It was now getting on toward the time when he ought to be up town. He ran down to his office first, and blossomed out as a first-class masher, of the type who frequent the matinees—real lady killers. Then he next made his way up town on the elevated road, and got off at Eighty-ninth Street. In a short time he was in the drug store near the home of the Leslies. The proprietor was talkative and friendly. It was just three minutes of ten when a gentleman passed along the pavement in the direction of the house under surveillance. He turned and came into the drug store ostensibly to buy a cigar, but in reality, as the detective guessed, to pass the time. Just as the clock was about striking he hurried out and was soon mounting the steps leading to the Leslie mansion. Eric shrugged his shoulders. “There’s no accounting for tastes,” he muttered. “Yes,” laughed the druggist, “he picked out the poorest weed in the box.” But Darrell was thinking of something else. He had in mind the stalwart figure and pleasing face of Joe Leslie. Between the two he saw no choice. Still, this man was in a way distinguished by his poetical appearance—his face was smooth, all but a wavy mustache, and he wore his hair down upon his shoulders. Eric spent some time talking to the druggist, but he kept watch upon the Leslie domicile. At eleven the stranger came out. He was given egress by Mrs. Leslie, and Darrell was put in mind of the photograph Joe had shown him. His business now was to discover who this gentleman was. He followed him to the elevated railroad, and went in the car next to that which the man under surveillance entered. Thus, at about eleven twenty-three, he followed the other along Twenty-third Street and saw him enter a certain building among the handsome stores. Still pursuing his man, carefully keeping him under his eye, he watched until the other had entered a room on the top floor. There was a door-plate in sight. Going closer the detective read: “Paul Prescott—Artist.” He knew the name—the owner had quite a reputation as a painter, but Eric had never as yet heard of him as a lady killer. His next work was to get some information concerning Mr. Prescott. There were other offices below, and entering one which seemed to be that of an ivory carver, he introduced the subject by saying that he had occasion to make use of an artist at his home, and wished to make certain inquiries concerning the gentleman above. “I do not like to say anything,” remarked the ivory carver. “Oh, I’m not going to ask about his work—that stands on its own merits—but as he would have to be a member of my family for a time if he undertook the job, I would like to know if he is a perfect gentleman.” “I have no occasion to believe otherwise.” “Married?” “N—no.” “You seem to hesitate—am I to infer that you have any reason to believe otherwise?” “I used to think he was, but of late he told me he was a widower.”