He had not supposed the artist would have a friend awaiting him here—generally when a man runs off with another’s wife he desires to shun society of all sort. There was reason enough for this, which made the action of the transgressor the more peculiar. He wondered whether there was not something about this whole affair that he did not understand. Later, he found out that this was so—that a man may see all the surface indications and yet not get at the real facts in the case. He waited in his concealment for a while, and then made up his mind to push matters. Why should he not appear before Paul Prescott and boldly announce his intention of wresting from his power the victim of his spell? There was nothing to prevent him. He made his way toward the door that led from the hall into the room, which as he afterward discovered was the library. A _portiere_ hung there in place of the door, and a more excellent opportunity for hiding and spying could not well have been offered. Behind this he could find a small opening and thus see without being seen. When he looked into the room he found there were but two men there. One of these was Prescott—the other a small man of severe countenance. The first thought of the detective was that the latter had a clerical look—his clothes seemed on the order of a clergyman, white tie and all. Then he concluded that he must be mistaken. Surely, a minister would be the last one in all the world whom Prescott would desire to have here. This must be some friend whom he had asked to greet them at the cottage in order to encourage Lillian. The men were laughing. Prescott seemed in unusual spirits. Perhaps he had been imbibing—when a man in his sober senses commits such a sin against society and his Maker he must, generally, fortify himself with some ardent spirits. At any rate he had the appearance of a man who was quite satisfied with himself. The world had abused him, in some respects, but to-night he was in a humor to bid the whole universe defiance. Success had come to him—the best he had ever dreamed of was now at his hand. Others before Paul Prescott had believed themselves on the pinnacle of hope and power, only to find it all a dream and an illusion. So Darrell reflected as he watched the man whom he meant to speedily humble. While the two were yet talking, a door in the back part of the library opened. Through this came three females. The first one was very like Prescott—indeed, it was easy for the detective to determine that she must be the artist’s sister. After her came a sedate woman, neatly dressed, with her hair parted and brushed straight back on either side—a model of a housekeeper. There was one more. At sight of her Eric started, and an exclamation bubbled to his lips.