If that was Lillian with her husband, it was all well and good—although surprised at Joe taking his wife to such a carnival, so long as her husband was with her it was all right. But was it Lillian? This thought kept crowding into his brain. He could not expel it. After a little he became angry with himself for brooding over the matter so. “Hang it, I can settle the matter easily,” he muttered, as he found himself at the foot of the stairs leading to the elevated station. So up he ran. It was not a great while later when he found himself walking along the street on which the Leslies lived. He had never seen their house before, but having the number speedily found it. Of course it was one of a row. How neat and clean everything looked up in this region when compared with the neighborhood of the Twenty-seventh Street house. His sympathies naturally ran in favor of Lillian—he seemed to believe she was the more innocent of Joe’s dupes—provided the case was really as bad as it seemed. Making sure he had the right number, as the houses were built pretty much alike, he ran up the steps and pulled the bell. A minute later a girl came to the door. “I wish to see Mr. Leslie.” “He is out, sir.” “Ah!” Darrell’s suspicions took firmer ground. The girl held the door open a crack, as though it were secured by a chain bolt. “Mrs. Leslie will do—can I see her?” He almost held his breath waiting for the answer—it seemed as though the fate of a seemingly happy household depended upon it—whether Joe Leslie were saint or sinner. “Mrs. Leslie is in—what name, please?” “You may say—stay, here is my card,” believing the girl would have no chance to read it on the way. He handed her a calling card which simply bore his name. In a minute she came back. “Mrs. Leslie will see you, sir.” The door opened. Eric Darrell found himself under the roof of Joe Leslie’s little “bird’s nest,” as the latter was fond of styling it. Everything around him showed evidences of good taste and plenty of money. Poor bachelor Eric heaved a sigh as he noted the comfortable air of the cozy house. “What a fool,” he muttered, “but some men never know when they’re well off. With a wife and a home like his, Joe ought to be the happiest man in New York. Seems to me these things generally go to the ones least capable of appreciating them.” By this time the philosopher, in following the servant along the hall, came to the open library door, through which she motioned him to enter. He did so. Here his old bachelor soul was worse rattled than ever—such a dream of bliss may have come to him over his post-prandial cigar, but he had never believed it could be realized to a human being here below. The soft lights, the cases of books, the cheery fire in the large grate, and, chief of all, the pretty little lady seated at the table engaged in some delicate fancy work—it all took poor Eric’s breath away. He had sense enough to walk up and shake hands.