CHAPTER XV
COMPARING NOTES
Joe was in.
When the detective sent his card by the same clerk whom he had helped Joe rescue from the clutches of the gamblers, he was shown to the private office.
Here he found his friend seated at his desk, and busily engaged with a pile of letters that had come in the morning mail.
Joe greeted him cordially and begged him to wait a few minutes, when he would be through with his task.
This suited the detective exactly, since it gave him a chance to watch the other.
He was able to read a face pretty thoroughly and he saw very quickly that Joe was still greatly troubled in his mind.
He had gotten rid of one burden, but another had come in its stead.
What could it mean?
There was little need for Eric to ask that.
He knew, beyond all doubt, that the old suspicions had arisen again in Joe’s mind, perhaps strengthened by some circumstance.
Finally Joe leaned back in his chair and looked at his visitor.
“Eric, for a short time last night I was really and truly happy—it seemed to me that the clouds had all rolled by. Then, by a strange circumstance, they were brought forward again and now I am worse off than ever.”
“That is too bad—I am sorry for it.”
“Before, it was my foolish habit that gave me sorrow—now it is a dreadful thought that I endeavor to banish from my mind, but which rises up again and again in all its hideous deformity until I almost feel as though I am mad.
“Still I keep my thoughts clear, for I know that this awful question must be grappled with, and fought to the death.
“My whole future is concerned in it, and I mean to lay the ghost forever, or else know the very worst.”
“Spoken like a true man, Joe. Shake hands on that as a bargain. I am, in this matter, hoping to prove your wife’s innocence, but I shall take up any evidence that comes along, and apply it where it belongs.”
“I want you to, old fellow, no matter what the pain it brings.”
“To begin with, you know all my hopes are to the end that Lillian may prove to be as innocent as a babe.”
“Heaven grant it,” Joe groaned.
His tone betokened despair.
The detective judged from this that his friend must have made some discovery since last they met.
“At the same time, Joe, you know as it looks at present, things are decidedly against your wife.”
“I try to deceive myself, Eric, into the belief that it is not so, but I cannot, I cannot. She shall have a fair trial—I will give her the advantage of every doubt, and then—”
He could not finish the sentence.
Poor fellow! how Eric pitied him, and in that moment, believing Lillian guilty, cursed the hour she ever crossed Joe’s path, to blight a life devoted to her.
Never mind—the end was not yet.
“Tell me what you have discovered, Eric,” said Leslie, throwing off the terrible feeling that almost overcame him.
“After you, my boy.”
“How do you know I have anything to tell?” in a surprised tone.
“Your looks give it away. Proceed.”
So, being encouraged to speak, Joe gave a brief account of the charming scene that had taken place in his home on the preceding night.
Eric was quite interested, and his reflections upon the little woman were flattering to her.
Then came the climax.
The note with the charred edge was produced, and submitted to examination.
Eric looked upon it as furnishing quite a link in the chain of evidence—he believed the secret referred to must indeed mean that which they were looking up.
When Joe heard the opinion of his friend, he was not much encouraged—indeed, his spirits were reduced to a lower ebb; but he shut his teeth and said nothing.
“Now I want your opinion, Joe, as a man of some legal acumen. It is a little question I desire to have settled,” he said.
With that he took out the document he had received from Lillian.
“You recognize the handwriting?”
“I do—it is my wife’s,” with a shiver.
“I had another paper, but gave it up to the owner; but, as it fortunately turned out, ere doing so I traced the signature with a piece of tracing paper—see, here it is.”
He put the two together.
“Bend over, Joe.”
“What do you want me to decide?” nervously, as might a man who feared lest his words might convict one he loved.
“Examine these signatures.”
“I am doing so.”
“If asked your opinion frankly as an outsider, would you incline to the belief that one hand had made both of these?”
“You insist on a reply?”
“I think you had better give it.”
“Then, according to my humble opinion, those letters are alike, and the chances are decidedly in favor of the same party having made both.”
“My opinion exactly—I would not swear to it but I put the chances in that way.”
Then he turned the paper over to Joe.
“What of this?” asked that worthy.
“There is nothing out of the way in it. I only had your wife write it out and sign her initials in order to compare it with the other document.”
“Tell me about the other.”
“I will reproduce it, word for word.”
Drawing some paper to him he wrote rapidly for a few minutes.
Then he placed the duplicate of Prescott’s letter in front of Joe.
“This looks like a deep conspiracy, Eric—you say this was signed that way?”
“Yes.”
“Was it—in—her handwriting?”
“There were enough points of resemblance to make it striking.”
“Heavens!” and he beat his fist against his forehead in despair—then recovered his calmness after an effort.
“You say you have lost this document?”
“I had compared them in the elevated coming down here, and was still looking at that one when a hand was laid on my arm and a man asked me what I was doing with his property. I saw he was the owner and gave it over—we had a few words and separated.”
“Was that man known to me?”
“By sight, yes.”
Joe shuddered visibly, as though he understood the suggestive words of the other.
“Then it was he?”
“Paul Prescott, the artist.”
“Curses on him for a meddler! Lillian has a weakness for art, and I have often jokingly told her she should have married a painter.”
“That explains his power in a measure—he has fed her on art and won her regard by posing as a hero.”
Joe struck the duplicate paper fiercely.
