While Eric did not go that far, he believed there were extenuating circumstances connected with the case, and was willing to look upon it all in a most lenient way. Probably he would have acted in a different manner had it been his own wife who was concerned in the affair. That was a matter that brought the business down to mere speculation, and when it reached this point it became unprofitable. When the detective left his friend he had everything arranged. As far as human sight could see beyond, all was ready for the business in hand. Should Paul Prescott attempt to put his little game into practice he would find himself brought up rather suddenly. There was an hour or so of daylight left, and this Eric put to good advantage, as he had a number of little things to do. One cannot engage to carry out a scheme like this without many accessories being needed, and the wise man looks for these before the time arrives for their use. Gradually the day gave way to evening. Darrell believed all was arranged. He felt satisfied that before another day came around, Joe’s condition would be changed—this night was the crisis—either his spirits must go down or else rise suddenly. All depended on one person. This was Lillian. To him she was the one object that could affect his future—the lodestone that drew him on. When he had made his preparations and eaten a light supper down town, Eric started for the scene of the coming comedy. He could not pierce the future any more than any other human, and hence knew not whether it would remain such or prove to be a tragedy. Coming events may often cast their shadows before, but there are times when the sun is so nearly in the zenith that this shadow does not amount to very much. Besides, what does a shadow amount to anyhow—it is not tangible, and presents no opportunity for solution. For once at least in his life the detective confessed himself unable to insure the future. He knew certain facts, and that others would coalesce, but what the result would be he did not pretend to be chemist enough to decide. Time alone would tell. That was the physician who could be depended upon to bind up broken hearts, to solve the deepest mysteries and set everything right. Given time, nothing was impossible. As the shades of evening descended, Darrell brought up in the neighborhood of the building on Fourteenth Street where the artist’s studio was located. He was passing slowly by when a hack drove up and stopped at the curb. “Engaged?” he asked the driver. “Sorry, sir, but I am,” returned that worthy. A jehu always hates to lose a fare. “Can’t accommodate me up town?” “Right away?” “Yes.” “Where to?” “About Eighty-fourth and Third Avenue.” The man’s face lighted up—Darrell was answered—he saw a chance of doubling his fare. “I reckon the other’d make no objection. Pay me first, and I’ll tell him I was taken by you.” “How much?” “One, fifty.”