The bull fighter turned to the right and left and defended himself gallantly, while he shielded his companion as best he could. It was a singular spectacle to be seen at a New York public ball. When passion rules men’s minds their surroundings have no effect on them. They would fight in a tomb, over the dead. Seeing that in all probability the rascals would get the better of the man, Darrell pushed that way; at this moment one of the men grasped the lady by the wrist. She screamed. The bull fighter turned like a mad tiger, saw what was transpiring, threw the assailants who were clinging to him, and plunged at the man who was grasping the lady’s arm and endeavoring to drag her away, for the music still kept up, and many were dancing all unconscious of the _melee_. There was a tremendous rush, the bull fighter caught the wretch and whirled him, spinning like a teetotum, ten feet away. Never did a dancing dervish spin so merrily. Then came an awful crash, as the man struck a swaying column of dancers, who immediately toppled over upon him. By this time the detective was at the side of the bull fighter. “Keep back, you young fools! Keep back, I say, or I’ll land the whole of you in the Tombs!” His words were heard. Backed up as they were with the shining barrel of a revolver, they commanded respect. By this time the management had succeeded in getting the officers from the supper-room to the spot, and upon seeing them come, the young fellows who had been the cause of the disturbance slunk away, losing themselves in the crowd. The management apologized to the bull fighter when they learned what had occurred, but his companion seemed to have received a nervous shock—at any rate they retired for their wraps. Darrell moved outside. There was something more he desired to learn and the chance must soon come. He waited. Just at twelve they came. The hour for unmasking had arrived, and there was quite a high time within. This displeased the detective, for he was afraid lest he might not hear what he desired. The couple walked down the pavement in search of the carriage, which was waiting near by, the driver having received instructions. They soon reached it. Darrell hovered near. The bull fighter assisted his companion in and then entered himself. “Where to, sir?” asked the driver, probably not knowing but what they had another engagement at some private ball. A burst of laughter from the house deadened the reply, but Darrell’s keen ears caught:“—Twenty-seventh Street.” It was enough. He felt down-spirited. In so far as he could see ahead, the case was a settled one—Joe Leslie was guilty. He seemed to feel it as keenly as though it were a brother of his. Poor Lillian! that it should come to this in one short year. It would have seemed incredible, but he was used to meeting with strange things, and being of a philosophical train of mind could take things pretty much as they came. So Darrell turned homeward.