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

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

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

One thing favored Darrell.

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

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

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

That was the result of education in his business. Raising his eyebrows with an expression of surprise, he said:“You don’t mean to say that house is yours, friend Joe?”

“That’s just what I do!”

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

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

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

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

“Then what in the deuce—?”

“Patience! Is your house in the market?”

“Yes.”

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

“It looks like a woman’s writing.”

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

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

He was not quite done with Joe yet.

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

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

“You have no need to work.”

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

Darrell did not let him finish.

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

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

Darrell winked hard.

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

What was he to think of a hypocrite?

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

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

Darrell was satisfied.

He had made his point.

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

It was not far from five o’clock.

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

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

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

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

They got in the same car.

At this time in the evening it was pretty crowded and both had to stand up.At Twenty-seventh Street a number left the train and those we follow with the rest.

Darrell observed Joe eagerly consult his watch.

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

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

They approached the fatal number.

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

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

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

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

Evening was coming on, and the shadows of the approaching night had evidently gathered in the hall of the house—he could just see the glass globe of the hanging gas jet in the hall, but it was not lighted.For that matter there was no light about the house at all, though the neighbors were beginning to illuminate their houses.

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

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

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

He was deeply interested.

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

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

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

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

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

A suspicion flashed into his mind.

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

“Who speaks to me?” gasped the lady.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Darrell, does my husband know that I have sought your advice?”So intensely interested was she in the answer, that she even held her breath.

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

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

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

She moved uneasily at his words.

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

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

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

“Merely a matter of business.”

“Did he mention me?”

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

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

“I will not.”

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

“I shall, Mr. Darrell.”

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

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

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

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

For perhaps ten minutes things went on this way.

Then the light suddenly vanished.

A minute later Joe Leslie came out.

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

Then Joe descended the steps and set briskly off for the elevated station.The detective did not follow him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Darrell made for the grocery.

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

“Can you tell me who lives at No—?”

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

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

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

The boy gave it, at which the other whistled.

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

The blunder was destined to give Darrell trouble however.