hired Nanny to give it to that
man.”

Darrell knew Joe was hugging a phantom to his heart, but he could not
take pleasure in arguing with the deceived husband—besides, Joe’s actions
proved that he believed more than he would admit either to himself or his
confidential adviser, and if the blow did come it would not be such a
terrible shock as if he had received no warning.

The end was not far away.




CHAPTER XVI
THE LOCKED SARATOGA


The detective was not yet through.

He wished to find out a few other things connected with the case, through
information which Joe alone could give.

When the latter had told his story concerning what had happened at his
house on the preceding night, he had touched lightly on the incident of
the closet.

The keen detective had however made a mental note of the circumstance,
and he was bound to know more of the matter.

“What sort of a closet is it?” he asked.

“Quite a roomy affair.”

“You keep what there?”

“A number of odds and ends, and I believe a large Saratoga trunk.”

“Ah! your wife’s?”

“She brought it from Chicago.  On our little trips to Boston and
Washington we used my leather one.”

“Then this trunk has been there all the while?”

“Yes.”

“Think now—have you ever known Lillian to enter that closet for anything
since she came to you?”

Joe turned white.

“She might have done so dozens of times.”

“But have you known her to?”

“I have not.”

“Is there anything kept there she would want?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Under the circumstances does it not strike you as singular that she
should not only enter the closet but lock it and take the key upstairs?”

“Eric, I have thought so myself,” sadly.

“Now, Joe, you are withholding something from me that has a bearing on
this matter.”

“How do you know it?” quickly.

“Well, perhaps a little bird told me, or else I read the secret in your
face.  At any rate you have no business to keep it from me, I am trying
to do my duty—heaven knows if I could I would have your wife as spotless
as the noonday sky, and if she proves otherwise I shall lose faith in all
womankind forever; but I must be able to weigh every particle of evidence
for and against her.”

“I beg your pardon, Eric, but I felt so badly over the circumstance that
I hardly had the heart to relate it to you.”

“Then it is against her?”

“I am afraid so.”

“The sky grows very black—poor Joe—poor Lillian—my heart is in sympathy
with you.”

Joe had buried his face in his hands and seemed quite overcome.

The detective waited.

When his friend had in a measure recovered from the shock, he spoke.

“Now tell me the circumstances.”

Joe’s voice was a little unsteady, but it gained strength as he
proceeded:

“When I came down this morning it was late for me, but I had not slept
well, and felt a raging headache.

“Lillian was in the library, and left me to go down to see if she could
not have a cup of strong tea made, which always acts as a sedative with
me when I have a headache.

“My thoughts had never gone from that closet and I had already seen that
the key was in the door for Lillian had brought it down.

“Hardly had she left the room than I was over there and had the door
open.

“I examined the interior but found it all as I had been in the habit of
seeing it.

“This surprised me.  Could I after all have done her an injustice with my
suspicions?

“I was beginning to think so, when I suddenly noticed a little thing.

“The key of her Saratoga trunk was missing.

“I remembered seeing it in the trunk a few weeks before.

“Why should Lillian take it?

“Instinctively I tried the lid—it was fast—the trunk was locked.

“I left the closet, and was sitting in the library when the breakfast
bell rang, and Lillian came in to go down with me.

“She was full of spirits, while I felt as though I were about to attend
my own funeral.

“During the progress of the meal I spoke about there being a chance of
our soon going out to Chicago to pay a visit, and she seemed to be very
quiet over it, unusually so, I believed.

“‘By the way, I miss the key of your trunk—will you let me see if the
interior is in good condition?’ I said as steadily as I could, although I
felt my face turn red.

“She looked at me as though surprised.

“To-morrow you can do so, Joe—to-day you are in poor condition for
anything.  Take your mind off everything that excites it.  I wish you
would stay at home to-day and nurse your headache.’

“I professed to have business of unusual importance down town, and
shortly after left the house for my office.

“Now, Eric, give me your honest opinion—my mind is hardly in a fit
condition to see and judge for myself.”

The detective had listened intently.

He could grasp the threads and draw them into one compact cord.

The issue was before him.

“Joe, it is beyond all question that her secret lies in that trunk—if we
knew what it contains, nothing more would be needed.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” rather wearily.

“From the tenor of the letter Prescott received I am inclined to believe
some one is about to run away with him, or he with her, rather.”

Joe groaned dismally.

“If in that trunk I should find some of her dresses and jewelry—well, I
should be strongly inclined to believe it meant flight.”

“No, no,” hoarsely, clutching his throbbing brow with both hands, “not
that.  Lillian would never be guilty of that.  She may have flirted with
the man—women are weak, I know—but that is the worst I will believe of
her—the worst.”

Darrell shrugged his shoulders.

“Very good, Joe, but you must permit me to place my own estimation on
things.  My eyes are not blinded by love—I can weigh things calmly, and
place their right estimation upon them.”

“Eric, I said I would leave it all with you and I do, but until it is
proven beyond all doubt, do not ask me to believe in her guilt.  It will
kill me if it is so.”

“Trust in me, Joe, old fellow, I will act for you as though you were my
brother.”

“And—whatever comes, Eric—be gentle with Lillian—let me be the one to—oh!
my God!  I cannot believe it, and yet it seems as though a burning iron
were branding it on my brain.”

The detective was done for the present.

From Joe’s offices he went to his own.

Here he could sit down and review the situation in regular order.

Darrell generally made notes of his subject, so that he might ever keep
the circumstances before his mind.

He now jotted down a few more headings, and then surveyed the case as
seen through these spectacles which he had drawn on.

Looking over his shoulder we can also get a resume of the case by reading
what he filled up a page in his note book with.

They were arranged under heads in numerical order, beginning at the
start:

1—Paul Prescott, an artist, makes daily visits to Joe’s house when Joe is
down town.

2—Lillian Leslie has a secret from her husband.

3—The paper dropped by Prescott is in her writing, and seems to promise
an elopement.  It is also signed L, her initial.

4—The girl who gave Prescott the letter corresponds with Lillian’s
faithful maid, who has been in the family for many years.

5—The fact of her having the closet key upstairs is significant in
itself.

6—Her trunk is locked and the key gone—she says she will produce it when
Joe has leisure to examine the trunk—there is no hurry—the morrow will
do—evidently _something_ is to occur between now and to-morrow.

                                * * * * *

This was the indictment.

Against it, on the opposite page, he had written the defense—it came
under one head:

“1—Lillian is my ideal of womanly perfection—if she prove guilty my faith
is gone forever.  I have never yet been able to _believe_ her guilty
while in her presence—it is only when away that these terrible facts make
me fear it is so.”

A peculiar case this.  If Lillian could plead her own cause, she would
undoubtedly win it.

For a long time Eric Darrell sat and looked at his notes.

They covered about all of the case.

He could not but see how overwhelming the evidence was against Lillian
and how meager her defense.

Still he kept hoping for the best, trusting that something would turn up
to send the balance over to the other side.  Had it been any one other
than Lillian, the detective must have declared that there could be no
hope—the case would be virtually closed.  With such a client, however, he
had hope to the end, because all his sympathies were enlisted in behalf
of Joe and his wife.

He was not the man to waste time in useless speculation, and when he had
calmly reviewed the situation, he made up his mind what ought to be done.

Would it be possible to save Lillian even though she were guilty?

He could not face her—his first thought had been to see her and speak of
the terrible nature of the indictment hanging over her like the sword of
Damocles, suspended by a single hair—perhaps she was influenced by some
strange power the artist possessed—mesmerized, made a slave by some
peculiar phase in a powerful organization—Eric had known of such things,
although he did not pretend to understand them.

When he came to think it over, however, he concluded that he could not
muster up courage enough to say these things to her face.

He was certain that, strong-nerved man as he was, he would utterly fail
when he sat opposite those eyes, and felt them upon him.

Was there any other source to which he might apply?

He ran over the field.

What of Paul Prescott?

The thought seemed absurd at first but presently he began to realize that
there was a chance back of it.

The man was a character and might not be as bad as appearances indicated.

Perhaps moral suasion might influence him, and in case that failed a
threat would possibly have the desired effect.

The more he thought over the matter the better he looked upon the idea.

At last he determined to try it.

There could be no harm done.

At the same time he had a chance to accomplish a great work.

A new thought had entered Eric’s head.

Even if Lillian was guilty he might through some work, skillfully
arranged, so manage it that the disturbing element should be removed, and
their lives flow on smoothly again.

This was his highest hope.

That he would find Lillian innocent had ceased to enter into his
calculations.

He only hoped for a half way victory.  It was noon when he went out, and
stopping in a restaurant he had dinner.  His plan was arranged.

If he could effect a meeting with the artist, the worst would soon be
known, and he would also discover what sort of man Prescott was.

He knew where the latter had his studio, and presently was bound for
Fourteenth Street to interview the artist.  What would come of that
interview no one could tell, but Eric hoped for a favorable issue.

At any rate he did not think his case would be destroyed by what he was
now about to undertake.

At half past one he entered the building where Paul Prescott had his
studio.

A few minutes later he stood at the door and gave a loud knock.




CHAPTER XVII
THE ARTIST IS DEFIANT


“Come in!” said a voice.

Eric opened the door.

An odor of tobacco greeted him.

Prescott, in his studio dress, was before a painting, putting some
touches here and there.

So interested was he that he did not turn his head when the door closed.

Darrell looked at the painting and was charmed—it was a glimpse of the
Delaware Water Gap, and so true to nature that one could almost believe
he was on the spot.

Finally the artist stepped back a pace.  “There! that is done.  I beg
your pardon—” and he wheeled around.

