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

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

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

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

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

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

A lady stood there.

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

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

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

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

“Is he in?”

“I am Eric Darrell, at your service. If you wish to see me on business will you come in?”He stepped aside as he spoke.

“Thank you, I will.”

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

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

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

Eric Darrell swept his eyes about him, and something akin to a smile came over his face as he viewed his curiosity shop—there were scores and scores of murderous tools and ingenious contrivances, each of which was connected with some crime or criminal in the past history of New York, and in the pursuit of his chosen business he had been brought into connection with the affair or the individual.The detective was a little proud of his collection, as well as the Rogue’s Gallery over the desk, where some hundreds of faces were represented, many extremely brutal and some good-looking, while the pictures of women were not infrequent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus encouraged she went on:

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

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

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

This was an old story with Darrell.

He had seen other Joes before.

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

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

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

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

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

“None.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand, madam. How long have these strange visits been going on?”“I do not know.”

“How long have you been aware of them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My husband is Joseph Gregory Leslie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joe is a friend of mine, and yet if he is a villain—which I cannot believe—I will discover the proofs of it and hand them to you.”“Mr. Darrell, I thank you,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

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

“Amen!” she said, solemnly.

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

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

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