“You found it in your library?” “Yes.” “Is there a waste paper basket there?” “Yes, but we throw papers in the grate and when they accumulate touch a match to them.” “Perhaps you might find the balance of this letter.” “In the grate?” “Yes.” “That would be impossible.” “Why so?” “Unfortunately, one of the first things I did upon arriving home yesterday evening was to apply a match to the papers in the grate, and they have all been consumed.” Eric shrugged his shoulders. “That’s hard luck, I take it, but men of my line never cry over spilt milk. What’s the use? Now, regarding this scrap—it is signed Barbara. Have you any idea who the author is?” “Yes, certainly—a young married lady who lives back of us. I have always entertained much respect for Mrs. Goodwin, and am surprised to think she would enter into a conspiracy with Lillian to deceive me.” The detective hardly knew what to think. Here was a man whom he had known and considered a first-rate fellow in the past, grieving over the fact that his wife was keeping something from him, when, all the time, he was nursing a secret within his guilty heart. What was Darrell to make of it? Those who live in glass houses should be careful how they throw stones. “It’s pretty hard, Joe, I admit, but when it comes to secrets, who among us is above reproach?” “Eh?” Joe Leslie seems to color up in a manner altogether unnecessary. “You, for instance, old man—I warrant you do lots of little things that you would hardly care for your wife to know. But”—seeing the other’s evident confusion—“let that pass. I will undertake to clear up this mystery for you, Joe, as speedily as possible.” “What shall I do?” “Try and act as though your suspicions were not aroused—do everything just as you would under ordinary circumstances. Even treat this false friend Barbara warmly—anything but to give our game away in the start.” “I presume I can go on in the same old rut, provided it is not for long.” “I’ll promise you that the whole thing will soon be cleared up. There is a screw loose somewhere, and I’m going to find it.” Again Joe blushed at the emphasis laid on that word, though Eric was not looking at him, and it did not seem as though he meant any personal reflection. A guilty conscience, Darrell concluded, needs no accuser, and this man feels the finger of suspicion pointed at him, though he cannot tell from whom it comes. Used to reading human nature, the detective knows guilt when he sees it. Although he refrains from making any remark upon the subject, he is in reality quite out o£ patience with his friend who has thus early betrayed his trust—he could never have believed it of Joe Leslie—he ought to be ashamed of himself, doing anything to make such a sweet woman unhappy, and if it turns out to be so the detective is determined that he shall eat the husks of remorse, drinking the bitter cup to the very dregs.