CHAPTER X
THAT MEERSCHAUM PIPE
In his time Eric Darrell had seen many strange sights, and experienced odd sensations; but the spectacle that now presented itself to his wondering eyes created a feeling within him such as had never yet come upon him.
He gaped in amazement, scarcely able to believe his senses.
To such a high pitch had his expectations been drawn that he looked for something of a startling nature.
The shock was tremendous, and yet it rather proceeded from a sudden revulsion of feeling, than because the scene exceeded his expectations.
There was but one occupant in the small apartment, upon the threshold of which he stood when the door gave way so unceremoniously.
This was Joe.
He was dressed differently than when Eric had seen him enter the house, and seemed to have on an old suit of clothes, while a soft hat was drawn down upon his head.
He lay back in an easy chair, from which he started up in wonder and alarm as the door was thus burst open.
Darrell noted one thing.
In his hand Joe held a large meerschaum pipe and the white smoke was curling upward from the end of it in wreaths.
Before him was the conspirator, caught in the act, red-handed.
No wonder Joe turned fiery red.
The inside blind was closed, but the window appeared to be open.
Joe had a lamp lighted—doubtless the gas was turned off from the house, as it generally is from an empty or unoccupied building—and most men prefer to see when smoking.
Over Eric Darrell there swept a wave of feeling. All his old regard for this good-natured giant rushed back to him.
He held Joe’s secret.
Thank heaven it was not more serious.
As for Joe himself, not recognizing the other, he sprang up in a belligerent way.
“Hello, here! What’s wanted?” he demanded.
“Joe!”
“The deuce take it—who are you?” uneasily.
“Eric.”
That was enough.
Leslie advanced, holding out his hand in a sort of hesitating, shamefaced way.
“Ah! old man, glad to see you, but I declare I didn’t know you at first.”
“Nor I you, Joe,” calmly.
“That’s so—I do look like a tramp, don’t I?” with a glance at his own person.
“It wasn’t that, but I was amazed at finding you engaged in such a business when you declared to me you had quit smoking.”
Joe turned still redder in confusion.
“Darrell, you’re mistaken—I’ve never told a living man that!” he cried.
“What! didn’t you refuse my cigar?”
“Yes.”
“And say—”
“I had quit smoking cigars at the request of my wife. Well, I have, and not a cigar has passed my lips since that day.”
Eric burst out laughing.
“Ah! Joe, my boy, I see it all. You were unable to keep to the letter of your promise and you have been maintaining this bachelor’s hall ever since, where once a day you have crept in to have a good smoke.”
“Eric, what you say is true—I am a slave to the weed, and I dare not confess it to my wife. She despises such slaves. My ears have tingled many a time at the sarcastic way in which she referred to such poor devils, at the same time thanking heaven that she had a husband with stamina enough to give up the vile habit when he became civilized.”
Joe groaned and looked at his meerschaum pipe with a strange mixture of disgust and veneration.
He had a sympathetic auditor, for Eric was just as deep in the mud as he was in the mire, so far as smoking was concerned.
“What you say may be true, Joe, and yet it would be well for you to drop on your marrowbones at once and confess all to your wife.”
“Good heavens! do you mean it?”
“I do, indeed.”
“But I can’t—she will despise me. I had better make a determined effort to throw off this wretched habit, even if it kills me.”
“You make a mistake in one thing, old man. I believe your wife, instead of reproaching you, will throw her arms around your neck and tell you to smoke after this when you please.”
“Goodness gracious! why should she do this?”
“Because she will be so delighted to discover that it is no worse.”
“No worse—it is as bad as it could be in her estimation. I shall feel like a criminal,” and the good-natured giant shuddered.
He was not accustomed to deceit.
“Well, you mark my words—she will reproach you less than you believe.”
“You speak in riddles—why should she be delighted to know it is no worse—why are you here—Heavens alive, man, has she employed you to watch me—does she already know I am engaged in this shameful deceit?”
He poured these questions out.
Already a light was beginning to shine before his eyes.
The detective smiled.
“Thank your stars, Joe Leslie, that when you face your sweet wife you have nothing more serious to confess than this fault.”
“What did you suspect—what does she think?” he asked, almost breathlessly.
“Darrell, I’d sooner be torn to pieces than be such a wretch,” he declared, vehemently.
“I believe you now, Joe, but must confess that up to this very hour things looked black for you.”
“How was that?”
“Circumstances were against you.”
“Tell me all, Eric—everything.”
The detective sees no reason why he should not. He believes in this man thoroughly now, and would trust him through everything.
So he begins and tells him all.
Joe’s head rests upon his hand—the detective could not see his face, but he knew how it worked with feeling, and when he described how Lillian was dreadfully shocked when she heard of the bal masque and Joe’s apparent presence there, he was not at all surprised to see a large tear drop upon the arm of the chair.
With tears in his eyes Joe looked up.
“Darrell, you ought to know me better than that. I am not that kind of a man. My whole life is wrapped up in my wife, and if I should lose her, either by death or any other means, it would kill me outright.”
“I believe it, Joe, I do indeed.”
Then he finished his story.
Joe was greatly wrought up.
“I shall go to Lillian at once—she shall hear the truth from my lips first, not yours. Perhaps she will forgive me. If she says the word I will break my pipe”—with a sort of sob—“and quit the whole infernal business if it kills me.”
“I can arrange it so that she will beg you to smoke, Joe. Depend upon it, Lillian has learned that there are evils a thousand times worse than the one habit to which you are addicted.”
“See here, Eric, you don’t believe this thing of my being at the bal masque?”
“I do not, and yet just see how circumstantial evidence will hang a man. The chain of evidence was complete. You went out on an apparent quixotic errand; I saw a man with your figure escort a lady into that place; his name, singularly enough was Joe, and I heard some one say she was a Mrs. Lester or something of that kind, while I heard her tell the driver Twenty-seventh Street.”
“Good heavens!” muttered poor Joe, appalled.
“Worse still, your wife showed me a picture of her sister, at my request. I pretended to be interested and spoke of your joking me, and my promise to call when that sister came from California.
“To my horror I heard that man whom I supposed to be you, call that dark-haired lady at the masquerade by that name.”
“Marian?”
“Yes. You can imagine the awful feelings it aroused within me; the whole thing seemed so plain that I was appalled. Joe Leslie dropped from the high place he held in my esteem and at that time I almost hated you.”
“I don’t wonder at it, old fellow, and think all the more of you for it.”
“Later on I became vacillating—several things occurred that broke me up completely, among others the statement made by your driver.”
“How was that?”
“He declared you were down town all the evening and to prove it stated that he had talked with an officer I know just at midnight.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I proved this true, and that aroused my suspicions for the first time. If you were down town you could not be at the bal masque at the same minute—for it was a few minutes before midnight that the melee occurred and the man I thought to be you floored his assailants.”
“I see. I must hunt up this Joe Lester and discover who and what he is. Perhaps we have been playing the two Dromios again.”
Joe had knocked the ashes from his pipe and locked the treasure up in a closet in the larger front room, where his clothes were hanging.
The artful villain was wont to change his garments when he entered here, in order that he might not go home saturated with tobacco smoke.
Eric saw the whole thing plainly.
He felt in exuberant spirits.
So far as Joe was concerned, the whole business had turned out delightfully.
Just then the detective’s mind did not turn in any other direction.
He forgot all about the other side of the case, and seemed to consider the matter settled.
Peace would again come upon the disturbed family relations of his friend Joe, and all be as lovely as of yore.
Of course Lillian would be only too glad to close up the matter by forgiving her husband.
His sin was not a grievous one, and so great would be her relief at finding him faithful and true that she would gladly forget it all.
Under these circumstances Darrell watched Joe get into his clothes with sincere satisfaction.
He had never been more worried over anything than he was with this, and now that it had all turned out so well, he felt a satisfaction that seemed to permeate his whole system.
When Joe had dressed himself, he seemed to have made up his mind about a certain thing.
Taking the beloved meerschaum pipe out of the closet, he laid it in a case and tucked the whole under his arm.
“What’s that for?” asked Eric.
“She shall smash it to pieces—I cannot.”
“Well, I don’t believe Lillian ever will. Make a clean breast of it, old fellow.”
“I intend to.”
“Then you are safe—she is too gentle not to forgive, and I expect to see you soon smoking a cigar on the street like other men.”
“No, no, I can’t do that—I would feel like a wretch to ever do that.”
“Mark my words, she will insist on it—her scruples must vanish, and I expect she will really enjoy the flavor of a fine cigar soon, when her Joe is at the other end of it.”
Joe smiled dismally—he realized that he had business before him that would try his nerves, for as a man he had pride and must now humble himself before the woman he loved! But his mind was made up, and he actually felt already as though a load had been taken from his shoulders—just as the prodigal son, as soon as he decided to return to his father, experienced a new feeling of peace.
They left the house and parted at the elevated station, one going up, the other down town.
As he reached the platform, the detective suddenly felt a cold shiver go over him at sight of a man.
It was Paul Prescott, the artist.
There rushed over Eric the memory of that other half of the mystery, and he groaned—this time his sympathy was with Joe and not his wife.
CHAPTER XI
ALL IS FORGIVEN
Joe Leslie never felt so mean in all his life as when he approached his house up town on this evening.
He knew he had been playing a miserable part in deceiving his wife with regard to his smoking, but subterfuge was something generally foreign to Joe’s nature, and this made it seem all the worse to him.
Still, he did not sneak along in a cringing way. Never had he walked more uprightly—for he could look people in the face now, at least, and was determined to make a clean breast of it.
Lillian was watching from the parlor window, herself hidden from view.
She thought she had never seen Joe looked so manly, as when he walked up to the house, and her heart seemed cold to think that it may have been the smiles of some rival that brought this look of pleasure to his face.
Thus a man may feel mean, and at the same time appear joyous.
When Joe entered the house he saw a light back in the library.
Straight in that direction he walked.
Lillian was seated there apparently reading—how was he to know she had hastily flown hither from her lookout?
Joe softly closed the door. Another minute and he stood before his wife.
“Lillian, my wife, look up.”
Somewhat startled, she did so.
“Why, Joe!”
“I want you to know what a base man you have for a husband, Lillian.”
“You mean—” she gasped.
“That I have a confession to make, and I am determined to make it now.”
“A confession, Joseph—” and the little woman gained her feet.
Her face was white with a sudden fear—she even believed Joe was about to tell her some terrible truth—that he had never loved her—perhaps had been married ere he knew her.
At any rate she was dreadfully alarmed.
“Yes, I have been a villain to treat the best little woman in all the world so, but this old love was with me long before I knew you—it had become a part of my very life. I never knew how strong it was until lately. God knows I have tried to shake it off, and be faithful to my promise, but I am weak. I have sinned, Lillian, my wife, and I stand here humbly to ask if you can ever forgive me.”
He stood there with bowed head, proud even in his humility.
“But oh, Joe, to think—that woman—” and she burst into a torrent of tears.
He seized her hands and took them down from her face.
“Good heavens, Lillian, I forgot that you believed that. It is no woman—I have never been unfaithful to you in word or deed—that was not I whom Darrell saw at the bal masque last night, dear. I am yours, wretched man that I am, but yours alone, always.”
“But what—I don’t understand—you say you have sinned and yet that you are innocent. Oh, Joe, please tell me everything.”
“I would be a base wretch if I did not. Do you remember making me give a promise before we were married, Lillian?”
“That’s it,” eagerly; “and for a time I suffered terrible torments in keeping it to the letter; but after a while the devil tempted me. He said, ‘You promised to give up cigars—nothing was said about your pipe.’ Lillian, like a weak fool I gave in, and daily almost, for months, I have gone to the house I own in Twenty-seventh Street, changed my clothes and enjoyed half an hour’s smoke.
“It was a cruel deception on you, and I have felt like a sneak in doing it. Thanks to Darrell my eyes have been opened and I am here to confess all, asking forgiveness.”
Lillian could hardly believe her ears—she turned a face illumined upon her husband. “Joe, dear Joe, is this your dreadful secret?”
“It is,” solemnly.
“You are sure you have told me everything?”
“There is not another thing I have ever kept from you, my darling.”
“And you love no one else?”
“Not a living soul but my wife.”
“Oh! I am so glad.”
With these words she flew into his arms, and Joe, bending down, gravely kissed his own.
“You are sure you can forgive me, dearest?”
“Forgive you—oh, Joe, I shall love tobacco after this.”
“See, I have brought my pipe here for you to destroy—I couldn’t quite do it myself, for I’ve had it many years. But you shall be the executioner.”
“Not for worlds—if this is the only rival I have to fear I can share my place in your heart with it. You shall smoke after dinner, and I myself will fill your pipe.”
He kissed her fingers tenderly.
“Ah! dearest, what a fool I have been all this while, to suffer as I have when by confession I might have long since been absolved. But I am sincere in my resolve to stop smoking.”
“And I am just as firmly resolved that you shall not. I am cured of my folly. But for that foolish prejudice you would never have been led to deceive me.”
They held sweet communion for some little time, and all seemed as lovely as during the bright days of their courtship.
Then the dinner bell rang.
Together they went down, Joe’s arm around his wife, as though they were lovers.
After the meal was over they again sought the library, and chatted.
“Now for your pipe, Joe, dear,” said Lillian.
He protested.
It was of no avail—she was determined that he had suffered enough—better love with a cigar in the house than the absence of both.
Few men will condemn Joe’s weakness.
In other respects he could be adamant, but he owned up to being very fond of a smoke.
So Lillian took his bag of tobacco out of the case which also held the pipe, filled the bowl and brought it to him.
He kissed her on the spot—what else could he do?
“A match, please, dear, since you insist upon it—I am out of them.”
“And the holder is also empty—stay, here is a scrap of paper that will do.”
She took a piece out of the waste basket and, without looking at it, twisted a lighter.
This she held in the gas jet, and, lighted, brought it over to Joe, who calmly laid it on his pipe, puffed a few times, and then, blowing out the flame, knocked the red ashes off the lighter, laying it on the table for possible use again.
Then he eyed his wife quizzically.
She was looking at him with a smile.
“I feel like a brute, Lillian, to inflict such a torment upon you. Say the word, and the whole thing goes forever.”
“Not I,” she replied; “I never knew how fragrant the odor was. If you must smoke, my husband, you shall do it as other gentlemen do, in your own home, but always smoke the best cigars and few of them.”
This was charming, Joe thought.
He had not been so happy for months.
It often happens that the skies are clearest just before the worst of storms.
Joe saw no cloud on the horizon.
All the same it was there, and ready to blot out the sunshine like magic.
It came about in a peculiar way.
Lillian had settled down to read a book she was interested in, and Joe had his paper.
While he read he mechanically fingered the lighter with the charred end, and untwisted it.
Finally he looked over his paper at his wife and mused.
How good she was to make his penance so light and how happy he ought to be in the possession of such a dear little woman.
Evidently Joe had forgotten something.
He found his pipe had gone out during his musing, and taking hold of the paper she had twisted for him, was about to make a lighter out of it again, when he received what seemed to be an electric shock.
A name had caught his eye on the paper. He held it up closer.
Yes, there could be no mistake—it was a note his wife had twisted up—by some mistake it had come into his waste basket.
What was left of it after the burning he read:
“if you can contrive to conceal it from your husband until then, all will be well. I think I can rely upon your discretion—everything goes on well, and our secret is, I believe, safe.
“Faithfully yours,
“Paul Prescott.”
When poor Joe had taken this in he felt as though he had been plunged into an icy bath.
The joyous spirit of contentment that had pervaded his whole being was gone.
Suspicion, jealousy, unrest, came trooping in with renewed force.
His own late experience should have been a lesson to him, but it was not.
The first thing he did was to fold the paper up and put it in his pocket.
Why he did this he often wondered later on, when the right course would have been to have handed it to Lillian for explanation.
He looked at his paper again, but did not see that he had it upside down.
