The house seemed to be dark and deserted, but others were in the same condition, the shades being drawn and shutters closed. New York people, many of them, act as though their houses were meant to be dungeons, being hermetically sealed to shut out the light. Darrell surveyed the building a few minutes, crossed over, looked at it more closely, started up the steps, then shook his head negatively. “Not yet—I’ll wait a little,” he muttered. Glancing up and down the street he saw a small grocery store on the corner. People must eat, and these venders of daily provisions generally know more about those who live in the neighborhood than any other class. The gossip and small talk of the street passes current here, and the proprietor hears all. So Darrell made for the grocery. It was not a very extensive establishment—the owner and his clerk were not busy, and Darrell, picking out the former, asked: “Can you tell me who lives at No—?” The man looked at him with a smile. “A young woman named Mrs. Lester, whose husband I believe is in California—she was in here once or twice—quite a fine-looking lady,” returned the groceryman. “Thanks,” replied the detective, turning and leaving the store as suddenly as he entered. “Jacob, what number did he ask about?” said the proprietor, turning to his clerk. The boy gave it, at which the other whistled. “That’s what they call a bull on me. I was five numbers out of the way. But let it pass. He didn’t want to buy nothing.” The blunder was destined to give Darrell trouble however. CHAPTER V THE MAN DRESSED AS A BULL FIGHTER When Eric Darrell left the little grocery on the corner, it was with a bad feeling at his heart. It seemed as though a cold, clammy hand had suddenly come in contact with that member of his anatomy, and chilled it. Could this thing be? If Joe Leslie turned out to be that moral leper, a bigamist, Darrell believed he would never put any trust in human nature again. Did it not look like it? Nothing was lacking. Good heavens! even the names were almost alike—Leslie and Lester. He was horrified—dazed—dumfounded. Then his teeth came together with a snap, and he swore he would solve this mystery—the man might be living two lives—others had done it before—perhaps many in New York are doing it to-day. In his time Darrell had met with just such cases as this, and he believed his experience justified him in solving the puzzle. So her husband was in California. It was a likely story. California must be very near by if he could drop in six times a week. He passed the house again and found that there were still no signs of light. Evidently those who lived there, perhaps enjoying the luxuries of the season, knew how to hide their light under a bushel. Darrell remembered what Joe had said—he had long since despaired of renting the house, and probably did not try very hard.