As he saw who his visitor was he uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Ah! you, Mr.—Mr.—”

“Darrell.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Darrell?”

Evidently he was inclined to be a little suspicious of the man who had
had that letter in his possession.

At the same time his curiosity was aroused.  Eric saw this.  He was ready
to take advantage of it.

Coolly seating himself he said:

“Mr. Prescott, I have called to see you in reference to that paper which
you received from my hands this morning.”

“Ah! indeed,” with a frown.

Not at all dismayed the detective went on: “I believe you claimed it as
your property?”

“I did—have you any reason to doubt my word?”

“Not at all, sir.  If it was your property, then the letter must have
been addressed to you.”

“It was.”

“Mr. Prescott, you are looked upon in society as an honorable man—your
name has never yet been tarnished.  As a friend I beg of you to pause ere
you cross the Rubicon.”

“What’s all this about?  It seems to me you are interesting yourself in a
business that does not concern you in the least,” coldly.

“That is where you are mistaken, sir—it does interest me greatly.”

“In what way?”

“I know the lady who wrote that note.”

The artist shrugged his shoulders.

“Well?”

Eric was somewhat surprised.

He had expected that the man would show signs of consternation.

On the contrary he maintained his self-possession, and even smiled.

“You contemplate a step that is bound to bring trouble.”

“It is not my fault,” with a sneer; “some people are so wrapped up in
themselves that they can see no one else.  This lady—her name shall not
be mentioned, as I would not have it the subject of a quarrel—prefers my
company to that in which circumstances have thrown her.  She is
restrained of her liberty, and I would give it to her.  That is all.
Through the interference of some interloper, such as yourself, we may be
prevented from carrying our immediate plans into execution, but the
postponement can only be temporary.  We must triumph!”

Eric was more than ever amazed.

This man did not appear shamefaced—he even gloried in his foul work.

Surely this was the acme of villainy.

How was he to meet it?

Could he cow the artist?

Already he had made up his mind that this was impossible, for the man
seemed to be as daring as he was bad.

What then?

There was nothing left but to let the game take its course.

If Joe and this man ever came into personal contact there would be
trouble, for the artist looked like a man who would back up his acts with
blows.

“You refuse to change your plans, then?”

“Most decidedly.”

“Well, you may rue it ere long.”

“See here, what makes it your business—there was no name attached to this
note—how do you know who wrote it—what in the devil have you got to do
with it, anyhow, and what is to hinder me from giving you a sound
thrashing on account of your confounded impudence in the affair?”

His manner was threatening.

Eric did not wince.

“Mr. Prescott, listen to me, I am a man not acquainted with fear, nor do
I descend to fisticuffs.  You see I am armed—now you can keep your
distance and talk reason or else take the consequences.”

At sight of the revolver the artist started.

He seemed to suspect for the first time what manner of man he was dealing
with.

“Are you a—detective?”

“I am, sir!”

“In _his_ employ?”

“Mr.—the gentleman referred to is an old friend of mine.  I have sworn to
see him through this trouble.”

“Were you following me when this paper fell?”

“Yes.”

“You saw it drop?”

“I did.”

“And the maid who gave it—perhaps you followed her home.”

“No matter—I believe I know all there is to be known of this affair, sir.
I am here to advise you to drop it before you get hurt.”

“Would you like to hear my opinion of you, sir?”

“It would in no wise alter the one I hold of you, Mr. Prescott.  Still it
is not my plan to indulge in personalities.  Remember that what I do is
done as a business and from friendship.  I wrong no honest man and
deceive no trusting woman.”

“You make me out a scamp, which I am not, in my own estimation,” he said
hotly.

“That is another subject which we need not discuss, sir, since our ideas
would be sure to be at variance.  You go your way and I go mine; but at
the last I wish to distinctly warn you that we are prepared to give you
your deserts if you persist in your course.”

“You can go to the man who employs you and tell him for me that Paul
Prescott defies him, and will fight him to the end!”

This was strange language—there was certainly nothing cringing here.

“Very good.  Your blood be on your own head.  You are watched when you
least expect it.”

“Be careful you don’t go too far and get hurt.”

“Bah!  I was in that opium den last night and saw the tragedy.”

Prescott started at this, and looked uneasy.  “You there?”

“I was the man who took charge of the remains of that unfortunate lady.”

“Is it possible—I never suspected I had seen you previous to our meeting
in the car.  What did you accomplish?”

“The thing I desired.  The world will never know that lady died anywhere
but in her own house.”

“Then you have done a good thing, sir.”

“We detectives are employed to do deeds of mercy as well as those of
justice and duty.  I bid you good day, Mr. Prescott.”

He had nothing more to say.

The man was not one to argue with, and having made up his mind all the
powers of heaven and earth could not change it.

This Eric read on his face, and saw in his manner—Prescott was as
stubborn as a mule in all he undertook, which perhaps in a measure
accounted for his success.

The detective was disappointed.

He had hoped for much and gained nothing, since the other was so set in
his ways as to be defiant.

As Darrell had said there was nothing left now but to let matters run
their course.

The puzzle had become deeper than ever to him, and he now accepted it
without any very strong attempt at solving the enigma.

He could not understand how Lillian could love such a man as Prescott in
preference to her husband, except on the theory that the artist possessed
some terrible power over her which she was incapable of resisting.

Sadly he left the building.

The game must go on now to the inevitable conclusion—some one would get
hurt, but that was to be expected.

What he regretted most of all was the shock to poor Joe.

Strange how such an honest, good fellow, making a husband beyond all
reproach, should be thus afflicted.

It often happens in life.  Then men who deserve little are given wives a
thousand times too good for them.

All are not mated who are married, any more with regard to their
character than in their stature—we often see a little man and a tall
woman going along arm in arm and smile as we think how incongruous it
seems, never reflecting that their natures may be more in harmony than
the well-mated pair ahead.

The detective believed that the guilty couple had some plan matured, and
that they meant to make their flight that night.

Indications pointed to it.

He resolved then, to checkmate them, and make the thing a failure.

Under no condition should Lillian be allowed to go forth.

Eric endeavored to picture Joe’s wife in her confusion, when the mask was
torn off.

Would she prove a firebrand?

He did not believe it.  It seemed utterly impossible for a sweet,
mild-mannered little woman like Lillian to develop into a fury.

No doubt, when she found that her secret was known, she would collapse in
a heap at the feet of her husband, and he—well, Eric believed Joe was
fool enough to take her in his arms and forgive her.

How could he learn what their plans were?

He was thus pondering when he saw a figure in front of him that he
thought he recognized.  It was the trim maid who had given Prescott the
note before.

Of course Eric might be mistaken—there were many other like maids besides
Mrs. Leslie’s particular, but having the subject in his mind he jumped to
the conclusion that this must be the same party he had seen before.

She was walking along slowly, looking up at the numbers of the great
buildings as if searching for a particular one.

Undoubtedly she was looking for the building in which the artist had his
studio.

Quick as a flash a plan came into the detective’s mind.

What should she be looking for Prescott for but to deliver a note?

He intercepted her.

When he saw her face he discovered that she was an exceedingly youthful
looking person to be about thirty years of age, as Joe had declared—had
he been asked to guess it he would have said seventeen.

Appearances are deceitful, however, especially when women are concerned.

As he came face to face with the girl, he smiled—she did not look
offended.

“I beg your pardon, but are you looking for the office of Paul Prescott?”

She seemed surprised.

“How did you know, sir?”

“Because I am a friend of his with authority to receive the note you have
and keep it for him.  I presume it is from the same party as the one you
gave him last evening.”

“You know about that, too?”

“Of course—I saw it.  Give me the note and tell the lady Paul has it, as
he will in half an hour.”

“But—I—”

“The note, girl.”

She met his eyes, placed a note in his hand and turning sped away, while
the detective chuckled to think what a cunning little god Fortune was
after all.




CHAPTER XVIII
FORTUNE’S FAVORS


At least luck favored him and Eric could not say anything against the
sudden whirl of the wheel that had left him in such an advantageous
position.

He was naturally anxious to scan the note he held and learn its contents.

Looking around he saw a candy and ice cream saloon near by, where many
ladies and few gentlemen passed in.

He believed, as the fall day was warm, that he could enjoy a plate of
cream, so he entered, selecting a table in a corner that was isolated.

Here he gave his order, and while enjoying his cream opened the note.

It was sealed in the envelope, but the gum had stuck poorly, and he could
easily open it with his knife blade.

Once the contents lay open before him he read: “To-night then it shall
be.  We are to have company at our house.  I cannot get my trunk out
without arousing his suspicions so I have sent everything to the place
you named in packages by my maid.  Have the carriage around the corner.
I will slip out while the gayety is at its height, meet you at the door
and in a minute we will be beyond his reach.  He has been cruel to me, I
fear him, and yet I love you, Paul, and will be yours forever.”

This time no signature.

The writer was learning caution.

Even initials might be dangerous.

As for Eric, he read this note over again with the deepest pain and
surprise.

“She means to leave him—there is no doubt of that, but what can she have
reference to when she speaks of his cruelty?  Joe cruel—Joe, the kindest,
mildest, dearest fellow, I ever knew.  He could only be cruel by
kindness.  Either he has done too much for her, or else she is not in her
right mind.  If that man is cruel then Prescott is a devil, I’m sure.  I
would that the writer of this could find out the truth—it would serve her
well if we let her go on and reap as she has sown but for the sake of my
poor friend she must be saved.”

He took out an old envelope and with a pencil copied the note verbatim.

Then he enclosed the original in the envelope, sealed it up, saw that the
address was correct, and was ready to have it delivered.