“Eric, you may think me crazy to doubt it, but unless Lillian declares in my presence that this is the product of her pen I will never believe it.”
“Joe, my friend, I honor you for such a feeling, and I hope as I never hoped before in my life that this thing will prove a false alarm. All the same I shall do my duty by you every time, as a true friend.”
“A thousand thanks. I feel fifty years old to-day instead of thirty-six—it is my birthday, you know, Eric,” with a sad smile.
“I wish you many happy returns, my dear fellow—just three years younger than I am. I wish I had a gift to give you.”
“The best gift this world could give me would be the proof that my wife is the true and faithful wife I have always believed her. Great heavens! Eric, when I think of it all, a spasm comes over me—my fingers twitch as though they would love to encircle the throat of that arch-devil and choke his life out.”
Eric was surprised.
He had not believed this of Joe, looking upon the other as a sort of good-natured giant whom any one could impose upon. Now he saw him angry he made up his mind that if ever Paul Prescott and Joe came in contact it would go hard with the artist.
“Well, I declare, you will make a modern Othello yet, Joe.”
“No, no,” with a shudder, “I might kill him, but I would never raise a finger against her if she deceived me time and again. I couldn’t; I must love her always.”
Eric shrugged his shoulders.
“Every man to his taste. Your character is one in a thousand, Joe. As for me I confess I have more of the tiger about me, and if a man or woman foully wrongs me I look forward with pleasure to revenge.”
“Don’t let us talk about it—the worst I would do to her would be to seek a separation—but for him,” and his face grew grandly dark and gloomy, but he did not finish.
“I wish to ask you a few questions about your home, Joe.”
“Do so.”
“In the first place you have a girl.”
“Yes, two of them.”
“What positions do they occupy?”
“One is in the kitchen—the other a sort of upstairs girl, to take care of the rooms, answer the door, and wait upon the table.”
“Describe the cook.”
Joe laughed.
“She is as fat as she is long, almost, and as good-natured as she is fat.”
Eric made a gesture.
“That point is settled. Now the other.”
“Nanny is a woman too, but much smaller, and ladylike in her ways. She came here from Chicago with us.”
“Ah! a favorite of your wife’s?”
“Yes. Nanny was in her mother’s employ as a girl. She is faithful to us.”
“Ahem! Just the person, in fact, to be entrusted with a message of a secret nature, that must be handed to a certain party?”
At this Joe turned red and white by turns. “I presume so,” he admitted, uneasily.
“Is Nanny about my height, rather slim, and quick in her actions?”
“Yes.”
“Dresses in black?”
“My soul! man, you seem to drive the nails into my coffin with each question.”
“Answer, Joe.”
“She does dress in black—most maids do in New York now.”
“Wear a white apron?”
“No,” with a gleam of hope.
“Neither did this girl. I knew she was a maid by the courtesy she made when handing Prescott the letter, and also from the little white cap she wore.”
Poor Joe’s last chance seemed gone—the other had knocked away the pins upon which his house was built.
“That was probably Nanny, but I can not and will not believe Lillian wrote that note. Some other party had hired Nanny to give it to that man.”
Darrell knew Joe was hugging a phantom to his heart, but he could not take pleasure in arguing with the deceived husband—besides, Joe’s actions proved that he believed more than he would admit either to himself or his confidential adviser, and if the blow did come it would not be such a terrible shock as if he had received no warning.
The end was not far away.
CHAPTER XVI
THE LOCKED SARATOGA
The detective was not yet through.
He wished to find out a few other things connected with the case, through information which Joe alone could give.
When the latter had told his story concerning what had happened at his house on the preceding night, he had touched lightly on the incident of the closet.
The keen detective had however made a mental note of the circumstance, and he was bound to know more of the matter.
“What sort of a closet is it?” he asked.
“Quite a roomy affair.”
“You keep what there?”
“A number of odds and ends, and I believe a large Saratoga trunk.”
“Ah! your wife’s?”
“She brought it from Chicago. On our little trips to Boston and Washington we used my leather one.”
“Then this trunk has been there all the while?”
“Yes.”
“Think now—have you ever known Lillian to enter that closet for anything since she came to you?”
Joe turned white.
“She might have done so dozens of times.”
“But have you known her to?”
“I have not.”
“Is there anything kept there she would want?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Under the circumstances does it not strike you as singular that she should not only enter the closet but lock it and take the key upstairs?”
“Eric, I have thought so myself,” sadly.
“Now, Joe, you are withholding something from me that has a bearing on this matter.”
“How do you know it?” quickly.
“Well, perhaps a little bird told me, or else I read the secret in your face. At any rate you have no business to keep it from me, I am trying to do my duty—heaven knows if I could I would have your wife as spotless as the noonday sky, and if she proves otherwise I shall lose faith in all womankind forever; but I must be able to weigh every particle of evidence for and against her.”
“I beg your pardon, Eric, but I felt so badly over the circumstance that I hardly had the heart to relate it to you.”
“Then it is against her?”
“I am afraid so.”
“The sky grows very black—poor Joe—poor Lillian—my heart is in sympathy with you.”
Joe had buried his face in his hands and seemed quite overcome.
The detective waited.
When his friend had in a measure recovered from the shock, he spoke.
“Now tell me the circumstances.”