Thought was busy.
He was trying to convince himself that it was none of his business anyhow—that he had had his secret and why not Lillian.
Then again he remembered that she was his wife—what concerned her concerned him.
At any rate Joe’s sudden happiness was overcast—clouds had covered the sky.
He began to feel miserable.
As it was not his design that Lillian should see this, he assumed a cheerfulness he was far from feeling.
The evening passed.
Joe wished to get in a closet at one end of the room, but found it locked.
“I wonder where the key of this door is. I’m sure I didn’t take it.”
Accidentally he chanced to look toward Lillian while speaking, and was almost startled to see the color fly into her face.
“I believe I left it up-stairs, Joe. If you really want it I might go up and see if I can get it.”
“Oh! no, dear, it doesn’t matter. Another time will do as well,” he said carelessly.
At the same time, for the life of him he could not help associating her action with the letter received from Paul Prescott.
It worried him.
He was diverted from this state by Lillian, who asked about the clerk, so Joe told all that had been done the night before—he had spoken of it ere now, but had not given particulars.
Woman-like she was interested, and declared she loved him better because of the mercy he had shown for the boy.
Then Lillian retired.
Joe sat there a long time thinking.
Finally he got up and went over to the closet as if to effect an entrance, trying several of the keys on his bunch but with no success.
Then he walked up and down.
At times he was dejected and again his face seemed to speak of sudden passion.
Human nature is a strange thing.
A man enters an omnibus and frowns to hear the growls of those comfortably settled as they make room for him—presently another comes in, and his growls at being forced to squeeze into a smaller compass exceed the rest.
Joe, upstairs, discovered the missing key on the dainty dresser of his wife’s room—he took it in his hand, started for the door, stopped, made an impatient gesture, and returned the key to the place where he found it.
“Suspect her—never,” he muttered, and yet at the very moment his feelings had gotten beyond his control—it was pride that kept him from venturing to pry into her secret and discover what lay hidden in the library closet.
Thus Joe had won and lost a victory.
CHAPTER XII
THE OPIUM JOINT
Eric Darrell watched the man whom he had thus met on the platform of the elevated station. He wondered what magical power Paul Prescott possessed over Joe Leslie’s wife.
The man was odd looking, as a genius is ever supposed to be, but there was nothing about him to indicate that he might be a masher or a heart-breaker.
Darrell looked him over, taking a mental measurement of the man, as he had a dim idea the time might be near at hand when they would be on opposite sides.
The other left the train. Darrell followed him.
Presently he saw a woman join the artist and hand him a note, which he seemed to read with great eagerness, then he hurried off.
The keen eyes of the detective had noted something of extreme importance.
When Prescott believed he put the note away in his pocket, in reality it fluttered down to the pavement as he hastened away.
In just five seconds by the watch it was in the possession of Eric Darrell.
He then continued on his way to his rooms.
Reaching his den he changed his appearance, and appeared in his natural figure. Then he took out the paper just found and eagerly scrutinized it; not that he was particularly interested in the secrets of Paul Prescott, but the artist had crossed his path, and hence all that he did should be scrutinized.
As he suspected, the writing was in a lady’s chirography—so many ladies write alike, as though taught by a certain school, that individuality is lost.
This is what the detective read, and it opened his eyes in an astonishing manner:
“My beloved Paul—I consent at last to your proposition—in flight alone we can be safe. I shall be ready when you come to take me. He will be like a tiger let loose—I know his passion. I believe he would have killed me ere now had he suspected our secret. Carry out your plan—I understand, and am willing to fly from an uncongenial home to the one you will make for me.
With love, your own
L.”
That was all. Heaven knows it was enough. Darrell let the paper drop on the table with a sharp cry of pain.
“Poor Joe! poor honest old Joe! You thought you were deceiving your wife past forgiveness because you chose to smoke a pipe in secret, and here she conspires to leave you in the lurch. Joe is the ogre referred to, savage as a tiger. Woman—well, I’ll be hanged if I want to know her sister after all. I never was so deceived in all my life. It is a shame—an accursed shame, and that villain shall pay dearly for it all.”
Then he examined the note again, endeavoring to read between the lines.
His indignation grew apace.
Joe had proven himself pure gold, and he had more confidence in him than ever, but there was something here that needed investigation, and the case looked black for Lillian.
The note was signed with an L.
However, Darrell, always cautious, was not ready to condemn without a hearing—what he had already seen this night taught him the fallacy of circumstantial evidence.
First of all he must secure a scrap of Mrs. Leslie’s handwriting and compare it with that which he held in his hand.
That could be done in the morning he had no doubt—it would not prove a formidable task to one of his executive ability.
There was an ugly look about the business he did not like, and he was anxious to be at the truth.
About eight o’clock, having had his supper, and made certain inquiries that put him into possession of facts he desired to know, Darrell found himself watching for Paul Prescott at the lodgings of the artist.
It was the desire of the detective to acquaint himself with some of the customs of the man whom he meant to investigate.
This was always his plan when engaged in such a business—he found it paid to size a man up and see what his habits were.
When a man was suspected of being a forger, or a check raiser, or a defaulter, Darrell’s very first action was to discover who his usual companions were, where he passed his leisure time, and whether he was addicted to little vices. His secret character always told the story.
A young man might be a Sunday-school teacher, and apparently as straight as a die to all outward appearances, but if Darrell on tracking him found that he secretly frequented gambling houses he knew he had his man.
