“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.Eric did not wince.

“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.