Joe’s voice was a little unsteady, but it gained strength as he proceeded:
“When I came down this morning it was late for me, but I had not slept well, and felt a raging headache.
“Lillian was in the library, and left me to go down to see if she could not have a cup of strong tea made, which always acts as a sedative with me when I have a headache.
“My thoughts had never gone from that closet and I had already seen that the key was in the door for Lillian had brought it down.
“Hardly had she left the room than I was over there and had the door open.
“I examined the interior but found it all as I had been in the habit of seeing it.
“This surprised me. Could I after all have done her an injustice with my suspicions?
“I was beginning to think so, when I suddenly noticed a little thing.
“The key of her Saratoga trunk was missing.
“I remembered seeing it in the trunk a few weeks before.
“Why should Lillian take it?
“Instinctively I tried the lid—it was fast—the trunk was locked.
“I left the closet, and was sitting in the library when the breakfast bell rang, and Lillian came in to go down with me.
“She was full of spirits, while I felt as though I were about to attend my own funeral.
“During the progress of the meal I spoke about there being a chance of our soon going out to Chicago to pay a visit, and she seemed to be very quiet over it, unusually so, I believed.
“‘By the way, I miss the key of your trunk—will you let me see if the interior is in good condition?’ I said as steadily as I could, although I felt my face turn red.
“She looked at me as though surprised.
“To-morrow you can do so, Joe—to-day you are in poor condition for anything. Take your mind off everything that excites it. I wish you would stay at home to-day and nurse your headache.’
“I professed to have business of unusual importance down town, and shortly after left the house for my office.
“Now, Eric, give me your honest opinion—my mind is hardly in a fit condition to see and judge for myself.”
The detective had listened intently.
He could grasp the threads and draw them into one compact cord.
The issue was before him.
“Joe, it is beyond all question that her secret lies in that trunk—if we knew what it contains, nothing more would be needed.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” rather wearily.
“From the tenor of the letter Prescott received I am inclined to believe some one is about to run away with him, or he with her, rather.”
Joe groaned dismally.
“If in that trunk I should find some of her dresses and jewelry—well, I should be strongly inclined to believe it meant flight.”
“No, no,” hoarsely, clutching his throbbing brow with both hands, “not that. Lillian would never be guilty of that. She may have flirted with the man—women are weak, I know—but that is the worst I will believe of her—the worst.”
Darrell shrugged his shoulders.
“Very good, Joe, but you must permit me to place my own estimation on things. My eyes are not blinded by love—I can weigh things calmly, and place their right estimation upon them.”
“Eric, I said I would leave it all with you and I do, but until it is proven beyond all doubt, do not ask me to believe in her guilt. It will kill me if it is so.”
“Trust in me, Joe, old fellow, I will act for you as though you were my brother.”
“And—whatever comes, Eric—be gentle with Lillian—let me be the one to—oh! my God! I cannot believe it, and yet it seems as though a burning iron were branding it on my brain.”
The detective was done for the present.
From Joe’s offices he went to his own.
Here he could sit down and review the situation in regular order.
Darrell generally made notes of his subject, so that he might ever keep the circumstances before his mind.
He now jotted down a few more headings, and then surveyed the case as seen through these spectacles which he had drawn on.
Looking over his shoulder we can also get a resume of the case by reading what he filled up a page in his note book with.
They were arranged under heads in numerical order, beginning at the start:
1—Paul Prescott, an artist, makes daily visits to Joe’s house when Joe is down town.
2—Lillian Leslie has a secret from her husband.
3—The paper dropped by Prescott is in her writing, and seems to promise an elopement. It is also signed L, her initial.
4—The girl who gave Prescott the letter corresponds with Lillian’s faithful maid, who has been in the family for many years.
5—The fact of her having the closet key upstairs is significant in itself.
6—Her trunk is locked and the key gone—she says she will produce it when Joe has leisure to examine the trunk—there is no hurry—the morrow will do—evidently something is to occur between now and to-morrow.
This was the indictment.
Against it, on the opposite page, he had written the defense—it came under one head:
“1—Lillian is my ideal of womanly perfection—if she prove guilty my faith is gone forever. I have never yet been able to believe her guilty while in her presence—it is only when away that these terrible facts make me fear it is so.”
A peculiar case this. If Lillian could plead her own cause, she would undoubtedly win it.
For a long time Eric Darrell sat and looked at his notes.
They covered about all of the case.
He could not but see how overwhelming the evidence was against Lillian and how meager her defense.
Still he kept hoping for the best, trusting that something would turn up to send the balance over to the other side. Had it been any one other than Lillian, the detective must have declared that there could be no hope—the case would be virtually closed. With such a client, however, he had hope to the end, because all his sympathies were enlisted in behalf of Joe and his wife.
He was not the man to waste time in useless speculation, and when he had calmly reviewed the situation, he made up his mind what ought to be done.
Would it be possible to save Lillian even though she were guilty?
He could not face her—his first thought had been to see her and speak of the terrible nature of the indictment hanging over her like the sword of Damocles, suspended by a single hair—perhaps she was influenced by some strange power the artist possessed—mesmerized, made a slave by some peculiar phase in a powerful organization—Eric had known of such things, although he did not pretend to understand them.
