Without a murmur the detective handed over the amount, submitting to be robbed in order to carry out his point. Of course he was disguised. No one would for a moment imagine that this old gentleman was the same athletic individual who had visited Prescott in his studio, and argued with him over a revolver. The clocks were striking seven as he entered the hack and made himself comfortable. Along the wide pavement hundreds were still hurrying, although the swarms from all the great stores had long since passed by. Presently from out the building the artist came. He looked worried, and well he might. When a man sets out to steal another man’s wife he risks a great deal. It must weigh upon his mind, even the personal danger involved, though his conscience be free. Darrell recognized this fact, and did not wonder at the look of anxiety he saw upon the countenance of the artist. The latter looked up and down the street ere catching sight of the hack at the curb. Then a smile came upon his face. He walked up to the driver, spoke a few words, frowned when the other mentioned having another passenger, saw no other vehicle in sight that he could engage, glanced in at the seeming old man, and then, grumbling, entered. “I trust I have not inconvenienced you, sir,” remarked the old gentleman, anxiously. “Not at all, not at all,” replied the artist courteously, though his manner had belied his words. They rumbled along. Block after block was left behind. It is a long distance from Fourteenth Street up to the point where they were bound, and when half an hour had gone by they had not yet reached their destination. Indeed, it was not far from eight o’clock when the driver pulled up at the corner. The old gentleman got out slowly. He bade his traveling companion good night and turning walked away, his cane beating a lively tattoo upon the stone pavement. Darrell was satisfied with his investment thus far—he had been carried up town, had seen the artist well upon his way, and knew both driver and vehicle by sight. There could not very well be any mistake after this—he believed things were well laid out, and that all they needed was a chance to execute their plan. He again changed his looks, so that in case the artist saw him he would not realize that he had met him before. With the facilities at his command it was not a difficult thing for him to do this, and by means of a few deft turns he completely altered his character, and might defy recognition, even were keener eyes concerned than those of Paul Prescott, the artist. When this had been done Darrell walked up the avenue, and soon came to the corner where, as he expected, he found the vehicle. Prescott was not in sight. Some two hours must elapse before the time arranged would pass. The driver had also vanished, no doubt being in a liquor store near by, where he could wet his whistle, lounge at his ease and watch his team at the same time.