It was too early yet to start to theorize. By the detective’s side on the platform of the car Darwin stood, entirely unconscious that the man whom he had paid Brockey to kill was near him. When the car reached Thirty-first Street, Darwin jumped off, lighted a cigar, and strolled leisurely down the block, turning into Sixth Avenue. Carter was not far behind him. “I’m going to find out more about you, my lad,” the detective thought, as he followed Darwin into a crowded dance hall. It was nearly midnight, and the place was filled with men and women. A band was playing a popular waltz, and the floor was crowded with dancers. Loud laughter and shouts of maudlin mirth were heard on all sides. Darwin halted near the entrance, and cast his eyes over the dancers. “He’s looking for some one,” Carter mentally commented, as he noted his every action. Darwin, at that moment, started up the stairway leading to the gallery. The detective followed close behind him. In the gallery, ranged along the railing, were small tables, at which merry parties of men about town and tenderloiners were seated, drinking. The women were flashily and expensively dressed, and many of them were adorned with valuable jewelry. Darwin, as soon as he reached the gallery, looked searchingly around. Suddenly he started across the rear, and reached a table at the opposite side of which a young woman was sitting alone. The woman looked at him, and nodded coldly as he drew up a chair beside her. Carter had also crossed the gallery, and he stood within a few feet of the table. “What is the matter with you, Dora?” asked Richard Darwin, as he sat down and ordered a waiter to fetch a bottle of champagne. “You know well enough what is the matter,” Dora snappishly replied. “What’s the use of you trying to feign ignorance?” “You look real sweet when you talk in that way.” “How dare you!” Dora’s fine eyes flashed. She turned around in her chair, faced Darwin, and glared at him. One could see that she was not in an amiable mood. She was angry about something. Her face was flushed, and she raised her hand, as if she would have liked to have struck her companion in the face. “Here’s the wine,” Darwin exclaimed, with a forced laugh, as the waiter placed the bottle and glasses on the table. “Drink some, and see if it won’t put you in a good humor.” “I want none of your wine,” Dora retorted. “Keep it for your----” “Yes, you do.” “I won’t touch it. You and I are quits from this night forth.” “Phew!” “Probably you think I don’t mean it?” “You _don’t_ mean it, my dear girl. Drink your wine.” “I want no wine that you have paid for. I want nothing from a man who will deceive me.” “I haven’t deceived you, Dora. Indeed, I haven’t. I don’t understand what you mean.” “You scoundrel!” The conversation was carried on in low tones, but it was exciting and intense. Dora leaned back in her chair, as she called Darwin a scoundrel, and she looked him squarely in the eyes.