What does it avail if the outside of the peach is fair to gaze upon when all is rotten below?
So he now desired to learn what this peculiar looking artist really was.
He had a good reputation among people generally, but then this counted as little.
Much dross might be taken for pure gold did not the assayer apply his tests.
That was what Darrell did—looked into each man’s private character, unknown to the individual under the scrutiny.
He seemed to take it for granted that the artist would come out, and in this he appeared to make no mistake. Sure enough Prescott appeared.
He was evidently off for the evening, but did not dress as though he meant to spend it in fashionable society.
Darrell followed him to a certain club where artists were wont to congregate, and here the other seemed quite a favorite.
At half-past eleven Prescott left this place. He did not head toward home.
On the contrary he seemed ill at ease, and looked around him once or twice as though he were afraid lest some of his fellows at the club should be near.
This action in itself was suspicious to Eric—it indicated that the artist had certain habits which he desired to keep a secret even from those who would have thought the least of it.
Darrell’s curiosity was at once aroused.
He realized that now the game would probably be worth the hunting.
At any rate, since the opportunity was now given him, he was determined to learn more about the artist than he had known before.
Paul Prescott headed down town, boarding a Third Avenue street car near Fourteenth Street. On the same car, out in front, stood Eric, enjoying the bracing night air.
He could see without being seen, and managed to keep an eye on the artist. When he saw the other finally rise he knew he was about to leave the car, and the detective forestalled him.
Once on the pavement he waited for his man and then shadowed him.
Darrell was not greatly surprised at what he learned—the place he entered was an opium joint, kept by a Chinaman and an American in partnership, probably the largest about town. Here a good class of customers were wont to resort, and among others several actors, a doctor, a well known jurist, a writer, together with several women, whose attire and jewelry proved them to belong to the upper circle.
Many a man’s history received a downward impetus dating from the hour he first entered this den of iniquity.
Darrell knew it well.
He had been in it a number of times in the course of the last year—those whom he hunted had come here.
A clerk had robbed his employer for money to pay the opium fiend—once the habit gains full sway and the victim will do anything on earth in order to get money to pay for a few pipes and an hour of the peculiar drunken fancy.
Knowing the ropes was of assistance to the detective now.
He went in, and assuming the eager, trembling manner of an habitue demanded a bunk and a pipe. All the while he used his eyes.
The room was supplied with lounges and settees—the usual bunks were in another apartment where the Chinese and cheaper grade of smokers could indulge their pet vice for a smaller sum.
This place was furnished with something of Oriental splendor, and the detective could not but admire the barbaric taste of the proprietor.
The couches spread around were soft and inviting, Turkish in their make—some had curtains partly drawn, so that the occupant was half screened.
Three of these were occupied by women. This was no uncommon sight.
That two of them wore veils was evidence that they had not yet been hardened by the drug; but all this would come in time.
The third had thrown her veil back, and her set face could be seen, the eyes staring into vacancy, as though sightless.
Wretched sinners that they were, drawn onward by the inexorable god at whose altar they worshiped, there was no escape for them—just ahead lay the black gulf of despair, toward which they were hurrying so rapidly, and soon it must close over them.
Then—eternity!
Darrell never entered here without a feeling of commiseration for the poor souls thus linked with the skeleton arms of death.
Had the opportunity ever offered he would gladly have tried to save one or more of them; but he was well aware what a difficult and well nigh impossible task it is to endeavor to save a man against himself.
Luckily Eric possessed a peculiar disposition—what little opium he smoked had no effect on him, and he had no longing for the drug as the generality have.
On the contrary it almost nauseated him, and he could only have become an habitual opium fiend by long and persistent practice.
He glanced around to see where the artist had deposited his frame, and discovered Prescott on the couch next the second veiled lady.
Whether this was accident or design the detective was unable to decide as yet, but he had an idea and steadily nursed it.
His feeling of mingled disgust and pity was greatest for these women—he knew the one whose face he saw was a well-to-do widow up on Lexington Avenue, and perhaps the others were friends who had come here first in a spirit of bravado and daring curiosity, perhaps upon a wager, and whom the fascination of the drug had already chained to the chariot wheels of the ogre Opium. Those wheels revolved slowly but remorselessly—sooner or later they would crush out the life of all who clung to them.
Had Prescott anything in common with this rich and brazen widow and her friends?
That he knew the former Darrell had already guessed, for her set expression had momentarily changed at sight of the man, and the detective caught a look of deep cunning, which was returned with a smile and a nod from the man.
Eager to learn all he could of the artist’s private character, the detective determined to watch for all he was worth.
He was also ready to find out who the two veiled women were, who set aside all modesty and came to this public opium joint because they could not properly prepare and enjoy the drug at their homes.
At a certain hour no doubt a closed carriage would be waiting to convey them all home—perhaps the dashing widow had some male friend present who would serve as an escort.
Prescott received his pipe, prepared his pill and was soon smoking quietly.
Silence rested upon the place—people came not here to converse, but to dream with open eyes, seeing the beautiful things that danced before their eyes like a bright ignis fatuus, always eluding their grasp, yet luring them deeper and deeper into the toils.
CHAPTER XIII
A TERRIBLE DOOM
Before Eric Darrell had been in the place ten minutes he made a discovery that had a strong bearing on the case.
This was in reference to the artist.
Paul Prescott had shown all the signs of an opium smoker’s eagerness to have a draw at the subtle drug when he came in.
