“My beloved Paul—I consent at last to your proposition—in flight alone we can be safe. I shall be ready when you come to take me. _He_ will be like a tiger let loose—I know his passion. I believe he would have killed me ere now had he suspected our secret. Carry out your plan—I understand, and am willing to fly from an uncongenial home to the one you will make for me. With love, your own L.” That was all. Heaven knows it was enough. Darrell let the paper drop on the table with a sharp cry of pain. “Poor Joe! poor honest old Joe! You thought you were deceiving your wife past forgiveness because you chose to smoke a pipe in secret, and here she conspires to leave you in the lurch. Joe is the ogre referred to, savage as a tiger. Woman—well, I’ll be hanged if I want to know her sister after all. I never was so deceived in all my life. It is a shame—an accursed shame, and that villain shall pay dearly for it all.” Then he examined the note again, endeavoring to read between the lines. His indignation grew apace. Joe had proven himself pure gold, and he had more confidence in him than ever, but there was something here that needed investigation, and the case looked black for Lillian. The note was signed with an L. However, Darrell, always cautious, was not ready to condemn without a hearing—what he had already seen this night taught him the fallacy of circumstantial evidence. First of all he must secure a scrap of Mrs. Leslie’s handwriting and compare it with that which he held in his hand. That could be done in the morning he had no doubt—it would not prove a formidable task to one of his executive ability. There was an ugly look about the business he did not like, and he was anxious to be at the truth. About eight o’clock, having had his supper, and made certain inquiries that put him into possession of facts he desired to know, Darrell found himself watching for Paul Prescott at the lodgings of the artist. It was the desire of the detective to acquaint himself with some of the customs of the man whom he meant to investigate. This was always his plan when engaged in such a business—he found it paid to size a man up and see what his habits were. When a man was suspected of being a forger, or a check raiser, or a defaulter, Darrell’s very first action was to discover who his usual companions were, where he passed his leisure time, and whether he was addicted to little vices. His secret character always told the story. A young man might be a Sunday-school teacher, and apparently as straight as a die to all outward appearances, but if Darrell on tracking him found that he secretly frequented gambling houses he knew he had his man. What does it avail if the outside of the peach is fair to gaze upon when all is rotten below? So he now desired to learn what this peculiar looking artist really was.