He kicked off his slippers and drew on his shoes. Then a coat and hat followed. The minute was not yet over when he announced himself in readiness. Truly, Eric Darrell would do for a lightning change artist on the stage. They passed down the stairs of the house, which had apartments for gentlemen only. New York is full of these bachelor dens, some of them having suites of rooms furnished in a gorgeous manner that speaks of the sybarite taste of the rich young or old owner. The bachelors of to-day live for their own comfort, surrounded by all the luxuries money can purchase for them. No one thinks of pitying them any longer, least of all do they themselves feel forlorn. People who love a home may sigh at such a picture, but it is the truth in all large cities and New York above the rest. On the way down Joe spoke: “You know the places where such a young man is apt to be found, Eric?” “Well, I ought to—my business carries me into them every week,” replied the other. “Then let us make the rounds.” He spoke wearily. Why not? When a man has been dancing for several hours, he cannot feel as fresh as a daisy—it does not stand to reason. They entered the hack. Darrell gave his first address to Joe who repeated it to the driver. Away they went. “Hello! what’s wrong with your hand?” asked the detective. The carriage lamps gave enough light for him to see that Joe had his handkerchief wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand. “Took a tumble up a dark flight of stairs when I was looking awhile back and bruised my knuckles.” Darrell smiled but made no remark. He thought he knew how that hand had become bruised—it was in a more honorable business than falling up stairs—in defending a weak and helpless woman against ruffians. “You know some of these places then, Joe?” “My driver knew of several, but I had hard work getting in.” Darrell thought so. “Perhaps they did not think I wanted to play, and may have been suspicious of my intentions.” “No doubt. If you rescued some young fellow from their clutches, it meant less money for their pockets.” They lapsed into silence. Soon the vehicle stopped. They entered a gambling den. Joe quickly declared his clerk was not there and they proceeded to another. Four had been visited, and in the last one he discovered the young man at the green baize, his face flushed with wine and excitement. The detective drew him out and brought him to his employer, at sight of whom he turned white and put his hands to his eyes. Joe Leslie talked to him beautifully—even that hard-hearted detective, Eric Darrell, who had seen so much of the world, had to turn his head away and wink hard to dry up his tears. As for the boy—he was hardly more—what he heard so affected him that he caught hold of Joe’s arm and sobbed outright.