Nevertheless, Eric had already decided that much of this was assumed.
His own experience showed how such a thing could be; hence, he believed another might copy the same signs of distress with equal success.
Then Prescott had a reason for coming here other than the desire to smoke.
What could it be?
Darrell had eyes, and he was able to form conclusions very speedily.
He knew that the presence of the dark-veiled woman in the bunk adjoining that taken by the artist, was what had drawn him.
Circumstances pointed to this fact—their heads were close together, one resting upon the right, the other upon the left side.
The detective’s thoughts were busy.
He remembered the note.
Could this veiled creature be the party signing that missive?
According to the conclusions he had already drawn this could not be so, for he had made up his mind that the writer must be Lillian, and only waited to prove this fact.
Who then was the veiled lady?
Bah! such a man as Paul Prescott might be engaged in half a dozen little love affairs at one and the same time.
He would finally abandon all the rest for the charmer who held his fickle heart most heavily chained, or else whose bank account was the most promising.
To a man of Darrell’s steadiness of purpose, there was something almost revolting about such a character as this, and yet he found certain things to study in the artist’s face—points that rather puzzled him when scrutinized.
The man was worthy of being analyzed. There might be more to him than even appeared upon the surface.
Darrell was wide awake, although he pretended to be already under the magic influence.
He was soothed by the odor of the opium, without giving way to it, and watched the couple across the way.
The hanging curtains partly concealed him, and he was sure a note passed from one to the other. If the girl thus heavily veiled was in the charge of the widow, the latter did not seem in a condition to watch over her ward, for she had given herself up wholly to her dreams.
In the silence of this den of human misery, where each victim was bound to his neighbor by the same chains that made him a slave, a long stride was taken on this night toward the oblivion of death.
Strange scenes sometimes occur in these places, and one was on the tapis for this night.
So interested had the detective been in watching the couple opposite, that he seldom glanced at any of the others.
By mere chance his eyes alighted upon the second veiled woman, and at the same moment he saw that something was wrong.
She had swept her veil aside, and the light revealed a face at once handsome and dissipated—she had been a beauty earlier in life.
Just now this face was distorted. Pain racked it.
Eric Darrell saw the awful hand of death there—he knew the wretched woman must have some heart trouble which was aggravated by the opium, and that she was dying.
He beckoned to the Yankee who represented the American side of the firm.
Then he pointed to the struggling woman. The other sprang to her.
There was a gasp and all was over—death had come to her in the opium den.
By this time Eric was out on the floor, and it was well he happened to be there, for the man showed the white feather at once, fearing lest a thing of this kind would ruin his business.
Luckily a strong hand was at the helm.
The orders Eric gave were obeyed—no one was allowed to leave the place.
Most of those present manifested no interest in the game—their minds were wholly taken up with heavenly visions—death might come and go without their notice.
Eric knew what must be done.
The woman was elegantly dressed—she was no doubt the wife of a wealthy citizen, and if it were known that she had expired in this fashionable opium joint the shame would be terrible. He aroused the widow.
The other veiled lady was trembling, having gained her feet, but she would answer no questions, only sob and wring her hands, while the artist pretended not to notice any one, though eagerly taking it all in.
When the dashing widow was brought out of her dreams and made to realize the truth, she too seemed overwhelmed.
Eric took hold of her.
His strong mind controlled hers, and he soon made her see how essential it was that this awful business be kept a dead secret.
She must confide in him, giving the name and address of the deceased—he would then see that the body was taken there unknown to a living soul save the driver, and the secret would be locked in the breast of her husband.
The world she moved in would attend her funeral, and never dream that she had died in any other place than at home.
This gave the widow hope.
She whispered the lady’s name and residence to the detective, who wrote them down.
He was surprised to discover that her husband was a prominent business man down town.
It was an awful business, but he managed it with great circumspection—the body was placed in a hack, and the driver did not know but what she was merely sick.
Eric had also discovered the name and address of the other veiled lady—the widow had given it upon his assurance of good faith. It was Mrs. Collingwood. Her address was Lexington Avenue.
Darrell’s actions were right to the point in a business light.
His main desire was to save the poor husband all the shame and mortification possible.
Leaving the hack at the curb he was presently in the presence of the gentleman, to whom he broke the awful news as gently as possible.
At first the other was dreadfully shocked, but upon learning what bold measures the detective had taken to conceal the actual facts, he overwhelmed the other with thanks.
Between them they got the body into the house, Darrell speaking to the supposed sick lady in a reassuring way.
The driver was heavily feed and cautioned to hold his tongue under any and all circumstances. Darrell assisted the stricken husband to get his dead up into her room.
Then in the library he heard the full particulars from the detective.
Afterwards, he insisted on telling his story—how his once lovely and affectionate wife had secretly taken to the deadly drug from injections given to make her sleep during a spell of sickness. The harrowing tale has been often repeated in such a city as New York—her power of resistance became less and less strong, until he could do nothing with her.
Knowing that she had heart trouble he had been expecting such a catastrophe, but nevertheless, it had fallen with crushing force.
He was greatly indebted to the detective for his assistance—it was possible that the real facts might be covered up, and with the help of his family physician the death be given as simply one from heart disease.
When Eric felt the gentleman’s grasp at parting, and saw the tears upon his sad face, he knew that his visit to the opium joint had not been without its reward, since he was enabled to bring deep satisfaction to this soul long harrowed by the fear of such a catastrophe.
