Even this did not reassure Darrell—he was a little skeptical with regard to such a man, being inclined to reflect that still water runs deep. His daily business brought him in contact with so much of the evil of life that he had a rather poor opinion of mankind in general—though ready to bow before woman’s goodness, even after having had experience with numerous confidence women and others, who were more difficult to manage than male criminals. For instance, here was a case in point—a confiding, loving wife—a cruel, deceiving husband. “I understand, madam. How long have these strange visits been going on?” “I do not know.” “How long have you been aware of them?” “For two weeks. By accident I discovered that Joe was in the habit of leaving his office at half-past four, and he never reaches home until an hour and a half later. “Even this did not do more than pique me a little to think he dallied so long, when he should have hurried home to me—but three days later, again by accident, I saw him enter a house on Twenty-seventh Street. “At first I could not believe my eyes and I felt as though I would swoon. It was just five o’clock, and he seemed in a dreadful hurry. “What impressed me as being the strangest part of the business, was the fact that he did not ring or even knock on the door, but with a key let himself in as though he belonged there!” Of course—Darrell’s eyebrows went up, but he made no remark—he could see through a millstone with a hole in it. “I don’t know why I hurried home but I did so with a trembling heart. Joe came in at his usual time, and I endeavored to be myself so that he might suspect nothing. “On the next day, however, something impelled me to go to Twenty-seventh Street again. “Opposite to this house was a French restaurant, and about ten minutes to five I entered here and ordered supper, sitting at the window and yet far enough back not to be seen. “It lacked but one minute to five when Joe came down the street from the elevated station, walking very fast, and went in that house. “I sat there until twenty minutes of six, when he came out again, and walked more slowly down the street. “Mr. Darrell, I shall say nothing about my feelings—you can understand them well enough. What I want you to do is to discover who lives in that house, and why Joe Leslie spends the better part of an hour there every day.” “Who—Joe Leslie—good heavens! it can’t be the Joe Leslie I know!” The lady seemed surprised at his words, and swept her veil aside. Then Darrell saw he had made no mistake in believing her to be pretty—she was more than that, really handsome. “My husband is Joseph Gregory Leslie.” “Then he is the man I know—a man whom I have always believed the best of men, liked by every one acquainted with him. It seems incredible that he should be engaged in anything of this character.” “Because you know him, will you refuse to take my case?” she faltered.