When he issued forth from the confectionary, he looked about him until he
saw a bright appearing district messenger boy sauntering along in the
manner peculiar to his kind.

This youth he beckoned to his side.

“Can you spare five minutes, boy?”

The other grinned and nodded.

“Make it up later, mister.”

“All right.  Here is a note, it is to be taken to the top floor of this
number and delivered into the hands of Mr. Prescott, the artist.  You can
take the elevator up.”

“All right, boss.”

“You are to tell him a girl dressed in black and wearing a little maid’s
cap on her head gave you the note.”

“Fine looking’ maid you are, mister.”

“Never mind—do as I say.  Here’s fifteen cents.  If you come and report
to me the result, I have a quarter more for you.”

“Hey!  I’m off like the limited express.”

So saying he took note and money and plunged into the building with hot
haste, determined to win the prize offered.

Eric waited patiently.

He knew he would see the boy again.

That silver quarter would serve as a magnet to draw him back to the spot.

Eric had not studied human nature thus long without being able to guess
certain things, and in this instance his surmise proved correct.

Before the ten minutes had elapsed he saw the messenger boy come flying
along in a way that must have amazed any person who had grown accustomed
to the usual methods of these lads.

“Here you are, sir.  Right side up with care.  Found him in, and
delivered the note.”

The grin on the boy’s face declared also that he had been paid for his
work by the artist, but this was none of Eric’s business.

He took out a quarter.

“See here now, boy, I want you to prove what you say.  What did you do?”

“Knocked on the door—a cove opened it—asked him if Paul Prescott was
in—said as how he was the same—handed him the letter—he opened it,
grinned, and gave me a shiner.  Then I vamosed the ranch and came to
you.”

“Did he ask you where you got it?”

“I told him the girl in black racket, which was really the worst I ever
heard, but the fellow seemed to swallow it without question.”

“Describe the gentleman.”

This was the crucial test.

The boy obeyed without hesitation, and speedily proved that he must have
seen and conversed with the artist himself.

After that Eric had no good reason for longer withholding the promised
reward, which was quickly stowed away in the lad’s pocket.

The artist’s interview had not resulted in all that he expected, but he
could not say it had been barren of profit.  Then again what followed had
made up in a measure for his defeat.

He knew the enemy’s plans.

Thus it would not be such a tremendous job to defeat them.  Should Joe
know?

He believed it would be policy to put him on his guard, and in that way
the plotting of the enemy would prove less profitable.  So it was to end
to-night.

A carriage was to be in waiting at the corner, and while Joe’s attention
was taken up with entertaining his guests, his wife would slip out and
meet her lover.

Here was a chance for a little diplomacy.

For instance, perhaps it could be arranged that the real Prescott be
kidnapped or otherwise kept out of the way, while Joe dressed himself up
to resemble the other.

Then he could carry off his own wife, and at the proper time reveal his
identity, and teach her a terrible lesson.

That would all be decidedly picturesque and highly dramatic, but there
were a number of obstacles to it that would have to be overcome ere they
could accomplish the best result.

These difficulties were of such a nature that it seemed as though they
could not be overcome.

Darrell cast around him to see whether there was not some other means
handy.

How would it do to have the artist arrested on some charge when on the
way to the place of meeting?

He decided against this on the spot, for it was very apt to make the
whole affair public gossip for the newspapers, something Joe would rather
cut off his right hand than have occur.

Next in order he thought that Lillian might be given something to make
her sleepy or have such a headache that she could never carry out her
part of the arrangement; but this was offensive to his official taste—he
felt as though it was retreating before the attack, and it was not his
intention to do this.

Finally he decided to see Joe—perhaps the other would suggest something
that might open up a plausible scheme—some little hint dropped in
conversation would give Eric the clew he was looking for.

Joe was still in his office.

He looked surprised to see his friend, and yet made no remark.

In spite of his effort to appear cheerful, the keen eye of the detective
could see the traces of acute suffering in his face.

“I’ve been to see that man, Joe,” he said.

“You have?”

“Yes, I thought it might be best for all concerned if I could shame him
into giving up his design.”

“That was too bad, Eric, I would have forbidden it had I known your
intention.”

“I know it.  The thought came to me after I had seen you.  I am sorry now
I went.”

“You failed?”

“I did indeed.”

“Well, don’t be afraid to tell me.  You see I’m calm and collected.”

Eric could not but notice this, but he did not like it.

In his mind it seemed like the awful stillness that precedes the
hurricane.

He had no excuse for withholding anything so he told Joe what had
occurred.  “That man is an accomplished scoundrel,” the other said,
quietly.

“I believe that myself, but don’t be afraid of our not mastering him.  I
discovered one of his weak points after leaving him.”

“Trust you for that—what was it?”

Eric proceeded to tell of his adventure.  “Show me the duplicate,” said
Joe, trembling with emotion.

When he had hastily read the copy Darrell had made, he uttered a low cry
of despair.  “Yes, it is so,” he muttered.

“What?”

“We are to have company to-night.  It is my birthday, as I told you, and
my wife said she had invited a few relatives and friends in to spend the
evening—an informal affair with a little supper of coffee, cakes and ice
cream.  Yes, it is all a deep-laid scheme—and on my birthday too.  Oh!
Lillian, my wife, how could you!”

His arms lay upon the table, and he let his head fall heavily upon them.

Eric turned to the window and smoked his cigar in silence.

He had the deepest respect for the grief of his friend—it was the keenest
misery a human soul can meet here below—death causes many pangs, but not
the bitter blank that comes when one is betrayed by the individual he or
she had been ready to die for.

Yes, from the hour the base Judas betrayed his loving Master, human
misery has never known a lower depth than this.

For five minutes Joe fought his battle all alone, and then he looked up.

His face was set and calm, as though he had conquered again.

It was a bitter struggle and wearing upon him but he must go through to
the end.

“Eric, I am ready to converse again.  Pardon my weakness, old friend, but
this is a cruel business.  I did not think I was such a baby.

“Baby!  Great heavens! man, you bear it twice as well as I could.  Such a
thing would have murdered me outright.”

They began talking again.

Eric spoke of his unformed plans, and between them they began to patch up
a scheme by means of which the end they sought would be attained without
publicity.

What it was we shall not disclose just now, leaving that for the proper
time.

At any rate it seemed to give poor Joe some satisfaction to think he was
able to circumvent the villain who had destroyed his peace of mind.

“After all, it might be better for me to challenge that man, and kill
him,” he said moodily.

“Yes, or leave Lillian a widow, at the mercy of any adventurer.  Besides,
in that way the whole dreadful story would get into the papers, and you
could not live in New York even if that artist failed to murder you.  No,
you will find that the plan we have arranged is the best after all.”

“You are undoubtedly right, Eric—consider it settled, and prepare to
carry it out.  We will end this agony this night and that devil shall
learn what he risks in attempting to steal another man’s treasure.”

“You will not fail me, Joe?”

“It shall be the effort of my life, Darrell, to succeed.  Have no fears
of me—my pride has been aroused.  It is not the weak lover but the
outraged husband who speaks now.”




CHAPTER XIX
THE TIME DRAWS NEAR


For once Joe Leslie was thoroughly aroused, and the detective knew he
need have no fears of him again.

Whatever he was given to do he would carry out to the letter.

So they noted with something of satisfaction that the day was drawing to
a close, and the night coming on, for their hour could not be reached
until darkness had for some time settled down over the great city.

Both were anxious to have the thing over.

It did not give them much pleasure, and all their satisfaction arose in
the thought that justice and right would triumph when the man who had
plotted against the peace of a home went down among his idols of clay.

In these modern days men have to do strange things when the sanctity of
their house has been invaded by a human serpent.

Sometimes the stern arm of the law is called upon for assistance.

Now and then, however, we read of some outraged husband going back to old
time principles and being a law unto himself on such an occasion.

Long ago they had a means of avenging such wrongs by meeting in the lists
with lance or sword—in short, fighting a duel.

The modern way is perhaps the best if least chivalric since it is all in
favor of the man who has been wronged, and does not risk his life.

We have seen that Joe was not modern in his ways.

The last thing he desired on earth was to make his misery public.

His love for his wife was wonderful—he only blamed the man who had gained
such power over her mind as to make her irresponsible.  Just as though
there were wizards to-day—the times of Salem witchcraft have not returned
to haunt us again, thank heaven.

Joe really did believe—and the shrewd detective allowed the same idea to
permeate his own mind to a certain extent—that it was a case where a weak
mind was dominated by a masterful one.  He had known such cases, and seen
examples of hypnotism that had astonished him.

Thus he excused Lillian.

While Eric did not go that far, he believed there were extenuating
circumstances connected with the case, and was willing to look upon it
all in a most lenient way.

Probably he would have acted in a different manner had it been his own
wife who was concerned in the affair.

That was a matter that brought the business down to mere speculation, and
when it reached this point it became unprofitable.

When the detective left his friend he had everything arranged.

As far as human sight could see beyond, all was ready for the business in
hand.

Should Paul Prescott attempt to put his little game into practice he
would find himself brought up rather suddenly.

There was an hour or so of daylight left, and this Eric put to good
advantage, as he had a number of little things to do.

One cannot engage to carry out a scheme like this without many
accessories being needed, and the wise man looks for these before the
time arrives for their use.

Gradually the day gave way to evening.  Darrell believed all was
arranged.

He felt satisfied that before another day came around, Joe’s condition
would be changed—this night was the crisis—either his spirits must go
down or else rise suddenly.

All depended on one person.

This was Lillian.

To him she was the one object that could affect his future—the lodestone
that drew him on.

When he had made his preparations and eaten a light supper down town,
Eric started for the scene of the coming comedy.

He could not pierce the future any more than any other human, and hence
knew not whether it would remain such or prove to be a tragedy.

Coming events may often cast their shadows before, but there are times
when the sun is so nearly in the zenith that this shadow does not amount
to very much.

Besides, what does a shadow amount to anyhow—it is not tangible, and
presents no opportunity for solution.

For once at least in his life the detective confessed himself unable to
insure the future.

He knew certain facts, and that others would coalesce, but what the
result would be he did not pretend to be chemist enough to decide.

Time alone would tell.

That was the physician who could be depended upon to bind up broken
hearts, to solve the deepest mysteries and set everything right.

Given time, nothing was impossible.

As the shades of evening descended, Darrell brought up in the
neighborhood of the building on Fourteenth Street where the artist’s
studio was located.

He was passing slowly by when a hack drove up and stopped at the curb.

“Engaged?” he asked the driver.

“Sorry, sir, but I am,” returned that worthy.  A jehu always hates to
lose a fare.

“Can’t accommodate me up town?”

“Right away?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“About Eighty-fourth and Third Avenue.”

The man’s face lighted up—Darrell was answered—he saw a chance of
doubling his fare.  “I reckon the other’d make no objection. Pay me
first, and I’ll tell him I was taken by you.”

“How much?”

“One, fifty.”

Without a murmur the detective handed over the amount, submitting to be
robbed in order to carry out his point.

Of course he was disguised.

No one would for a moment imagine that this old gentleman was the same
athletic individual who had visited Prescott in his studio, and argued
with him over a revolver.

The clocks were striking seven as he entered the hack and made himself
comfortable.

Along the wide pavement hundreds were still hurrying, although the swarms
from all the great stores had long since passed by.

Presently from out the building the artist came.  He looked worried, and
well he might.

When a man sets out to steal another man’s wife he risks a great deal.

It must weigh upon his mind, even the personal danger involved, though
his conscience be free.

Darrell recognized this fact, and did not wonder at the look of anxiety
he saw upon the countenance of the artist.

The latter looked up and down the street ere catching sight of the hack
at the curb.  Then a smile came upon his face.

He walked up to the driver, spoke a few words, frowned when the other
mentioned having another passenger, saw no other vehicle in sight that he
could engage, glanced in at the seeming old man, and then, grumbling,
entered.

“I trust I have not inconvenienced you, sir,” remarked the old gentleman,
anxiously.

“Not at all, not at all,” replied the artist courteously, though his
manner had belied his words.

They rumbled along.

Block after block was left behind.

It is a long distance from Fourteenth Street up to the point where they
were bound, and when half an hour had gone by they had not yet reached
their destination.

Indeed, it was not far from eight o’clock when the driver pulled up at
the corner.

The old gentleman got out slowly.

He bade his traveling companion good night and turning walked away, his
cane beating a lively tattoo upon the stone pavement.

Darrell was satisfied with his investment thus far—he had been carried up
town, had seen the artist well upon his way, and knew both driver and
vehicle by sight.

There could not very well be any mistake after this—he believed things
were well laid out, and that all they needed was a chance to execute
their plan.

He again changed his looks, so that in case the artist saw him he would
not realize that he had met him before.

With the facilities at his command it was not a difficult thing for him
to do this, and by means of a few deft turns he completely altered his
character, and might defy recognition, even were keener eyes concerned
than those of Paul Prescott, the artist.

When this had been done Darrell walked up the avenue, and soon came to
the corner where, as he expected, he found the vehicle.

Prescott was not in sight.

Some two hours must elapse before the time arranged would pass.

The driver had also vanished, no doubt being in a liquor store near by,
where he could wet his whistle, lounge at his ease and watch his team at
the same time.

His horses would have a good chance to rest before they were needed
again, and this was probably one reason why the artist had him on hand at
such an early hour.

When young Lochinvar carried off his bride he managed to have a good
steed, knowing that everything depended on the swiftness of his flight,
as pursuit would be sudden and furious.

So Paul Prescott, with an eye to possible emergencies, had chosen a
vehicle that was drawn by a good team of animals.

He showed his wisdom here.

In case of pursuit it might be his salvation.

When the detective sauntered past the house upon which his interest was
centered he saw that it was lighted up.

Company was expected.

Lillian had invited a few particular friends in to see them, on account
of its being Joe’s birthday.

As yet they had not begun to arrive, but would soon appear upon the
scene.

Darrell heard a vehicle coming, and stopped in a dark spot near by.

“The first of the guests,” he muttered.

As the carriage stopped in front of the house he gave a start.

“Jupiter! guests with trunks—that’s odd.”  There was a trunk up beside
the driver, who at once leaped to the ground.

As he opened the door a vision of jaunty wraps and bonnets sprang out and
flew up the steps to ring the bell, while Darrell held his breath as he
guessed the truth.

The door opened.

“Marian!”

A flutter of feminine apparel, a little shriek of girlish delight, and
the sisters were locked in each others’ arms, to the wonderment of the
man who watched below.

Then the jehu carried in the trunk, the door closed, the carriage rumbled
away and the street resumed its wonted appearance.

Eric was puzzled.

He had not counted on this.

Had any of the others?

What effect would it have on the anticipated elopement, he wondered.

Here was the lover with his vehicle on hand, and such a nature as Paul
Prescott’s would not brook interference.

The affair became more complicated.

Darrell would have given something to have had the next two hours over.

As it was he had to possess his soul in patience and wait.

Things that he did not dream of were fated to turn up in that time, and
he was bound to have his hands full.

Guests soon began to arrive.  Several came in carriages, while others
were not far enough away to bother with vehicles.

It was no fashionable gathering, but one of warm friends, of whom Joe
Leslie had many.

His business and social life was such that he drew people to him, making
many friends and few enemies, which is after all the only true way to go
through this world.




CHAPTER XX
FOR PLUNDER


At about a quarter to nine Darrell once more sauntered past the house.

He could see into the parlor, as the inside shutters were turned, and
with a number of others he was attracted by the bright scene.

Although perhaps he would not confess it, the bachelor detective was
eagerly hoping for even a fleeting glimpse of Marian.

He got it too.

After having seen the photograph Lillian had shown him, he knew he could
not be mistaken.

The girl stood for half a minute in direct focus from his place of
observation, and the gas-light fell full upon her face and figure.

Darrell drew in a long breath.

“That settles it,” he muttered, “I’ll try—unless this other affair takes
the heart out of me.”

He had lived between thirty-five and forty years without ever having a
serious love scrape; but an inward monitor told him his time had come at
last.

The little god plays all manner of pranks with his victims, and although
Eric Darrell had eluded his sway so long, it would all be made up to him
presently.

As Marian stood there she was joined by a second figure.

This was Joe.

Eric scanned his face eagerly, as best he could under the circumstances.

“Thank heaven!  Joe is calm.  He has aroused his energies.  No danger of
his giving out when the crucial test comes,” he muttered.

Joe Leslie did appear self-possessed, but it was easy to be seen that he
was not himself this evening.

His wife accounted for it to the friends about her by stating that Joe
had been overworking himself lately, and that morning he complained of a
severe headache.

She did not seem to suspect that she had given him cause for his
breakdown.

None are so blind as those who refuse to see.  It might be this or
innocence that caused her to ignore the truth.

Eric, with a sigh, passed on.

He had seen Lillian join the others, and the trio gave him a strange
feeling.

“So fair, and yet so false.  How can a man trust a woman when he has such
a terrible example before his eyes—and her sister too.”

He soon forgot all this.  Something else attracted his attention, and he
found that there was need of his care.  A couple of sinister-looking men
passed the house and looked in.

He saw them conversing eagerly together a minute or two later just
beyond.

At first an idea sprang into his head that they might be men hired by
Prescott to create a disturbance and delay pursuit after the latter had
succeeded in reaching his carriage with Lillian.

If this were so, he must take them into his calculations and watch them
closely.  That their conversation concerned the house where the little
gathering was taking place was beyond all doubt, for their motions
attested this.

Then they moved off.

Eric did not believe they had gone, and he followed them with his eyes.

They slipped into a vacant lot near by, and the detective began to get a
new idea.

Perhaps these fellows were not in the employ of the artist after all, but
skirmishing around on their own hook.

That meant knavery.

He was aroused.

To follow them was his first thought.

Stealing down to the vacant lot he too vanished amid its blackness.

At first he could see and hear nothing, but in a few minutes he caught a
clew, and found that the two men had gone to the fence separating the
vacant lot from Joe’s back yard.

Some old wagons and drays were scattered here and there about the place,
for it presented an admirable wagon yard.

Such is cosmopolitan New York.

The palace often touches the hovel.

Some of the aristocrats up town can look out from their magnificent
houses, and survey the shanty of the squatter built on the rocks, where
the agile goat browses on old shoes and empty cans.

Some day this will not be, but it is so now, and a source of wonder to
foreigners.

Darrell began to pick his way through the wagon yard, careful to proceed
without noise, for when men are bent upon an unlawful errand it does not
take much of a sound to cause palpitation of the heart, and he did not
want to have their death on his hands—just yet.

They seemed to be surveying the scene from the rear.

It was undoubtedly their intention to make some sort of a haul here.

The silver might be lying around loose, or even some jewelry in the upper
rooms—men of their trade do not discriminate, so long as what they seize
upon has a specific value.

First, last and all the time, what they want is the cold cash.

It was certain that they must be frightened away, and that at once.

His other business was too important to allow him the pleasure of playing
with these fellows, much as he might have enjoyed it.

Under these circumstances he worked his way close to where they crouched.