When he came to think it over, however, he concluded that he could not muster up courage enough to say these things to her face.
He was certain that, strong-nerved man as he was, he would utterly fail when he sat opposite those eyes, and felt them upon him.
Was there any other source to which he might apply?
What of Paul Prescott?
The thought seemed absurd at first but presently he began to realize that there was a chance back of it.
The man was a character and might not be as bad as appearances indicated.
Perhaps moral suasion might influence him, and in case that failed a threat would possibly have the desired effect.
The more he thought over the matter the better he looked upon the idea.
At last he determined to try it.
There could be no harm done.
At the same time he had a chance to accomplish a great work.
A new thought had entered Eric’s head.
Even if Lillian was guilty he might through some work, skillfully arranged, so manage it that the disturbing element should be removed, and their lives flow on smoothly again.
This was his highest hope.
That he would find Lillian innocent had ceased to enter into his calculations.
He only hoped for a half way victory. It was noon when he went out, and stopping in a restaurant he had dinner. His plan was arranged.
If he could effect a meeting with the artist, the worst would soon be known, and he would also discover what sort of man Prescott was.
He knew where the latter had his studio, and presently was bound for Fourteenth Street to interview the artist. What would come of that interview no one could tell, but Eric hoped for a favorable issue.
At any rate he did not think his case would be destroyed by what he was now about to undertake.
At half past one he entered the building where Paul Prescott had his studio.
A few minutes later he stood at the door and gave a loud knock.
CHAPTER XVII
THE ARTIST IS DEFIANT
“Come in!” said a voice.
Eric opened the door.
An odor of tobacco greeted him.
Prescott, in his studio dress, was before a painting, putting some touches here and there.
So interested was he that he did not turn his head when the door closed.
Darrell looked at the painting and was charmed—it was a glimpse of the Delaware Water Gap, and so true to nature that one could almost believe he was on the spot.
Finally the artist stepped back a pace. “There! that is done. I beg your pardon—” and he wheeled around.
As he saw who his visitor was he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Ah! you, Mr.—Mr.—”
“Darrell.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Darrell?”
Evidently he was inclined to be a little suspicious of the man who had had that letter in his possession.
At the same time his curiosity was aroused. Eric saw this. He was ready to take advantage of it.
Coolly seating himself he said:
“Mr. Prescott, I have called to see you in reference to that paper which you received from my hands this morning.”
“Ah! indeed,” with a frown.
Not at all dismayed the detective went on: “I believe you claimed it as your property?”
“I did—have you any reason to doubt my word?”
“Not at all, sir. If it was your property, then the letter must have been addressed to you.”
“It was.”
“Mr. Prescott, you are looked upon in society as an honorable man—your name has never yet been tarnished. As a friend I beg of you to pause ere you cross the Rubicon.”
“What’s all this about? It seems to me you are interesting yourself in a business that does not concern you in the least,” coldly.
“That is where you are mistaken, sir—it does interest me greatly.”
“In what way?”
“I know the lady who wrote that note.”
The artist shrugged his shoulders.
“Well?”
Eric was somewhat surprised.
He had expected that the man would show signs of consternation.
On the contrary he maintained his self-possession, and even smiled.
“You contemplate a step that is bound to bring trouble.”
“It is not my fault,” with a sneer; “some people are so wrapped up in themselves that they can see no one else. This lady—her name shall not be mentioned, as I would not have it the subject of a quarrel—prefers my company to that in which circumstances have thrown her. She is restrained of her liberty, and I would give it to her. That is all. Through the interference of some interloper, such as yourself, we may be prevented from carrying our immediate plans into execution, but the postponement can only be temporary. We must triumph!”
Eric was more than ever amazed.
This man did not appear shamefaced—he even gloried in his foul work.
Surely this was the acme of villainy.
How was he to meet it?
Could he cow the artist?
Already he had made up his mind that this was impossible, for the man seemed to be as daring as he was bad.
What then?
There was nothing left but to let the game take its course.
If Joe and this man ever came into personal contact there would be trouble, for the artist looked like a man who would back up his acts with blows.
“You refuse to change your plans, then?”
“Most decidedly.”
“Well, you may rue it ere long.”
“See here, what makes it your business—there was no name attached to this note—how do you know who wrote it—what in the devil have you got to do with it, anyhow, and what is to hinder me from giving you a sound thrashing on account of your confounded impudence in the affair?”
His manner was threatening.
“Mr. Prescott, listen to me, I am a man not acquainted with fear, nor do I descend to fisticuffs. You see I am armed—now you can keep your distance and talk reason or else take the consequences.”
At sight of the revolver the artist started.
He seemed to suspect for the first time what manner of man he was dealing with.
“Are you a—detective?”
“I am, sir!”
“In his employ?”
“Mr.—the gentleman referred to is an old friend of mine. I have sworn to see him through this trouble.”
“Were you following me when this paper fell?”
“Yes.”
“You saw it drop?”
“I did.”
“And the maid who gave it—perhaps you followed her home.”
“No matter—I believe I know all there is to be known of this affair, sir. I am here to advise you to drop it before you get hurt.”
“Would you like to hear my opinion of you, sir?”
“It would in no wise alter the one I hold of you, Mr. Prescott. Still it is not my plan to indulge in personalities. Remember that what I do is done as a business and from friendship. I wrong no honest man and deceive no trusting woman.”
