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.