He could hear them working with a chisel or burglar’s tool of some
sort—they were prying off a board from the fence, so that they might
easily pass through when they desired.

It would be a good route for flight, also, after their object was
attained.

So interested were they in the task that they did not have the faintest
suspicion of the presence of any one.

Darrell could hear their low words.

“Bill, this here promises to be a lucky strike,” said one, in a low tone.

Bill muttered a reply.

“Well, I’m of the opinion, Bill, as we’ll have a good whack at some
valuables.  Ye see, the guests are all in there—if we can deceive the gal
below and slip upstairs there ought to be fat pickings for fellers of our
size.”

“Softly, partner, softly—there’s another in this here game you ain’t
counted on.”

As these words reached their ears, the two men muttered exclamations of
dismay.

“Who the deuce is it?”

“Where in thunder is he?”

“I’m right here.  You fellows are treading on my corns.  This is my
pasture—get out.”

“Not much we won’t.  We’ll slit your wizen first, I reckon.  We’re in
this here game now for keeps,” growled the man named Bill.

“Then you must go snacks.  I’ll furnish the information, and you do the
work—an equalization of labor—ain’t that fair?”

“What d’ye know, critter?”

“Where the silver is kept—it ain’t been brought out yet awhile, and by a
little bold work the hull of it can be spirited away.”

At this the two men can hardly restrain their delight.

“Lead us to it, and the third is yourn.”

“You’re on the steal, then?”

“Ready to take anything that counts.”

“This is the steel I deal in.”

One of the men, the fellow nearest him, felt something like a piece of
ice pressed against his left temple.

He put up his hand.

The investigation did not afford him any particular pleasure, for what he
touched sent a shiver through his whole frame.

It was a cold revolver.

“Move a hand or a foot and you are a dead man.  And you also,” to the
other fellow.

The board had just come off in this latter chap’s arms, and light from
the house poured through the opening in a stream that was strong enough
to show him the situation.

He dared not drop the board, and he was also prevented from attacking the
unknown.

Eric was master of the situation.

“Now see here, men, listen to me.”

“Go ahead!” growled one.

“In mercy’s name don’t press that trigger,” groaned the other.

Darrell had to smile at the sudden termination to which circumstances had
brought the bold raid of the two sneak thieves.

They had come after plunder, but found something more awaiting them.

The little scheme, concocted on the spur of the moment, had been driven
into obscurity.

“I am a detective, watching this house.”

Both men groaned.

“Fools we was.”

“And although I’m going to let you go this time, if I see either of you
here again you’ll make a bee-line for the Tombs.”

“Don’t worry, mister—if we get off this time we’ll make ourselves scarce.
It gives me a chill to think of Sing Sing.”

“You ought to get the chill before you start on such an expedition, and
not after you are caught.  You know that when ‘the devil was sick, the
devil a monk would be; but when the devil got well, the devil a monk was
he’.”

“Kin we go, mister?”

“Yes—pass out the front door, gentlemen, just as you came in.  And,
remember, once goes a long way with me—if you show up here again, down
you go to Centre Street.”

“Thank ye, boss.”

The men crept quickly away—indeed, their haste was really ludicrous, for
they seemed to have a deep-rooted fear lest he might be tempted to change
his mind.

But under the circumstances Eric was quite satisfied to see them safely
off the premises.

His other work would take up his attention, and he could not expect to
amuse himself with such side-shows as these.

He once more made his way to the street.

As before a little knot of curious people stood in front of the house
gazing in.  The glimpses they caught of beautiful women and brave men
were a revelation to them.  It was like looking into Paradise.  Otherwise
the street was quiet.

A train boomed past on the elevated road below.  Eric looked at his
watch.  It was a quarter past nine.

Three-quarters of an hour still remained, and then would come the grand
climax.

He began to breathe easier, for time was passing, and he felt sure their
plans would come out all right.

Sauntering to the corner he saw the hack still there as he had left it.

The driver was sitting inside now.

He knew his orders and only waited for the proper time to arrive.

Where was Prescott?

Eric had expected to see him scouting around the Leslie mansion, but if
the artist was there he had kept his person well concealed.  Not yet had
Eric doubted the motives that brought the other here.

Everything seemed to fit as snugly as though it had been made for it—when
a carpenter makes a neat job he dove-tails the corners, and Darrell
looked upon the many little things that connected so wonderfully, as the
finishing touches of the joiner.

If a thunder cloud burst upon him it would certainly take him unawares,
while the cool rain might be very acceptable.

He began to count the minutes.

Seldom had this man ever felt any such thing as nervousness in his life,
but just now he certainly experienced a spell of it.  The minutes seemed
hours.

People walked along the street—he scrutinized every one as though he
expected to see a ghost appear.

In reality he was looking for Prescott.

It worried him to know that the man was somewhere around and yet out of
sight, though he did not doubt but what he would be on hand when needed.




CHAPTER XXI
THE COTTAGE BEYOND THE HARLEM


Sometimes things do not run quite as smoothly as we hope for.

The best laid plans of mice and men often go wrong—there’s many a slip
‘twixt the cup and the lip.

So it happened on the present occasion.

It was all owing to a certain clock which had taken a notion to get ahead
of its fellows and was some ten minutes fast.

A lamp set Chicago on fire.

So this unlucky clock upset the beautiful plans of the wily detective, as
he believed, and came near leaving him in the lurch.

By chance he was down near the corner when suddenly he saw a female
hurrying that way.

A long cloak concealed her figure, but a handsome dress of white silk
peeped below—a heavy veil had been snatched up to hide her face and serve
in lieu of a hat at the same time.

Where she came from he hardly knew, but a terrible fear almost palsied
him.

It was Lillian!

She had come ahead of time—Joe would not be ready, and as a result
confusion must ensue.

Luckily the detective was a man able to grasp an emergency.

He never yet had seen the time when he was so taken by surprise that his
mind refused to do its work.

Just then there was need of quick thought, and action must follow on its
heels.

Hardly had the woman paused upon the corner than a dark figure sprang out
of the shadows near by.

“Paul!” she whispered.

“Good heavens! you are ten minutes ahead of time, darling.  I would have
met you at the place appointed had—” the rush of a train drowned what
else he said.

Then the detective saw him assist the now shrinking figure toward the
carriage.

“He will be furious,” he heard her say, as she looked apprehensively
around, as though anticipating the appearance of an enraged husband on
the scene.

If these were her sensations now, what of the future—remorse must soon
kill her.

“He had better keep his hands off, or I will teach him a lesson!  The
cowardly cur, to bully you so.  Enter, darling—you are safe with me.”

Eric’s first impulse was for blood.

He felt strongly inclined to spring forward and grapple with this
boaster, who breathed such lies of Joe in his wife’s ears.

Then another thought came.

Such a public scene would immediately collect a crowd at the corner, and
Lillian’s name would be dragged in the dust.

The world has no mercy upon a woman who leaves her husband and runs away
with another man—the latter loses no caste, but she, poor creature, can
never climb up again.

That is the law of human justice—woman was given a nobler, purer nature
than man, and when she sins it is unpardonable.

It has been so ever since the world was, and will be the same always.

While Eric struggled between what he desired to do and what policy
dictated, the choice was taken from him altogether.

Fate decided.

Prescott had placed his charge in the hack and entered himself.

The driver slammed the door, and mounted nimbly to his box.

If Eric meant to act it must be now, or the chance was gone forever.

Already the vehicle was moving.

Now or never!

Obeying a sudden impulse to make the most of a bad bargain, he ran after
the hack.

It had not gained much headway as yet, and Eric caught on behind.

Here he conceived another one of those sudden fancies, and saw an
opportunity to climb up on top of the vehicle.

Fortunately for his purpose it presented good opportunities for such
gymnastic feats.

No one but a boy or an exceedingly agile man could have accomplished this
thing; but the detective certainly filled the bill so far as the latter
condition was concerned.

He pulled himself up—his feet secured a hold upon the springs, and his
hands grasped a clutch above.

Then he drew himself upon the top.

A few boys along the pavement noticed this but they only supposed this
was some peculiar way in which a man could gain a seat beside the driver.

Those inside were too busily engaged in exchanging confidences to notice
anything.

As for the jehu, he was so much taken up with his horses, avoiding
obstructions for which Third Avenue is notorious, that he never dreamed
of the odd passenger he had picked up, until Eric plumped down on the box
beside him.

“Great Scott! where did you drop from?” he ejaculated is dismay, looking
up as if he really suspected the unknown had rained down.

“Don’t worry yourself—I only climbed up over the back,” returned Eric
coolly.

“Then just you climb down again in a hurry, or I’ll toss you over,” and
the man, firing up after his sudden scare, looked ugly enough to carry
his threat into execution.

“Some other time, old fellow—just now this place suits me as well as any,
and here I stay.”

The rattle of the swiftly moving vehicle over the granite blocks would
prevent any one from hearing this interesting dialogue—the parties
interested were shouting in each other’s ears.

Perhaps there was something about Eric that aroused a spirit of animosity
in the other; but if so there must also have been that which warned him
to be exceedingly careful.

He showed signs of anger, and yet dared not raise his hand in open
rebellion

“What d’ye mean stealing a ride this way?”

“Just because I please.  Look down here and you’ll see something.”

The quarrelsome jehu obeyed.

He looked—and wilted.

“Jupiter!”

This man was not the first who ever felt his courage ooze from his finger
ends at sight of a revolver.

“Understand me,” said the detective, sternly, “that is for you if you
give me any trouble.”

“A crazy man escaping—a burglar at large!”

“No, sir, a detective running down his game.  We understand each other, I
hope.  I want a ride on your vehicle, and if you give me any trouble I’ll
land you in the Tombs double quick as accessory to a murder.”