“You make me out a scamp, which I am not, in my own estimation,” he said hotly.
“That is another subject which we need not discuss, sir, since our ideas would be sure to be at variance. You go your way and I go mine; but at the last I wish to distinctly warn you that we are prepared to give you your deserts if you persist in your course.”
“You can go to the man who employs you and tell him for me that Paul Prescott defies him, and will fight him to the end!”
This was strange language—there was certainly nothing cringing here.
“Very good. Your blood be on your own head. You are watched when you least expect it.”
“Be careful you don’t go too far and get hurt.”
“Bah! I was in that opium den last night and saw the tragedy.”
Prescott started at this, and looked uneasy. “You there?”
“I was the man who took charge of the remains of that unfortunate lady.”
“Is it possible—I never suspected I had seen you previous to our meeting in the car. What did you accomplish?”
“The thing I desired. The world will never know that lady died anywhere but in her own house.”
“Then you have done a good thing, sir.”
“We detectives are employed to do deeds of mercy as well as those of justice and duty. I bid you good day, Mr. Prescott.”
He had nothing more to say.
The man was not one to argue with, and having made up his mind all the powers of heaven and earth could not change it.
This Eric read on his face, and saw in his manner—Prescott was as stubborn as a mule in all he undertook, which perhaps in a measure accounted for his success.
The detective was disappointed.
He had hoped for much and gained nothing, since the other was so set in his ways as to be defiant.
As Darrell had said there was nothing left now but to let matters run their course.
The puzzle had become deeper than ever to him, and he now accepted it without any very strong attempt at solving the enigma.
He could not understand how Lillian could love such a man as Prescott in preference to her husband, except on the theory that the artist possessed some terrible power over her which she was incapable of resisting.
Sadly he left the building.
The game must go on now to the inevitable conclusion—some one would get hurt, but that was to be expected.
What he regretted most of all was the shock to poor Joe.
Strange how such an honest, good fellow, making a husband beyond all reproach, should be thus afflicted.
It often happens in life. Then men who deserve little are given wives a thousand times too good for them.
All are not mated who are married, any more with regard to their character than in their stature—we often see a little man and a tall woman going along arm in arm and smile as we think how incongruous it seems, never reflecting that their natures may be more in harmony than the well-mated pair ahead.
The detective believed that the guilty couple had some plan matured, and that they meant to make their flight that night.
Indications pointed to it.
He resolved then, to checkmate them, and make the thing a failure.
Under no condition should Lillian be allowed to go forth.
Eric endeavored to picture Joe’s wife in her confusion, when the mask was torn off.
Would she prove a firebrand?
He did not believe it. It seemed utterly impossible for a sweet, mild-mannered little woman like Lillian to develop into a fury.
No doubt, when she found that her secret was known, she would collapse in a heap at the feet of her husband, and he—well, Eric believed Joe was fool enough to take her in his arms and forgive her.
How could he learn what their plans were?
He was thus pondering when he saw a figure in front of him that he thought he recognized. It was the trim maid who had given Prescott the note before.
Of course Eric might be mistaken—there were many other like maids besides Mrs. Leslie’s particular, but having the subject in his mind he jumped to the conclusion that this must be the same party he had seen before.
She was walking along slowly, looking up at the numbers of the great buildings as if searching for a particular one.
Undoubtedly she was looking for the building in which the artist had his studio.
Quick as a flash a plan came into the detective’s mind.
What should she be looking for Prescott for but to deliver a note?
He intercepted her.
When he saw her face he discovered that she was an exceedingly youthful looking person to be about thirty years of age, as Joe had declared—had he been asked to guess it he would have said seventeen.
Appearances are deceitful, however, especially when women are concerned.
As he came face to face with the girl, he smiled—she did not look offended.
“I beg your pardon, but are you looking for the office of Paul Prescott?”
She seemed surprised.
“How did you know, sir?”
“Because I am a friend of his with authority to receive the note you have and keep it for him. I presume it is from the same party as the one you gave him last evening.”
“You know about that, too?”
“Of course—I saw it. Give me the note and tell the lady Paul has it, as he will in half an hour.”
“But—I—”
“The note, girl.”
She met his eyes, placed a note in his hand and turning sped away, while the detective chuckled to think what a cunning little god Fortune was after all.
CHAPTER XVIII
FORTUNE’S FAVORS
At least luck favored him and Eric could not say anything against the sudden whirl of the wheel that had left him in such an advantageous position.
He was naturally anxious to scan the note he held and learn its contents.
Looking around he saw a candy and ice cream saloon near by, where many ladies and few gentlemen passed in.
He believed, as the fall day was warm, that he could enjoy a plate of cream, so he entered, selecting a table in a corner that was isolated.
Here he gave his order, and while enjoying his cream opened the note.
It was sealed in the envelope, but the gum had stuck poorly, and he could easily open it with his knife blade.
Once the contents lay open before him he read: “To-night then it shall be. We are to have company at our house. I cannot get my trunk out without arousing his suspicions so I have sent everything to the place you named in packages by my maid. Have the carriage around the corner. I will slip out while the gayety is at its height, meet you at the door and in a minute we will be beyond his reach. He has been cruel to me, I fear him, and yet I love you, Paul, and will be yours forever.”
