Even if Lillian was guilty he might through some work, skillfully arranged, so manage it that the disturbing element should be removed, and their lives flow on smoothly again. This was his highest hope. That he would find Lillian innocent had ceased to enter into his calculations. He only hoped for a half way victory. It was noon when he went out, and stopping in a restaurant he had dinner. His plan was arranged. If he could effect a meeting with the artist, the worst would soon be known, and he would also discover what sort of man Prescott was. He knew where the latter had his studio, and presently was bound for Fourteenth Street to interview the artist. What would come of that interview no one could tell, but Eric hoped for a favorable issue. At any rate he did not think his case would be destroyed by what he was now about to undertake. At half past one he entered the building where Paul Prescott had his studio. A few minutes later he stood at the door and gave a loud knock. CHAPTER XVII THE ARTIST IS DEFIANT “Come in!” said a voice. Eric opened the door. An odor of tobacco greeted him. Prescott, in his studio dress, was before a painting, putting some touches here and there. So interested was he that he did not turn his head when the door closed. Darrell looked at the painting and was charmed—it was a glimpse of the Delaware Water Gap, and so true to nature that one could almost believe he was on the spot. Finally the artist stepped back a pace. “There! that is done. I beg your pardon—” and he wheeled around. As he saw who his visitor was he uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Ah! you, Mr.—Mr.—” “Darrell.” “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Darrell?” Evidently he was inclined to be a little suspicious of the man who had had that letter in his possession. At the same time his curiosity was aroused. Eric saw this. He was ready to take advantage of it. Coolly seating himself he said: “Mr. Prescott, I have called to see you in reference to that paper which you received from my hands this morning.” “Ah! indeed,” with a frown. Not at all dismayed the detective went on: “I believe you claimed it as your property?” “I did—have you any reason to doubt my word?” “Not at all, sir. If it was your property, then the letter must have been addressed to you.” “It was.” “Mr. Prescott, you are looked upon in society as an honorable man—your name has never yet been tarnished. As a friend I beg of you to pause ere you cross the Rubicon.” “What’s all this about? It seems to me you are interesting yourself in a business that does not concern you in the least,” coldly. “That is where you are mistaken, sir—it does interest me greatly.” “In what way?” “I know the lady who wrote that note.” The artist shrugged his shoulders. “Well?” Eric was somewhat surprised. He had expected that the man would show signs of consternation. On the contrary he maintained his self-possession, and even smiled.