The word was quite enough.

It blanched the man’s cheeks and from that time on the detective knew he
would not have any trouble with him.

The horses were doing their prettiest.

To the surprise of the detective, instead of starting down Third Avenue,
the course was up it.

Evidently then the artist did not mean to go either to his studio or
lodgings.

He had other plans in view.

Now Eric was given a chance to think, and he improved it well.

So suddenly had this crisis been sprung upon the detective that he had
thus far only acted from impulse.

He must shape some sort of plan, in order to yet win the game.

Those inside the hack had not the slightest suspicion of his presence.

The rattle of the vehicle and their own agitation would prevent their
paying any attention to anything happening outside.

As the night air was cool, all the openings had the glass in them—this
was another point in the detective’s favor.

No doubt Paul Prescott was thrilled with the great victory he had won,
and believed nothing could keep him from accomplishing the end toward
which he had planned so long, little suspecting the danger hovering near.

On went the vehicle.

Harlem was gained, that new city that has of late years sprung up beside
the river, a part of New York, and yet really distinct from it.

Darrell had once more become the cool man as of yore, ready to grapple
with this burning question, and throttle the hydra headed monster that
had crossed the track of Joe Leslie’s wife.

He smiled to think what poor Joe must be doing just then—finding Lillian
really gone and the detective not on hand.  Had he given the whole thing
away?  Would all his guests know that his wife had deserted him for
another?

This was a possibility that made Eric grit his teeth and feel angry at
the peculiar chance that had cheated him of his prey.  If things had only
worked as they should, the wheels would have gone along nicely.  However,
Eric had learned long ago the folly of crying over spilt milk, and when a
disaster occurred he generally set about retrieving his fortunes as well
as possible.

They were nearing the Harlem.

Would the vehicle cross the bridge and proceed up into the country
beyond?

Pursuit—it was folly to think of any one being able to pursue them, at
least for some time to come, and a trail grows cold with waiting.  No
wonder then the artist felt jolly.

He believed his plan had been a complete success, and that the prize was
his own.

Ah! the Harlem at last.

Those curved lines of lights indicated the bridge that stretched across.

The horses’ feet fall upon the planking—their course then was over the
river.

As for Eric, he was quite indifferent now whither they took him.

He had made up his mind to see this thing through and to save Lillian for
his friend and it did not matter whether the climax came to pass in the
city or country.

He meant it should be severe.

As Joe Leslie’s best friend he would teach this masher a lesson he would
never forget if he survived it.  The driver once or twice tried to strike
up a conversation with him, but Eric ordered him to pay no attention to
anything but his horses.  Then a thought coming to him, he told the man
that if the gentleman inside should notice his presence and demand to
know who he was, that the driver should claim him as a friend and let it
pass.

This the man said he would do—he had a horror of being concerned in a
murder trial, and this was what the other threatened him with.

They crossed the bridge and continued on—houses were plenty, gas lamps
dispelled the darkness at intervals, but at the same time there seemed to
be something of the country about them—the great metropolis with its two
millions of inhabitants, its bustle and electric lights lay behind them.

For a short time longer the night ride was continued, and then, to the
satisfaction of the detective, it ended.

They came to a quiet street.

The artist poked his head out of the window which he had dropped in the
door.

“To the left—first house you come to.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Hello, there! who the deuce have you with you, driver?” as he caught
sight of Eric.

“A friend, sir.  Thought it’d be a lonely ride back, and took him for
company,” replied jehu.

“All right, I suppose.”

That was over then, and no damage done.  Now for the next.

The hack drew up in front of a picturesque cottage, just back from the
road—as far as Eric could see it was bowered in vines and just the place
an artist might be supposed to select, if he used his artistic taste at
all.

Lights were in the rooms.

They must be expected.

Down jumped the driver—Eric followed close upon his heels, for he did not
mean to give the fellow any chance to betray him, and he knew it would be
human nature for the jehu to endeavor to warn his liberal patron.




CHAPTER XXII
ALMOST


Again the detective showed his knowledge of the animal—man.

The driver had been thinking of this very thing, and as the artist came
out of the hack first he made a great ado over helping him.  At the same
time he started to say:

“You’d better be careful, sir—there’s—”

At this moment came a pinch on his arm from the detective, and he
realized that the other was up to his little game.

“What’s that?” demanded Prescott.

By this time Eric had managed to touch one of the jehu’s hands with the
barrel of his revolver.

The contact sent a shudder through the other.

“There’s bad step here—the lady might be hurt,” finished the driver.

“Oh!  I’ll look after her, my man.”

He handed the jehu some bills.  “There’s the amount agreed on and ten
dollars more, because you’ve been faithful.”

“Thanks, your honor,” stammered the man.

He acted as though he was tempted to blurt out the truth and take the
consequences, but Eric managed to whisper something to him that quieted
this suicidal thought.

“You’ve got your money—keep quiet, and I’ll put you in the way of ten
more.”

That was enough.

The man’s sordid nature was touched—he was mercenary to an unusual
degree.

After that he was for earning the new fee, even at the expense of
treachery to his former patron.  Prescott assisted the lady companion of
his flight out with much solicitude.

Still Eric did not interfere.

He was strongly tempted to knock the artist down, seize the lady perhaps
as she swooned, and placing her back in the vehicle, drive to the
desecrated home of his friend.

Something restrained him.

He would see more.

What meant the lights in the house?  Something here needed investigation,
and he was the man to look into it.

He saw the couple enter the yard and proceed in the direction of the
front door.

It opened.

A woman’s form stood there.

“Welcome, Mr. Prescott.  We heard the wheels and were sure it was you.
Welcome to your home, Mrs. —”

The rest died out as they went in, and the detective heard no more.

He was amazed.  How daring the artist was.  How openly he carried out his
plans.

Most men would have taken a train and sped away like the wind, fearing
the terrible vengeance of an outraged husband.

He did not seem to realize the danger he incurred, or else had a contempt
for it.

Eric was in doubt whether this man was a fool or a brave fellow.

Perhaps he was cunning enough to know that in all probability the husband
would seek for him at a distance, and overlook the near places.  This
would be wisdom.

Eric now turned to the man.

“See here, my fine fellow, I have your number, and if you play me false
I’ll land you behind the bars inside of twelve hours if it takes every
officer on the force to do it.  You hear what I am saying.  Serve me well
and what I promised is yours.  I have already paid you money to-night.”

“You?”

“Certainly—I was the old man who rode up from Fourteenth Street with
you.”

“Jerusalem!”

The driver saw that he had to deal with a shrewd man—he admired such a
person, and could well afford to fall in behind him.

After that there would be no kick on his part against what fate had
decided for him, but he would pull in the traces meekly.

Satisfied that the man would be there when he wanted him, Eric now turned
his attention toward the house.

He entered the gate.

As he had supposed from the glance he had obtained, the place was an
ideal one for the full expression of love in a cottage.

Flowers probably bloomed here from May until bleak November.

Honeysuckles and wisteria covered the cottage—rose bushes and dozens of
varieties of flowers filled the beds, but just then beautiful
chrysanthemums were taking their rank as the fall flower.

It was a place to bring a bride, but would these beauties of nature
appeal to a heart that was heavy with sin?

Eric could not for the life of him see how one could look upon nature
again, after ruining the life of a noble man, but his experience had
taught him to be surprised at nothing.

He did not speculate now.

Before him was duty.

It lay in a direct line, and the path was narrow, but he meant to tread
it.

That duty covered his professional pride, and the feeling he entertained
for his friend.  Straight up to the house he went.  Light streamed from
the windows and showed him the way—it also tempted him to look in.  He
saw a cozy little room neatly furnished.

Handsome paintings adorned the walls, rather out of place in a modest
cottage like this, but then it was to be the abode of an artist, whose
pictures commanded large sums, and he could afford to decorate above the
ordinary—these were doubtless favorite subjects of his which he did not
hold for sale.

No one seemed to be in this room, and he could not see in the other well,
for the lamp was standing directly in the window, so that he could not
look past it.

He found a path leading around the house and started along it.

Before he had gone far, the rattle of a chain, followed by a deep growl,
told him he had better retrace his steps again—not wishing to come into
contact with the concealed dog, he did so.

This time he went to the front door, which was almost concealed under the
bower of vines.

Feeling around he found the knob.  Upon trying it he was pleased to find
that the door was not secured, and answered to his touch.

He opened it boldly.  A hall was before him.  Just then it was
unoccupied, and the uninvited guest was able to step in, close the door,
and look around for some place of concealment.  This he easily found.

The hall offered numerous opportunities for hiding if one felt inclined
that way, and Eric speedily ensconced himself in a place where he was not
apt to be seen.  He remained here awaiting developments for a few
minutes.

Nobody seemed to be moving.  He heard voices in the room where the lamp
in the window had prevented him from seeing what the room contained.

One of these was the voice of Prescott.

The other seemed to belong to a man also, and Eric wondered at this.

He had not supposed the artist would have a friend awaiting him
here—generally when a man runs off with another’s wife he desires to shun
society of all sort.  There was reason enough for this, which made the
action of the transgressor the more peculiar.

He wondered whether there was not something about this whole affair that
he did not understand.

Later, he found out that this was so—that a man may see all the surface
indications and yet not get at the real facts in the case.

He waited in his concealment for a while, and then made up his mind to
push matters.

Why should he not appear before Paul Prescott and boldly announce his
intention of wresting from his power the victim of his spell?

There was nothing to prevent him.

He made his way toward the door that led from the hall into the room,
which as he afterward discovered was the library.

A _portiere_ hung there in place of the door, and a more excellent
opportunity for hiding and spying could not well have been offered.

Behind this he could find a small opening and thus see without being
seen.

When he looked into the room he found there were but two men there.

One of these was Prescott—the other a small man of severe countenance.

The first thought of the detective was that the latter had a clerical
look—his clothes seemed on the order of a clergyman, white tie and all.

Then he concluded that he must be mistaken.  Surely, a minister would be
the last one in all the world whom Prescott would desire to have here.

This must be some friend whom he had asked to greet them at the cottage
in order to encourage Lillian.

The men were laughing.

Prescott seemed in unusual spirits.

Perhaps he had been imbibing—when a man in his sober senses commits such
a sin against society and his Maker he must, generally, fortify himself
with some ardent spirits.

At any rate he had the appearance of a man who was quite satisfied with
himself.

The world had abused him, in some respects, but to-night he was in a
humor to bid the whole universe defiance.

Success had come to him—the best he had ever dreamed of was now at his
hand.

Others before Paul Prescott had believed themselves on the pinnacle of
hope and power, only to find it all a dream and an illusion.

So Darrell reflected as he watched the man whom he meant to speedily
humble.

While the two were yet talking, a door in the back part of the library
opened.

Through this came three females.  The first one was very like
Prescott—indeed, it was easy for the detective to determine that she must
be the artist’s sister.

After her came a sedate woman, neatly dressed, with her hair parted and
brushed straight back on either side—a model of a housekeeper.

There was one more.

At sight of her Eric started, and an exclamation bubbled to his lips.

She was dressed in white silk—the long cloak had been discarded, and the
heavy black veil that had screened her was now supplanted by a gauzy
white one, through which the faintest glimpses only could be seen of her
face.  She was a picture indeed.

Eric held his breath.

He saw Prescott rush forward and take her hand with the utmost eagerness.
Then the other led her forward.  They stood in front of the second man,
who held a book in his hand.

“Good heavens!” muttered the detective.

He rubbed his eyes.

What mockery was this?  A marriage—when she was already another man’s
wife!  He could hardly believe his sight.

The voice of the preacher aroused him, and started him into life.

This must not be.  It was sacrilege.

Knowing the facts of the case he would be abetting a crime if he allowed
this thing to go on without raising an objection.

So, while the minister was still talking, Eric suddenly sprang into the
room.

“I forbid this marriage!” he cried.

A scene of confusion followed.

The women fell back—Prescott swore and the minister looked amazed.

An interruption like this seldom occurs.  “Upon what charge do you dare
stop this sacred ceremony?” demanded the preacher.

“The woman has been married before.”

“Yes.”

“Her husband is living!”

At this there came a shriek from the bride.

“It is false, false as Hades!  I helped to bury her husband myself,”
shouted the artist.

Eric, with a quick movement, threw back the white veil from the face of
the almost fainting bride and then he received the greatest shock of his
life.

It was not Lillian!




CHAPTER XXIII
THE MESSENGER WITH GOOD NEWS


Eric Darrell might have been frozen—he seemed so petrified with surprise.

Instead of Lillian’s sweet face, marked by horror, he saw that of the
dashing widow, Mrs. Collingwood, she with whom Prescott had communicated
in the opium joint.

It dawned upon the detective.

All along there had been a great mistake—many things remained to be
explained away, but the one main point was assured—Lillian must be
innocent of the charge.

He was a man of extraordinary sense, as well as a man of action.

Recovering himself, he turned gracefully to Paul Prescott, who was
glaring at him.

“Mr. Prescott, there has been a grave mistake here on my part.  I thought
this lady was some one else.  I beg your pardon.  Let the ceremony
proceed.  I withdraw my objection.  When it is over we will have a mutual
understanding.”

These words restored everyone to good humor.  The artist dropped his
frown, the dominie found his place in the book, and the bride again stood
up beside the man she was taking for better or worse and the ceremony
went on.

Now was a chance for Eric to do some tall thinking, and he did so.

He saw many things in a new light, and had about arranged all he wanted
to say when the marriage service was over.

“I pronounce you man and wife,” said the minister, and, bending over, the
artist kissed his bride.

Then the three females retired again, the preacher hurried away, and Eric
found himself alone with the man whom he had had under surveillance for
so long a time.

The artist eyed him.

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am a detective, Mr. Prescott—I have been in your presence before.”

“By Jove! you are the man who bearded me in my studio.”

“Yes, and the man who rode up in the hack with you to Eighty-fifth
Street.”

“That old gent with the cane?”

“Also the friend of your driver who came up here with you.”

“And you are hired by Colonel Rogers—but if so, why the deuce did you
stop the ceremony and then allow it to go on?”.

The artist was amazed.

Well he might be.

The detective knew he had good reason for surprise, and was in a measure
ready to gratify that curiosity.

In return he hoped the artist would reveal certain strange things to him.

So Eric told all that was necessary—he did not even mention the lady’s
name.

Prescott smiled—he thought he could guess who it referred to.

“If you go to that house from here, my friend, you will learn something,”
he said, quietly.

“But what does all this singular action of yours mean, sir?  You must
admit everything seemed to prove you guilty, even to the lady’s initial,
L.”

“Her name is Laura.  As I said before, I was at the burial of her first
husband.  The story is a long one and I can only give you an outline of
it—I might not do that only that I feel in such a jolly humor on this, my
wedding night.

“Jerry Collingwood and I were rivals—he won Laura by a trick, and she
found it out after her marriage, despising him for it.  Then came his
tragic death, perhaps you remember it.

“After that, Laura went to live with her uncle, Colonel Rogers—she found
him a stern man, and he was soon plotting against her.

“She was strangely influenced by him—he had a power over her, which he
magnified in her mind, and she obeyed him unquestioningly until by
accident we met again.

“I need not tell you all we passed through—Rogers wished her to marry his
son, and we finally realized that he would give us trouble unless we took
the bull by the horns.

“So we arranged this elopement—how well it has been carried out I leave
to you to decide.

“Laura is now my wife—any man who dares to whisper a word against her
good name, were he a dozen times a colonel, shall answer to me for it at
the muzzle of the revolver.  We have outwitted the wily Rogers, and he
will have to give an account of his stewardship.”

“That is all?”

“Yes.”

“It is enough.  Prescott, even when I had reason to believe you guilty of
the most heinous sin on the calendar—that of stealing the affection of an
honest man’s wife—there were points about you I admired.  Since learning
what your true work was, I can say without flattery that I am sincerely
glad to know you—glad that you have accomplished what you set out to
perform, and trust that your future as a Benedict may be free from
clouds.”

“Thank you, sir.  I have waited a long time for Laura, but she is mine at
last.  Won’t you stay and break a bottle of champagne?”

“Thanks, but I must be off.  I have another engagement I must fill.”

“I can imagine where.”

“Yes,” dryly, “and probably this will be as happy a night to another man
as it is to you—he has found a wife as well as yourself.”

“And the lady you refer to is the sweetest and best little woman in the
world—save one”—hastily correcting himself—“the man must be a fool who
could doubt her constancy.”

“You don’t know all, Prescott.  Her husband is the truest, noblest man I
know.  He rejected it all again and again, but he is human and he saw and
heard things that would convince a skeptic.”

“Probably he understands all by this time, and he will eat humble pie
too.”

“I hope so.  Good night, Mr. Prescott.  Bring the doughty colonel to his
knees.”

“I’ll wring his nose if he gives me any further trouble, the old
nuisance.”

“Success to you.”

Eric Darrell left the vine-embowered cottage with feelings greatly
differing from his entrance.  He was light of heart.

Not only was this on account of Joe and his wife, but his faith in
womankind had been saved.

Had Lillian been guilty Eric was determined never again to believe in a
woman.

This would have made him a cynic and a scoffer all of his days—now he
could remember with a delicious thrill that Marian was at Joe’s house,
and he would soon meet the original of the picture that had charmed him
so.

He did not remember of having felt so good for a long time back.

That was the result of the reaction.

As yet he could form no distinct idea of the true state of affairs—all
was chaotic confusion, but above everything he saw the prime fact that
Lillian was innocent.

That covered all.

How Joe must rejoice.

It would be a new lease of life to him.

So the detective walked out to the street, and found the hack waiting.

The driver greeted him.

“Glad to see you on deck—it was a mistake after all.  Now drive me to the
corner you brought me from and the fee is yours.”

“Good.”

Away they rattled.

The detective felt inclined to smoke, and was soon puffing a cigar out of
the window, as he did not want to saturate his clothes with the strong
odor, fearing lest Marian might be one with her sister in objecting to
tobacco.

Then he wondered what time it was.

They had started at ten minutes to ten and made wonderful time, so that
it could not be very late, he thought.

Taking out his watch as they crossed the bridge over the Harlem, he found
that it was fifteen minutes after eleven.

Would he be in time?

He did not know how long these informal affairs were apt to last, but at
a rough guess figured that they would still be on hand at midnight and he
ought to be there before that.

He urged the driver on.

Finally the vehicle drew up.  They had arrived.  When Eric found that it
lacked fifteen minutes of twelve, he was satisfied, handed the driver his
fee, and hurried along the street.

He drew near the house.

Lights still shone in every window.  Something caused him to feel very
queerly—he could not say what it was.

Did Joe know all?

Perhaps not—he might still be in a fog and wondering why all the plans
had miscarried.  Eric did not hesitate.

He immediately ran up the steps.

Then he noticed that the parlor was deserted—the good people could not
have gone, for he could hear the laughter and buzz of voices—ah! they
were doubtless in the diningroom below.

He rang the bell.

