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 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?”