Just then the detective’s mind did not turn in any other direction. He forgot all about the other side of the case, and seemed to consider the matter settled. Peace would again come upon the disturbed family relations of his friend Joe, and all be as lovely as of yore. Of course Lillian would be only too glad to close up the matter by forgiving her husband. His sin was not a grievous one, and so great would be her relief at finding him faithful and true that she would gladly forget it all. Under these circumstances Darrell watched Joe get into his clothes with sincere satisfaction. He had never been more worried over anything than he was with this, and now that it had all turned out so well, he felt a satisfaction that seemed to permeate his whole system. When Joe had dressed himself, he seemed to have made up his mind about a certain thing. Taking the beloved meerschaum pipe out of the closet, he laid it in a case and tucked the whole under his arm. “What’s that for?” asked Eric. “She shall smash it to pieces—I cannot.” “Well, I don’t believe Lillian ever will. Make a clean breast of it, old fellow.” “I intend to.” “Then you are safe—she is too gentle not to forgive, and I expect to see you soon smoking a cigar on the street like other men.” “No, no, I can’t do that—I would feel like a wretch to ever do that.” “Mark my words, she will insist on it—her scruples must vanish, and I expect she will really enjoy the flavor of a fine cigar soon, when her Joe is at the other end of it.” Joe smiled dismally—he realized that he had business before him that would try his nerves, for as a man he had pride and must now humble himself before the woman he loved! But his mind was made up, and he actually felt already as though a load had been taken from his shoulders—just as the prodigal son, as soon as he decided to return to his father, experienced a new feeling of peace. They left the house and parted at the elevated station, one going up, the other down town. As he reached the platform, the detective suddenly felt a cold shiver go over him at sight of a man. It was Paul Prescott, the artist. There rushed over Eric the memory of that other half of the mystery, and he groaned—this time his sympathy was with Joe and not his wife. CHAPTER XI ALL IS FORGIVEN Joe Leslie never felt so mean in all his life as when he approached his house up town on this evening. He knew he had been playing a miserable part in deceiving his wife with regard to his smoking, but subterfuge was something generally foreign to Joe’s nature, and this made it seem all the worse to him. Still, he did not sneak along in a cringing way. Never had he walked more uprightly—for he could look people in the face now, at least, and was determined to make a clean breast of it. Lillian was watching from the parlor window, herself hidden from view.