A colored man answered it.

“1 wish to see Mr. Leslie on important business.  Take my card to him.”

The man knew his business, closed the door and went away with the card.

One, two minutes passed.

Then Eric heard footsteps within.

The door opened.

There could be no mistaking that figure—it was Joe who stood there.

Eric’s eyes sought his face instantly—he saw a look of mute pain there
which told him better than words that Joe did not yet know the truth.




CHAPTER XXIV
CONCLUSION


At sight of his friend Joe held out his hand warmly.

“Eric, old man, I have wondered where you have been.  Everything has gone
wrong.  She is still here, and yet the hour is long past—that villain
must have backed out.”

“No, he carried out his plans to the letter; he had his carriage waiting,
ran off with a lady at ten o’clock, at eleven was married to her in a
cottage beyond the Harlem, and is now a Benedict as well as yourself,
Joe—but it was not your wife he was after.”

“Not my wife?” slowly, as though the wonderful news almost paralyzed his
brain—“not Lillian he sought?”

“Joe, it was all a terrible, a cruel mistake which fortune put upon you.”

“Good heavens! do you mean it?”

“Lillian, your sweet wife, is as innocent as you ever believed her in
your most charitable moods.  That I will swear to—you will learn all
before this night is over, and I believe the mystery of the locked trunk
will be revealed.  Just now I am famished for a bite to eat and a cup of
the coffee I get a scent of.  Suppose you invite me in—I am not in
evening dress, but a few minutes in your room will arrange my toilet and
make me presentable.  I want to see this thing out—to rejoice with you,
old boy, over the wife you thought you had lost but who is found again.
Besides, you know, I want to meet Marian, and I know she is here.”

What could Joe do?

He dragged his friend upstairs and himself assisted to brush him into
presentable shape.

Ten minutes were consumed thus, and then Eric was ready to go down.

All this while Joe had plied him with questions and the detective told a
good deal of what had happened to him.

There were some things of which he would not speak, however, and hence
Joe found himself in a state bordering on bewilderment when he finally
went downstairs.

By this time the guests had finished supper and were again flocking into
the parlors.

There were between twenty-five and thirty in all.

Eric was introduced all around.

He noticed that there was some little secret among a number of those
present—Lillian, all blushes and confusion, was being consulted by an old
gentleman with a white beard.

Although Eric had declared he was almost famished he would not leave the
rooms now for supper—something was on the _tapis_, and he was bound to
see it out.

Supper could wait.

Ah! it came at last.

The elderly gentleman rapped on a table.  Silence ensued.

All eyes were bent on him, all but those of Joe Leslie, and his blazing
orbs rested on the blushing face of Lillian—before he learned all he
wanted to prove that he no longer entertained the slightest suspicion
regarding her.

“Friends, we have spent a very pleasant evening at the house of our
neighbor—we all cherish Joe Leslie and his charming wife as among those
whose names will never leave the tablets of our memory—a devoted couple,
loving, kind and gentle, whom it is an honor to know.

“Before we part to-night, it is my pleasure to officiate at a little
surprise—I am going to let our friend Leslie see himself as others see
him—in brief, I shall introduce him to himself.

“My grandchild Barbara and Mrs. Leslie have always possessed an artistic
temperament.  They consulted with me about it, and I took some of their
amateur work to a friend who is a well-known artist.

“The upshot of it all is that for a month past Barbara has been flitting
over here at ten o’clock every morning through the gate we have in our
back fence, and the two have been taking lessons in painting with
astonishing success.

“This evening I was astonished to find a fine oil painting of myself,
true to nature, on my drawing-room wall—I had not dreamed my grandchild
was so gifted.

“And now for our fair Lillian’s birthday gift to her husband—bring them
forth, friends.”

Out from the mysterious closet came two gold-framed paintings—they were
placed on easels prepared for them, in front of the astonished Joe.

The faces were those of himself and his wife, astonishingly well done.

He hardly glanced at his own, but his eyes were glued upon the
counterfeit resemblance of his dear wife—done by her hand too.

Eric was amazed.

He looked from the painting to the original—the work was no amateurish
daub, but worthy of a master.

Could it be possible she had painted it?  She was a genius.

At first delighted expressions arose, and then, as the old gentleman
raised his hand, these died away again.

All eyes were turned upon Joe.

He stood there as if petrified—his eyes were glued upon the picture of
his wife, and he hardly seemed to breathe.

Then he slowly turned his gaze upon the same face in flesh and blood.

She looked at him, still blushing—tears were in her sweet eyes—she smiled
through them.

Joe forgot where he was—he only remembered that he had wronged that dear
little woman by harboring thoughts that reflected on her love and purity
of heart.

Another instant he was at her side, had clasped her hand, and falling on
his knees before her, kissed the little member whose cunning had wrought
such wonders upon the canvas.

The others believed it was mute adoration that took him to her
feet—regard for genius—and they thought all the more of Joe Leslie
because he could appreciate a gift as well as a good wife.

There was one present who knew what was in Joe’s mind as he bent his head
before his wife, unable to speak, though his lips moved as they formed
the word “forgive.”

To cover Joe’s terrible confusion Eric made some remark appropriate to
the occasion, and of a nature to create a laugh.

This answered the purpose and presently the good people were chatting
gaily.

Joe soon found occasion to seek his friend Eric, and squeeze his hand
until the detective winced under the pressure.

“Thank heaven, Eric, for this blessing.  All is bright again.  I have the
dearest wife in all New York to-night.  Tried and found true.”

“And she has a deuced fine sister too,” said Eric with a wink.

“That’s the way the land lies, eh?  Try it, old fellow.  Nothing would
suit me better; we would be brothers in truth then.  And I declare, now
that I come to think of it, I believe you two would make a fine match.”

“Nonsense, Joe.  When Miss Marian hears that I am a detective she will
shrink from me.  People honor judges who sentence people to death,
sometimes innocently, and great lawyers, who are often on the side of
criminals, but at the same time pretend to look down on the officers of
the law whose sagacity leads them to arrest those who break the statutes
of the state.”

“I don’t know about that—she adores a hero in any type.”

“Come, don’t you go to making me out as such—I’m only an every-day chap
and never expect to do anything heroic.”

“Save your worry.  If I tell her anything at all it will only be the
truth.”

As it turned out, Miss Marion was rather capricious—she heard Joe tell
long yarns of his friend’s bravery, she respected him as a man, even
while openly disliking his profession, but Eric soon saw she was giving
him no sort of encouragement.

This was hard because he was already deeply in love with the girl.

He went his way, taking his disappointment as best he could—they met
occasionally, but Eric did not pursue the game.

One night when Joe and the two ladies were on the way home in a street
car, it was suddenly halted—there was a fire ahead.

Marian had never seen a large fire and Joe, good-natured always, readily
agreed to take them where they could have a view.

The giant shouldered a way for them through the crowd, and soon they
stood in a doorway watching the flames play riot with the tenement near
by.

It was a terrible sight and a pitiful one to those who looked on—many
poor families were driven out, carrying what they could lay hands on, one
a trunk, another a feather bed, and a third some old gowns.

Fright made their faces wrinkled, and such looks the ladies had never
seen before.  Suddenly a cry went up.

The flames were roaring, engines pumping and much noise sounding, but
this shriek pierced the hearts of all—it was a mother’s wail.

“My child! my child—save her!”

All eyes were fastened upon a window up in the third story where the face
of a flaxen-haired little girl appeared—blanched with fear, and yet
curious to see what was going on.

The ladder wagon had not arrived, and the flames were devouring the frail
tenement.

Surely the child was lost—no one could save her there.  It was an awful
period of suspense to the thousands who looked on.  Lillian and her
sister held their breath and leaned on Joe for support.

Then the child vanished.

“Heavens! she has gone—the floor has probably fallen in,” gasped Joe.
“No, no, look! there is a man at the window—he has seized the child and
is tying her to himself.  Look! he climbs out of the windows.  Ugh! if he
loses his grip both will be dashed to pieces.”

They gaze as if fascinated, both of the gentle ladies praying for the
daring man’s success.

He swings himself boldly along the ledge—none but a quick-witted man
could have seen the chance that existed, but he had.

Reaching a certain spot he took hold of the pipe that ran down the
building—it must have burned his hands, but he lowered himself by it to
the floor below.

Flames were beneath, but he had arranged his plan—a tall telegraph pole
slanted in here and a dexterous man could leap in among its numerous
arms—he coolly calculated his chances and sprang out.

There was a cry of horror.

“He is down—no, no, by Jove, he clings there with one hand.  See how
bravely he exerts himself—as cool as a cucumber through all.  Now he
seizes a new support; he will slide down the pole.  Hurrah! both are
safe, thank heaven.”

Then Joe turned to Marian.

“What do you think of that man?” he asked.

“He is a hero—I love him,” she said impulsively.

“Good!  I shall let him know that fact some day.  Here he comes now with
the child on his shoulder, his face blackened, his hair scorched, but,
thank God, the same Eric as of old.”

The man passed them by—it was Eric Darrell!

Marian turned white and then rosy red.

“Joe,” she said almost fiercely, “if you ever repeat my words, I’ll—go
back to Chicago.”

Whether Joe repeated them or not no one ever knew, but Eric heard enough
to encourage him to renew his suit, and when Marian did return to Chicago
it was as Mrs. Darrell.

They are just as happy as Joe and Lillian—Eric is no longer a detective,
but has been studying for a doctor, as his wife believes he will make a
name in the profession.  She will never forget watching him save the
widow’s child at the risk of his life—outwardly she loves him as a true
wife, but in secret she adores her Eric as a hero of heroes.

                                 THE END






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