There was nothing more to be done that night. He remembered that on the morning he had engaged to watch the house in which the Leslies lived. That strange man would come and must be tracked to discover his identity. It was a task Darrell did not like. Every time he thought of it he saw the face of Lillian before him, and in the depth of those liquid eyes there appeared such a world of truth that the detective was fain to shake his head. Experienced man of the world as he was, he could not believe her guilty. There must be some mistake. So he made his way to his rooms, feeling depressed over the events of the night. He hated the thought of his next meeting with the lady—how could he face her and tell her what he had seen and heard? “Hang the foolish fellow—how could he treat such an angel in that way?” Hold on, Mr. Darrell, before twenty-four hours have flown you will perhaps have changed your mind and concluded that even angels may be of the earth, earthy. When he arrived at his apartments it was about half-past twelve. As he opened the door he saw a card below. When he had applied the burning match to the gas, he picked this up. “Hello!” was his exclamation. His eyes had fallen upon a name. “Joseph Gregory Leslie.” Turning the card over he found, scribbled in pencil, the words: “Called to see you—may come in later to-night. Some important business.” When he had read this the detective scratched his head and mused. “How is this—he must have run down here first. Come in later, eh? Well, who knows but what after he has seen _Marian_ home he may run down?” He stopped to listen to a carriage rumbling along the street—at this time of night they were not very frequent here, and when it stopped in front of the house he smiled. “Ah, he has seen her home and come down to carry out his promise to Lillian. The story of the erring clerk may not be all moonshine.” He put his head out of the window. The carriage lamps shone below. It was a hack, drawn by dark horses. So had the other been. Darrell had not the slightest idea but that they were one and the same—he flattered himself that he could read Joe Leslie like a book, for the man was a poor plotter. Just as he suspected, there were footsteps on the stairs. Some one was coming. A knock sounded on his door. Opening it, who should be standing there but Joe Leslie in the flesh? “You are home at last—I have been here twice before and found you out,” he said. Darrell believed once would answer, but of course he made no such remark. “Well, come in and sit down.” “No, I haven’t time.” “What do you want with me?” asked Darrell, just as though he did not already know. “Can you give me an hour or so?” “Yes.” “I have a favorite clerk—I am afraid he has fallen into bad company. For his mother’s sake I want to rescue him before it is too late.” Darrell admired the motive however much he distrusted the man. “Wait a minute and I will go with you.”