Meanwhile, he had the address of the veiled woman with whom the artist had been in communication at the opium joint.
At his leisure on the morrow he could look her up and learn all there was connected with his case.
Such a scene as the one thus briefly described has occurred at an opium den in the great metropolis—who the ill-fated lady was no one knew, at least the facts were never made public, and only a few guessed the truth by watching the death column in the dailies.
The opium habit gains strength slowly in our midst, but there are more people slaves to the vice than the public suspects.
Knowing the joint would in all probability be closed for the remainder of the night, Eric made no attempt to go there but sought his apartments to rest.
The committee appointed to examine into the strange case of Leslie vs. Leslie could report progress.
On the morrow the work would be resumed, and a long stride taken toward the end.
This man had a wonderful power over his mind, and could control it at will. When he was ready to sleep he dismissed all thought and secured solid rest, so that when he woke up his mind was as clear as a bell. To such a fact he owed much of his success.
With the morning he was up and out.
It was a fair day, and Eric hoped he might look upon this as an emblem of luck—that his case might prove as clear.
His first thought was to get some specimen of Mrs. Leslie’s writing.
To do this he must visit the house but waited until Joe would probably be on his way down to his business.
Then he went to the dwelling up town.
He asked to see Mrs. Leslie and was shown in. Being left alone for a short time he glanced around as if in hope of seeing an opportunity to carry out his design.
A desk caught his eye—if he only had the opportunity to look through it he felt sure he could find what he wanted, for it was undoubtedly the property of Lillian Leslie.
There were several books on the library table. These he examined hastily.
He hoped to find one that Lillian might have written her name in, for he believed that it would be easy to compare the writing and pronounce sentence from that.
In this, however, he was disappointed.
Joe’s name was in several, the books being inscribed, with love, to his wife. This only proved his great love.
Eric was ready to swear by it now, and did not mean to let the case drop until he had sifted it thoroughly—such honest affection as Joe’s should never be made sport of in a friend of his, even by the prettiest witch that ever trod the earth—at least not with his approval.
The rustle of female attire drew his attention, and, turning, he found himself face to face with the lady of the house.
He had not sent up his name and she appeared quite surprised at seeing who it was. “You, Mr. Darrell?”
“At your service, Mrs. Leslie.”
“What do you wish this morning, sir?”
There was something of coldness in her tones. He could not tell whence it sprung, as there were several things that might cause it.
Perhaps she felt humiliated in his presence because she had let him see her weakness, jealousy of her husband’s affection.
Then, again, if she were guilty she might fear him because he was a detective and Joe’s friend.
He suspended judgment and resolved to study this fair creature more closely than he had as yet had a chance to do.
CHAPTER XIV
ANOTHER LINK IN THE CHAIN
All these things had flashed through Darrell’s mind with a rapidity that lightning alone could equal, for there is nothing more rapid than thought.
He maintained his suave manner.
“I have come this morning, Mrs. Leslie, for several things. In the first place I wish to congratulate you on the fact that Joe’s terrible secret, as I made it out, was after all so simple a thing. Your wifely trust and devotion had their reward and I can appreciate the feeling of satisfaction you now possess because of your trust which I could not wholly beat down, in spite of the proofs I brought, and which must have appeared ‘strong as holy writ’.”
This was artful of Eric—he thought to destroy the barrier by a little flattery, knowing all the while that Lillian had really been jealous.
It told too.
The fair lady smiled upon him once more.
“I am happy because our bugaboo turned out to be only a pipe, and Joe has gone off this morning with a cigar—he shall smoke when he pleases after this.”
“And you?”
“I find that the odor from a good cigar is rather attractive. At any rate, Joe has done so much for me that I can afford to give in to one little vice of his. To think of the poor dear fellow hiding himself away like that. It makes me almost cry to think how miserably cruel I have been to him. But I mean to make it up to Joe in the future, Mr. Darrell.”
Eric swallowed a lump that seemed to be sticking in his throat.
This, the woman whom he suspected of being false to her husband—he did not know how it was, but whenever he came into her presence he seemed to be in some way charmed.
She was a siren.
The same power, exercised by the nymphs of the sea in olden days, causing the sailors to jump over to their death, is given to certain of the gentler sex to-day.
Adam sunk all his manhood and forgot his duty to his Maker when tempted by Eve, and from that day to this few men there are strong enough to do the right when a beautiful woman smiles upon them and teaches them the lesson of love.
It would be impossible to describe the influence Lillian had upon nearly all who came in contact with her—her manner was soothing and pleasant, so that general admiration followed her acquaintance.
Darrell was a man of strong purposes and he put down with a firm hand any feeling that interfered with his stern sense of duty.
In a business way he was here to see whether Lillian was what she appeared to be, or deceptive by nature.
Hence he was not to be charmed from his purpose in any way.
The human feeling of admiration must give way to the professional energy.
“You spoke of several reasons for calling to see me, Mr. Darrell—will you kindly state what the others are?” she asked.
“With pleasure, and I trust you will not feel offended, my dear Mrs. Leslie. It is a custom on my part in a case like this, to take from the party with whom I have been engaged, a little note, stating that they have been well satisfied with my services. I hope you may not think it out of the way and give me this.”
She appeared troubled.
“I do not know that I ought to—such an affair is essentially private.”
“I only desire the paper for my own satisfaction, and not to show. You can merely state that you are entirely satisfied with the services of Eric Darrell, and if you prefer, simply sign your initials.”
