Woman-like she was interested, and declared she loved him better because of the mercy he had shown for the boy. Then Lillian retired. Joe sat there a long time thinking. Finally he got up and went over to the closet as if to effect an entrance, trying several of the keys on his bunch but with no success. Then he walked up and down. At times he was dejected and again his face seemed to speak of sudden passion. Human nature is a strange thing. A man enters an omnibus and frowns to hear the growls of those comfortably settled as they make room for him—presently another comes in, and his growls at being forced to squeeze into a smaller compass exceed the rest. Joe, upstairs, discovered the missing key on the dainty dresser of his wife’s room—he took it in his hand, started for the door, stopped, made an impatient gesture, and returned the key to the place where he found it. “Suspect her—never,” he muttered, and yet at the very moment his feelings had gotten beyond his control—it was pride that kept him from venturing to pry into her secret and discover what lay hidden in the library closet. Thus Joe had won and lost a victory. CHAPTER XII THE OPIUM JOINT Eric Darrell watched the man whom he had thus met on the platform of the elevated station. He wondered what magical power Paul Prescott possessed over Joe Leslie’s wife. The man was odd looking, as a genius is ever supposed to be, but there was nothing about him to indicate that he might be a masher or a heart-breaker. Darrell looked him over, taking a mental measurement of the man, as he had a dim idea the time might be near at hand when they would be on opposite sides. The other left the train. Darrell followed him. Presently he saw a woman join the artist and hand him a note, which he seemed to read with great eagerness, then he hurried off. The keen eyes of the detective had noted something of extreme importance. When Prescott believed he put the note away in his pocket, in reality it fluttered down to the pavement as he hastened away. In just five seconds by the watch it was in the possession of Eric Darrell. He then continued on his way to his rooms. Reaching his den he changed his appearance, and appeared in his natural figure. Then he took out the paper just found and eagerly scrutinized it; not that he was particularly interested in the secrets of Paul Prescott, but the artist had crossed his path, and hence all that he did should be scrutinized. As he suspected, the writing was in a lady’s chirography—so many ladies write alike, as though taught by a certain school, that individuality is lost. This is what the detective read, and it opened his eyes in an astonishing manner: