“Let me keep these, Joe?” holding up the pictures and the scrap of paper. “Certainly, and I most earnestly pray they may be the means of proving Lillian’s innocence. My life will be wrecked if she proves false.” He did not seem to think of what a position his own secret action placed him in. “We will hope for the best, Joe.” “Whatever you discover must be a secret between myself and you. I shall in my own way decide what must be done.” Darrell looked at his face while he spoke. He found nothing vindictive there—instead, he saw a look of deep pain. To himself he thought: “If I had done anything wrong, I would like to be tried by a judge like Joe Leslie—he would be merciful. If his wife has erred, he is not the man to shoot her down—he would fight like a tiger in her defense—but I believe under such painful circumstances Joe would cry like a baby—and forgive her.” That was his estimate of the man he had known so long—he forgot just then that Joe was also under a cloud, and that there was something in his life that needed the calcium light of an investigation thrown upon it. Thus the detective’s opinion went up and down like a shuttle-cock—he hardly knew how to take this good-natured giant. The latter was plainly ill at ease, and having said all he desired, picked up his hat to go. “Sure you won’t smoke, Joe?” Another wistful glance and a shake of the head. “I promised Lillian I would never smoke another cigar until she gave me voluntary permission; and as she hates tobacco smoke I presume I must keep my promise always. That is one of the little penalties a man sometimes has to pay when he captures a darling. You can’t have your pudding and eat it too—so some of our bachelor freedom must go.” “Well, the chains are golden ones, forged by love, and if ever I meet a little woman like your wife, by Jove! I’ll be tempted to have her forge some.” “You talk as though Lillian and you were old friends. You must meet her, Eric—I’ll be proud to have you know her—when this thing is settled.” “All right, my boy, I’ll keep you to your word. Perhaps she may have a sister, you see.” “She has that, and very much like Lillian.” “Consider the thing fixed and invite me when her sister is on from Chicago.” “I certainly will—what did I do with my hat—ah, here it is on the desk—I will see you again to-morrow, Eric—” He ceased talking in the middle of a sentence, bent his head down, for the light was gradually fading in the detective’s office, and then turning suddenly, said: “Hello! Darrell, old man, where did you get that—who’s been writing down the number of my Twenty-seventh Street house?” Darrell had forgotten to remove the paper upon which Lillian had written the address, with her gloves on, and Joe Leslie now held it in his hand. CHAPTER IV THE HOUSE ON TWENTY-SEVENTH STREET 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.