Perhaps there was something about Eric that aroused a spirit of animosity in the other; but if so there must also have been that which warned him to be exceedingly careful. He showed signs of anger, and yet dared not raise his hand in open rebellion “What d’ye mean stealing a ride this way?” “Just because I please. Look down here and you’ll see something.” The quarrelsome jehu obeyed. He looked—and wilted. “Jupiter!” This man was not the first who ever felt his courage ooze from his finger ends at sight of a revolver. “Understand me,” said the detective, sternly, “that is for you if you give me any trouble.” “A crazy man escaping—a burglar at large!” “No, sir, a detective running down his game. We understand each other, I hope. I want a ride on your vehicle, and if you give me any trouble I’ll land you in the Tombs double quick as accessory to a murder.” The word was quite enough. It blanched the man’s cheeks and from that time on the detective knew he would not have any trouble with him. The horses were doing their prettiest. To the surprise of the detective, instead of starting down Third Avenue, the course was up it. Evidently then the artist did not mean to go either to his studio or lodgings. He had other plans in view. Now Eric was given a chance to think, and he improved it well. So suddenly had this crisis been sprung upon the detective that he had thus far only acted from impulse. He must shape some sort of plan, in order to yet win the game. Those inside the hack had not the slightest suspicion of his presence. The rattle of the vehicle and their own agitation would prevent their paying any attention to anything happening outside. As the night air was cool, all the openings had the glass in them—this was another point in the detective’s favor. No doubt Paul Prescott was thrilled with the great victory he had won, and believed nothing could keep him from accomplishing the end toward which he had planned so long, little suspecting the danger hovering near. On went the vehicle. Harlem was gained, that new city that has of late years sprung up beside the river, a part of New York, and yet really distinct from it. Darrell had once more become the cool man as of yore, ready to grapple with this burning question, and throttle the hydra headed monster that had crossed the track of Joe Leslie’s wife. He smiled to think what poor Joe must be doing just then—finding Lillian really gone and the detective not on hand. Had he given the whole thing away? Would all his guests know that his wife had deserted him for another? This was a possibility that made Eric grit his teeth and feel angry at the peculiar chance that had cheated him of his prey. If things had only worked as they should, the wheels would have gone along nicely. However, Eric had learned long ago the folly of crying over spilt milk, and when a disaster occurred he generally set about retrieving his fortunes as well as possible.