This time no signature.
The writer was learning caution.
Even initials might be dangerous.
As for Eric, he read this note over again with the deepest pain and surprise.
“She means to leave him—there is no doubt of that, but what can she have reference to when she speaks of his cruelty? Joe cruel—Joe, the kindest, mildest, dearest fellow, I ever knew. He could only be cruel by kindness. Either he has done too much for her, or else she is not in her right mind. If that man is cruel then Prescott is a devil, I’m sure. I would that the writer of this could find out the truth—it would serve her well if we let her go on and reap as she has sown but for the sake of my poor friend she must be saved.”
He took out an old envelope and with a pencil copied the note verbatim.
Then he enclosed the original in the envelope, sealed it up, saw that the address was correct, and was ready to have it delivered.
When he issued forth from the confectionary, he looked about him until he saw a bright appearing district messenger boy sauntering along in the manner peculiar to his kind.
This youth he beckoned to his side.
“Can you spare five minutes, boy?”
The other grinned and nodded.
“Make it up later, mister.”
“All right. Here is a note, it is to be taken to the top floor of this number and delivered into the hands of Mr. Prescott, the artist. You can take the elevator up.”
“All right, boss.”
“You are to tell him a girl dressed in black and wearing a little maid’s cap on her head gave you the note.”
“Fine looking’ maid you are, mister.”
“Never mind—do as I say. Here’s fifteen cents. If you come and report to me the result, I have a quarter more for you.”
“Hey! I’m off like the limited express.”
So saying he took note and money and plunged into the building with hot haste, determined to win the prize offered.
Eric waited patiently.
He knew he would see the boy again.
That silver quarter would serve as a magnet to draw him back to the spot.
Eric had not studied human nature thus long without being able to guess certain things, and in this instance his surmise proved correct.
Before the ten minutes had elapsed he saw the messenger boy come flying along in a way that must have amazed any person who had grown accustomed to the usual methods of these lads.
“Here you are, sir. Right side up with care. Found him in, and delivered the note.”
The grin on the boy’s face declared also that he had been paid for his work by the artist, but this was none of Eric’s business.
He took out a quarter.
“See here now, boy, I want you to prove what you say. What did you do?”
“Knocked on the door—a cove opened it—asked him if Paul Prescott was in—said as how he was the same—handed him the letter—he opened it, grinned, and gave me a shiner. Then I vamosed the ranch and came to you.”
“Did he ask you where you got it?”
“I told him the girl in black racket, which was really the worst I ever heard, but the fellow seemed to swallow it without question.”
“Describe the gentleman.”
This was the crucial test.
The boy obeyed without hesitation, and speedily proved that he must have seen and conversed with the artist himself.
After that Eric had no good reason for longer withholding the promised reward, which was quickly stowed away in the lad’s pocket.
The artist’s interview had not resulted in all that he expected, but he could not say it had been barren of profit. Then again what followed had made up in a measure for his defeat.
He knew the enemy’s plans.
Thus it would not be such a tremendous job to defeat them. Should Joe know?
He believed it would be policy to put him on his guard, and in that way the plotting of the enemy would prove less profitable. So it was to end to-night.
A carriage was to be in waiting at the corner, and while Joe’s attention was taken up with entertaining his guests, his wife would slip out and meet her lover.
Here was a chance for a little diplomacy.
For instance, perhaps it could be arranged that the real Prescott be kidnapped or otherwise kept out of the way, while Joe dressed himself up to resemble the other.
Then he could carry off his own wife, and at the proper time reveal his identity, and teach her a terrible lesson.
That would all be decidedly picturesque and highly dramatic, but there were a number of obstacles to it that would have to be overcome ere they could accomplish the best result.
These difficulties were of such a nature that it seemed as though they could not be overcome.
Darrell cast around him to see whether there was not some other means handy.
How would it do to have the artist arrested on some charge when on the way to the place of meeting?
He decided against this on the spot, for it was very apt to make the whole affair public gossip for the newspapers, something Joe would rather cut off his right hand than have occur.
Next in order he thought that Lillian might be given something to make her sleepy or have such a headache that she could never carry out her part of the arrangement; but this was offensive to his official taste—he felt as though it was retreating before the attack, and it was not his intention to do this.
Finally he decided to see Joe—perhaps the other would suggest something that might open up a plausible scheme—some little hint dropped in conversation would give Eric the clew he was looking for.
Joe was still in his office.
He looked surprised to see his friend, and yet made no remark.
In spite of his effort to appear cheerful, the keen eye of the detective could see the traces of acute suffering in his face.
“I’ve been to see that man, Joe,” he said.
“You have?”
“Yes, I thought it might be best for all concerned if I could shame him into giving up his design.”
“That was too bad, Eric, I would have forbidden it had I known your intention.”
“I know it. The thought came to me after I had seen you. I am sorry now I went.”
“I did indeed.”
“Well, don’t be afraid to tell me. You see I’m calm and collected.”
Eric could not but notice this, but he did not like it.
In his mind it seemed like the awful stillness that precedes the hurricane.
He had no excuse for withholding anything so he told Joe what had occurred. “That man is an accomplished scoundrel,” the other said, quietly.
“I believe that myself, but don’t be afraid of our not mastering him. I discovered one of his weak points after leaving him.”