Crafty man—the initial was what he wanted above all else.
Her face brightened.
“I do not know that I would object to that, Mr. Darrell, since my identity is concealed. Do you want it now?”
“If you please,” humbly, but secretly exulting over his success.
She went to the desk, opened it and sat down—after a minute’s thought she wrote something upon a sheet of paper.
“Will that do, Mr. Darrell?” handing it to him.
He glanced at it and read:
Darrell smiled.
“A thousand thanks, madam.”
“It answers your purpose?” quietly.
“Yes, yes.”
Although he smiled Eric Darrell felt as though he could have wept just then.
The one glance he had taken had revealed the fact that the capital L made by Mrs. Leslie was very similar to the one which he had seen signed to the note Paul Prescott had let fall.
It was a shock to the detective, even though he had in a measure expected it.
That point gained he put the matter aside for the present and continued to appear pleasant, though it was only with an effort he could do so.
For a little he chatted with the lady, and endeavored to study her.
Darrell thought that if his suspicions were proven true, Lillian Leslie must be the perfection of an actress—he had never seen two such extremes meet in an individual—she was the incarnation of good and evil.
“By the way, are you acquainted with a Mrs. Collingwood of your street here?” he asked after a while, in a careless tone.
“Yes, I know her.”
She looked surprised, as though wondering where he could have met her.
“Last night I made her acquaintance. She is accounted a rather handsome woman, I believe.”
This was put out as a sort of feeler, for he had not even seen her face.
Lillian answered in a manner that declared what little interest she had in the lady:
“I believe so, but we were never friends, and I do not know much about the lady.”
That ended it.
Darrell soon took his leave, having gained the point for which he had come.
When he entered a car on the elevated road he found a corner to himself, and then, unable to wait longer, proceeded to compare the two notes.
Just as he thought, the writing was of the same order, and there was much resemblance in the capital letters.
Still, Eric had seen enough to know that only an expert could decide this question beyond all cavil.
Before now he had seen the chirography of two persons resemble each other, and this was not to be accepted as conclusive evidence.
At the same time it was a point that would bear upon the final result.
He kept it in mind.
Other threads must now be taken up in turn, until the main current was reached which would sweep him on to the sea.
He put away the document just received from Mrs. Leslie.
While still looking at the other, some one sat down beside him.
Darrell’s thoughts were fixed upon the subject which occupied his attention, and he did not even know there was some one in the next seat until a hand clutched his arm.
“Where did you get that paper?” said a hoarse voice close by his ear.
Turning his head at this he was surprised to see Paul Prescott beside him.
Fortune plays some queer tricks at times, and this was one of them.
What an odd chance that this man, of all in the great city, should sit down in the same car, at the very moment Darrell had that fatal paper in his hand.
The circumstances were indeed so singular that Eric could not but start; but his excellent control over his nerves stood him in good stead again.
He looked in the artist’s face—it was flushed and eager and angry—evidently he had not missed the letter up to now.
“My dear sir, does it belong to you?” asked the detective, quietly.
“It does, sir.”
“Then take your property.”
“Very good, sir; but I have a right to ask, yes, demand of you, to explain under what peculiar circumstances this document chanced to come into your possession.”
“I do not question your right to ask that, and I shall readily tell where and when I picked the letter up.”
So he gave the time and place to a dot, but did not say anything about having seen it drop from the pocket of the owner. Prescott remembered that this was when and where he had received the message, and he had no doubt of the truth of the story.
At the same time he looked at the man by his side with a frown.
“You read this?” he asked.
“Naturally so—you could not blame me.”
“And had your curiosity aroused?”
“Well, yes, but that has nothing to do with it. Let us forget the circumstance.”
“Willingly, since it concerns the private affairs of a very dear friend.”
No more was said.
Eric read his paper and the artist seemed occupied with his, but every now and then he turned his eyes toward the detective as though his curiosity was aroused.
When the artist arose at Fourteenth Street, to leave the car, Eric handed him a card he had prepared for such occasions.
It gave his name and the address of his apartments—nothing more.
“If you should ever desire to see me, sir, you will find me there by letter or person,” he said quietly.
At this Prescott smiled broadly.
“I hope you don’t think I dream of sending you a challenge for finding my letter,” he said.
“Well, you looked as black as a thunder cloud, and I didn’t know but what you might be meditating something of the sort.”
“It was rude in me to act that way, and I beg your pardon for it.”
Frankly said.
The detective liked him better for it, and there was something about the other’s face quite attractive after all.
Somehow Eric did not seem to hate and despise him as he had done before.
When the artist had gone he fell into a fit of musing again.
Various theories were built up, only to be discarded again as unequal to the occasion.
He remembered that the letter had been given to Prescott by a woman, who was evidently in the pay of the party signed L.
Whom could Lillian send?
He did not know the internal arrangements of the lovely little house up town, and this was what was now on his mind.
The office of Joe Leslie was his destination, and he made his way thither after leaving the elevated road.
Leslie was in John Street, and carried on a business in precious stones, of which he was one of the best judges in the city.
He was a man of considerable wealth, but being of an unostentatious nature he did not put on much style, preferring to live quietly and well.
When Eric Darrell ascended the stairs of the large building in which his friend had his offices, he was forcibly reminded of times gone by when Joe was a bachelor, and the two had been warm friends, passing through numerous scenes of pleasure in company.