“Ah! Joe, my boy, I see it all. You were unable to keep to the letter of your promise and you have been maintaining this bachelor’s hall ever since, where once a day you have crept in to have a good smoke.” “Eric, what you say is true—I am a slave to the weed, and I dare not confess it to my wife. She despises such slaves. My ears have tingled many a time at the sarcastic way in which she referred to such poor devils, at the same time thanking heaven that she had a husband with stamina enough to give up the vile habit when he became civilized.” Joe groaned and looked at his meerschaum pipe with a strange mixture of disgust and veneration. He had a sympathetic auditor, for Eric was just as deep in the mud as he was in the mire, so far as smoking was concerned. “What you say may be true, Joe, and yet it would be well for you to drop on your marrowbones at once and confess all to your wife.” “Good heavens! do you mean it?” “I do, indeed.” “But I can’t—she will despise me. I had better make a determined effort to throw off this wretched habit, even if it kills me.” “You make a mistake in one thing, old man. I believe your wife, instead of reproaching you, will throw her arms around your neck and tell you to smoke after this when you please.” “Goodness gracious! why should she do this?” “Because she will be so delighted to discover that it is no worse.” “No worse—it is as bad as it could be in her estimation. I shall feel like a criminal,” and the good-natured giant shuddered. He was not accustomed to deceit. “Well, you mark my words—she will reproach you less than you believe.” “You speak in riddles—why should she be delighted to know it is no worse—why are you here—Heavens alive, man, has she employed you to watch me—does she already know I am engaged in this shameful deceit?” He poured these questions out. Already a light was beginning to shine before his eyes. The detective smiled. “Thank your stars, Joe Leslie, that when you face your sweet wife you have nothing more serious to confess than this fault.” “What did you suspect—what does she think?” he asked, almost breathlessly. “That you were false to her.” “Darrell, I’d sooner be torn to pieces than be such a wretch,” he declared, vehemently. “I believe you now, Joe, but must confess that up to this very hour things looked black for you.” “How was that?” “Circumstances were against you.” “Tell me all, Eric—everything.” The detective sees no reason why he should not. He believes in this man thoroughly now, and would trust him through everything. So he begins and tells him all. Joe’s head rests upon his hand—the detective could not see his face, but he knew how it worked with feeling, and when he described how Lillian was dreadfully shocked when she heard of the _bal masque_ and Joe’s apparent presence there, he was not at all surprised to see a large tear drop upon the arm of the chair. With tears in his eyes Joe looked up.