“Trust you for that—what was it?”
Eric proceeded to tell of his adventure. “Show me the duplicate,” said Joe, trembling with emotion.
When he had hastily read the copy Darrell had made, he uttered a low cry of despair. “Yes, it is so,” he muttered.
“What?”
“We are to have company to-night. It is my birthday, as I told you, and my wife said she had invited a few relatives and friends in to spend the evening—an informal affair with a little supper of coffee, cakes and ice cream. Yes, it is all a deep-laid scheme—and on my birthday too. Oh! Lillian, my wife, how could you!”
His arms lay upon the table, and he let his head fall heavily upon them.
Eric turned to the window and smoked his cigar in silence.
He had the deepest respect for the grief of his friend—it was the keenest misery a human soul can meet here below—death causes many pangs, but not the bitter blank that comes when one is betrayed by the individual he or she had been ready to die for.
Yes, from the hour the base Judas betrayed his loving Master, human misery has never known a lower depth than this.
For five minutes Joe fought his battle all alone, and then he looked up.
His face was set and calm, as though he had conquered again.
It was a bitter struggle and wearing upon him but he must go through to the end.
“Eric, I am ready to converse again. Pardon my weakness, old friend, but this is a cruel business. I did not think I was such a baby.
“Baby! Great heavens! man, you bear it twice as well as I could. Such a thing would have murdered me outright.”
They began talking again.
Eric spoke of his unformed plans, and between them they began to patch up a scheme by means of which the end they sought would be attained without publicity.
What it was we shall not disclose just now, leaving that for the proper time.
At any rate it seemed to give poor Joe some satisfaction to think he was able to circumvent the villain who had destroyed his peace of mind.
“After all, it might be better for me to challenge that man, and kill him,” he said moodily.
“Yes, or leave Lillian a widow, at the mercy of any adventurer. Besides, in that way the whole dreadful story would get into the papers, and you could not live in New York even if that artist failed to murder you. No, you will find that the plan we have arranged is the best after all.”
“You are undoubtedly right, Eric—consider it settled, and prepare to carry it out. We will end this agony this night and that devil shall learn what he risks in attempting to steal another man’s treasure.”
“It shall be the effort of my life, Darrell, to succeed. Have no fears of me—my pride has been aroused. It is not the weak lover but the outraged husband who speaks now.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE TIME DRAWS NEAR
For once Joe Leslie was thoroughly aroused, and the detective knew he need have no fears of him again.
Whatever he was given to do he would carry out to the letter.
So they noted with something of satisfaction that the day was drawing to a close, and the night coming on, for their hour could not be reached until darkness had for some time settled down over the great city.
Both were anxious to have the thing over.
It did not give them much pleasure, and all their satisfaction arose in the thought that justice and right would triumph when the man who had plotted against the peace of a home went down among his idols of clay.
In these modern days men have to do strange things when the sanctity of their house has been invaded by a human serpent.
Sometimes the stern arm of the law is called upon for assistance.
Now and then, however, we read of some outraged husband going back to old time principles and being a law unto himself on such an occasion.
Long ago they had a means of avenging such wrongs by meeting in the lists with lance or sword—in short, fighting a duel.
The modern way is perhaps the best if least chivalric since it is all in favor of the man who has been wronged, and does not risk his life.
We have seen that Joe was not modern in his ways.
The last thing he desired on earth was to make his misery public.
His love for his wife was wonderful—he only blamed the man who had gained such power over her mind as to make her irresponsible. Just as though there were wizards to-day—the times of Salem witchcraft have not returned to haunt us again, thank heaven.
Joe really did believe—and the shrewd detective allowed the same idea to permeate his own mind to a certain extent—that it was a case where a weak mind was dominated by a masterful one. He had known such cases, and seen examples of hypnotism that had astonished him.
Thus he excused Lillian.
While Eric did not go that far, he believed there were extenuating circumstances connected with the case, and was willing to look upon it all in a most lenient way.
Probably he would have acted in a different manner had it been his own wife who was concerned in the affair.
That was a matter that brought the business down to mere speculation, and when it reached this point it became unprofitable.
When the detective left his friend he had everything arranged.
As far as human sight could see beyond, all was ready for the business in hand.
Should Paul Prescott attempt to put his little game into practice he would find himself brought up rather suddenly.
There was an hour or so of daylight left, and this Eric put to good advantage, as he had a number of little things to do.
One cannot engage to carry out a scheme like this without many accessories being needed, and the wise man looks for these before the time arrives for their use.
Gradually the day gave way to evening. Darrell believed all was arranged.
He felt satisfied that before another day came around, Joe’s condition would be changed—this night was the crisis—either his spirits must go down or else rise suddenly.
All depended on one person.
This was Lillian.
To him she was the one object that could affect his future—the lodestone that drew him on.
When he had made his preparations and eaten a light supper down town, Eric started for the scene of the coming comedy.
He could not pierce the future any more than any other human, and hence knew not whether it would remain such or prove to be a tragedy.
Coming events may often cast their shadows before, but there are times when the sun is so nearly in the zenith that this shadow does not amount to very much.
Besides, what does a shadow amount to anyhow—it is not tangible, and presents no opportunity for solution.
For once at least in his life the detective confessed himself unable to insure the future.
