Possibly little or no progress had been made, and hence she had finally determined to change, just as a patient, becoming dissatisfied with his doctor, calls in another physician. Luck alone had brought her to his office—perhaps it was the sweet little cherub that watches over the affairs of lovers. At any rate it was a piece of good fortune for all parties concerned. He proceeded to question Joe, desiring to learn all he could of the case. “You say you had never seen the gentleman before?” “Never.” “Not in your wife’s album?” “You mean that he might be one of her old beaux—no, not even there. He is a stranger to me.” “But if you met him you would know him?” “Well, rather.” “Can you describe him to me?” “I can do better—show you a picture of him just as he leaves my front door.” With that he held out a card, upon which was a round photograph, or rather picture, which Eric saw had been taken with a Kodak camera, just coming into general use at that time. The scene was a door-step with a number over the door—a man was descending—the lower part of his body could not be seen, but his body and head were well taken. He carried something under his arm like a flat book. Eric Darrell studied the face as well as he could upon such a small surface—he wanted to know it again. Then he looked further. Just above, a lady stood outside the door, as if seeing the gentleman depart. It was Lillian Leslie without a doubt. “How in the deuce did you get this?” he asked in some surprise, “it’s as clever a piece of business as I know of.” “I hired a young fellow to do it for me. He took this man several times afterward. See, there is one that shows his face better, because there is little else—it was taken close.” Darrell examined this picture also. “Seems to me I’ve seen this man on the street or somewhere—I can’t just place him though,” he muttered. “Is there anything more you wish to tell me, Joe,” he asked aloud. “Unfortunately—yes.” “Proceed.” “It seemed as though fate had been pleased to conspire against my peace of mind. I picked up a piece of paper from the floor to toss into the grate in the library when certain words caught my eye, and instead I put it in my pocket.” “When was this?” “Last evening.” “Have you the paper still?” “Yes.” “Let me see it, if you have no objection.” “Certainly not. I want everything to be placed before you now.” “Everything but your own secret,” thought the detective, as he took the paper. It was evidently a portion of a torn note and had been twisted around. Darrell smoothed it flat and then read in a woman’s fine chirography: “—we will hope for the best. At any rate, fair Lillian, your secret shall never be betrayed by your sincere friend, BARBARA. “P.S. Be sure and burn this. B.” “What do you think of that?” asked Joe. “It has a peculiar look. One thing is certain—Lillian made a mistake—she did not burn it up.” “But tore it to pieces instead.”