He knew certain facts, and that others would coalesce, but what the result would be he did not pretend to be chemist enough to decide.
Time alone would tell.
That was the physician who could be depended upon to bind up broken hearts, to solve the deepest mysteries and set everything right.
Given time, nothing was impossible.
As the shades of evening descended, Darrell brought up in the neighborhood of the building on Fourteenth Street where the artist’s studio was located.
He was passing slowly by when a hack drove up and stopped at the curb.
“Engaged?” he asked the driver.
“Sorry, sir, but I am,” returned that worthy. A jehu always hates to lose a fare.
“Can’t accommodate me up town?”
“Right away?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“About Eighty-fourth and Third Avenue.”
The man’s face lighted up—Darrell was answered—he saw a chance of doubling his fare. “I reckon the other’d make no objection. Pay me first, and I’ll tell him I was taken by you.”
“One, fifty.”
Without a murmur the detective handed over the amount, submitting to be robbed in order to carry out his point.
Of course he was disguised.
No one would for a moment imagine that this old gentleman was the same athletic individual who had visited Prescott in his studio, and argued with him over a revolver.
The clocks were striking seven as he entered the hack and made himself comfortable.
Along the wide pavement hundreds were still hurrying, although the swarms from all the great stores had long since passed by.
Presently from out the building the artist came. He looked worried, and well he might.
When a man sets out to steal another man’s wife he risks a great deal.
It must weigh upon his mind, even the personal danger involved, though his conscience be free.
Darrell recognized this fact, and did not wonder at the look of anxiety he saw upon the countenance of the artist.
The latter looked up and down the street ere catching sight of the hack at the curb. Then a smile came upon his face.
He walked up to the driver, spoke a few words, frowned when the other mentioned having another passenger, saw no other vehicle in sight that he could engage, glanced in at the seeming old man, and then, grumbling, entered.
“I trust I have not inconvenienced you, sir,” remarked the old gentleman, anxiously.
“Not at all, not at all,” replied the artist courteously, though his manner had belied his words.
They rumbled along.
Block after block was left behind.
It is a long distance from Fourteenth Street up to the point where they were bound, and when half an hour had gone by they had not yet reached their destination.
Indeed, it was not far from eight o’clock when the driver pulled up at the corner.
The old gentleman got out slowly.
He bade his traveling companion good night and turning walked away, his cane beating a lively tattoo upon the stone pavement.
Darrell was satisfied with his investment thus far—he had been carried up town, had seen the artist well upon his way, and knew both driver and vehicle by sight.
There could not very well be any mistake after this—he believed things were well laid out, and that all they needed was a chance to execute their plan.
He again changed his looks, so that in case the artist saw him he would not realize that he had met him before.
With the facilities at his command it was not a difficult thing for him to do this, and by means of a few deft turns he completely altered his character, and might defy recognition, even were keener eyes concerned than those of Paul Prescott, the artist.
When this had been done Darrell walked up the avenue, and soon came to the corner where, as he expected, he found the vehicle.
Prescott was not in sight.
Some two hours must elapse before the time arranged would pass.
The driver had also vanished, no doubt being in a liquor store near by, where he could wet his whistle, lounge at his ease and watch his team at the same time.
His horses would have a good chance to rest before they were needed again, and this was probably one reason why the artist had him on hand at such an early hour.
When young Lochinvar carried off his bride he managed to have a good steed, knowing that everything depended on the swiftness of his flight, as pursuit would be sudden and furious.
So Paul Prescott, with an eye to possible emergencies, had chosen a vehicle that was drawn by a good team of animals.
He showed his wisdom here.
In case of pursuit it might be his salvation.
When the detective sauntered past the house upon which his interest was centered he saw that it was lighted up.
Company was expected.
Lillian had invited a few particular friends in to see them, on account of its being Joe’s birthday.
As yet they had not begun to arrive, but would soon appear upon the scene.
Darrell heard a vehicle coming, and stopped in a dark spot near by.
“The first of the guests,” he muttered.
As the carriage stopped in front of the house he gave a start.
“Jupiter! guests with trunks—that’s odd.” There was a trunk up beside the driver, who at once leaped to the ground.
As he opened the door a vision of jaunty wraps and bonnets sprang out and flew up the steps to ring the bell, while Darrell held his breath as he guessed the truth.
The door opened.
“Marian!”
A flutter of feminine apparel, a little shriek of girlish delight, and the sisters were locked in each others’ arms, to the wonderment of the man who watched below.
Then the jehu carried in the trunk, the door closed, the carriage rumbled away and the street resumed its wonted appearance.
Eric was puzzled.
He had not counted on this.
Had any of the others?
What effect would it have on the anticipated elopement, he wondered.
Here was the lover with his vehicle on hand, and such a nature as Paul Prescott’s would not brook interference.
The affair became more complicated.
Darrell would have given something to have had the next two hours over.
As it was he had to possess his soul in patience and wait.
Things that he did not dream of were fated to turn up in that time, and he was bound to have his hands full.
Guests soon began to arrive. Several came in carriages, while others were not far enough away to bother with vehicles.
It was no fashionable gathering, but one of warm friends, of whom Joe Leslie had many.
His business and social life was such that he drew people to him, making many friends and few enemies, which is after all the only true way to go through this world.