THE TELL-TALE SCRAP OF PAPER
Darrell had by this time come to the conclusion that he was entering upon
one of the oddest cases in his experience.
He had his sympathies aroused also, and while he generally worked for
conviction, in this instance it would be otherwise, his desire being to
prove the parties innocent.
Presently Leslie went on:
“I pretended to go to my office, but, instead, hovered in the
neighborhood, sometimes in the drug-store on the corner.
“Thus I have discovered that regularly every morning at ten o’clock,
Saturday omitted, this fine-looking foreign gentleman enters my house,
and the door closes behind him.
“At eleven he appears again—it is always my wife who lets him in and sees
him to the door.
“Eric, this thing is killing me—sooner than believe Lillian could be
false to me I would discredit my own mother; and yet here is something
very, very strange—something that must be explained before my peace of
mind comes back to me again. In a few words, I want you to find out who
this man is, and why he calls to see my wife invariably at ten o’clock
when I am supposed to be down-town money-making, and why she has never
breathed one syllable of all this to me.”
“I will do it, Joe, for old friendship’s sake, and I most heartily pray
it may turn out all right.”
“Oh! I haven’t any doubt of that. My dear fellow, don’t imagine for an
instant that I suspect my wife of anything wrong, but—well, you see—hang
it, Eric, I must know the truth, and if my thoughts have wronged Lillian
I shall go down on my knees before the little woman.”
On his part, Mr. Darrell had, while Joe was speaking, conceived a sudden
idea that would possibly explain the matter.
He did not mention it, because the explanation hinged upon his other
client’s case, but he kept it in mind all the same.
It was to this effect:
Perhaps Lillian had sought the advice of some other detective before
coming to him, and it was this party calling at a certain hour every day
to deliver his report, whom Joe had seen.
Possibly little or no progress had been made, and hence she had finally
determined to change, just as a patient, becoming dissatisfied with his
doctor, calls in another physician.
Luck alone had brought her to his office—perhaps it was the sweet little
cherub that watches over the affairs of lovers.
At any rate it was a piece of good fortune for all parties concerned.
He proceeded to question Joe, desiring to learn all he could of the case.
“You say you had never seen the gentleman before?”
“Never.”
“Not in your wife’s album?”
“You mean that he might be one of her old beaux—no, not even there. He
is a stranger to me.”
“But if you met him you would know him?”
“Well, rather.”
“Can you describe him to me?”
“I can do better—show you a picture of him just as he leaves my front
door.” With that he held out a card, upon which was a round photograph,
or rather picture, which Eric saw had been taken with a Kodak camera,
just coming into general use at that time.
The scene was a door-step with a number over the door—a man was
descending—the lower part of his body could not be seen, but his body and
head were well taken. He carried something under his arm like a flat
book.
Eric Darrell studied the face as well as he could upon such a small
surface—he wanted to know it again.
Then he looked further.
Just above, a lady stood outside the door, as if seeing the gentleman
depart. It was Lillian Leslie without a doubt.
“How in the deuce did you get this?” he asked in some surprise, “it’s as
clever a piece of business as I know of.”
“I hired a young fellow to do it for me. He took this man several times
afterward. See, there is one that shows his face better, because there
is little else—it was taken close.”
Darrell examined this picture also.
“Seems to me I’ve seen this man on the street or somewhere—I can’t just
place him though,” he muttered.
“Is there anything more you wish to tell me, Joe,” he asked aloud.
“Unfortunately—yes.”
“Proceed.”
“It seemed as though fate had been pleased to conspire against my peace
of mind. I picked up a piece of paper from the floor to toss into the
grate in the library when certain words caught my eye, and instead I put
it in my pocket.”
“When was this?”
“Last evening.”
“Have you the paper still?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see it, if you have no objection.”
“Certainly not. I want everything to be placed before you now.”
“Everything but your own secret,” thought the detective, as he took the
paper.
It was evidently a portion of a torn note and had been twisted around.
Darrell smoothed it flat and then read in a woman’s fine chirography:
“—we will hope for the best. At any rate, fair Lillian, your secret
shall never be betrayed by your sincere friend, BARBARA.
“P.S. Be sure and burn this. B.”
“What do you think of that?” asked Joe. “It has a peculiar look. One
thing is certain—Lillian made a mistake—she did not burn it up.”
“But tore it to pieces instead.”
“You found it in your library?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a waste paper basket there?”
“Yes, but we throw papers in the grate and when they accumulate touch a
match to them.”
“Perhaps you might find the balance of this letter.”
“In the grate?”
“Yes.”
“That would be impossible.”
“Why so?”
“Unfortunately, one of the first things I did upon arriving home
yesterday evening was to apply a match to the papers in the grate, and
they have all been consumed.”
Eric shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s hard luck, I take it, but men of my line never cry over spilt
milk. What’s the use? Now, regarding this scrap—it is signed Barbara.
Have you any idea who the author is?”
“Yes, certainly—a young married lady who lives back of us. I have always
entertained much respect for Mrs. Goodwin, and am surprised to think she
would enter into a conspiracy with Lillian to deceive me.”
The detective hardly knew what to think.
Here was a man whom he had known and considered a first-rate fellow in
the past, grieving over the fact that his wife was keeping something from
him, when, all the time, he was nursing a secret within his guilty heart.
What was Darrell to make of it?
Those who live in glass houses should be careful how they throw stones.
“It’s pretty hard, Joe, I admit, but when it comes to secrets, who among
us is above reproach?”
“Eh?”
Joe Leslie seems to color up in a manner altogether unnecessary.
“You, for instance, old man—I warrant you do lots of little things that
you would hardly care for your wife to know. But”—seeing the other’s
evident confusion—“let that pass. I will undertake to clear up this
mystery for you, Joe, as speedily as possible.”
“What shall I do?”
“Try and act as though your suspicions were not aroused—do everything
just as you would under ordinary circumstances. Even treat this false
friend Barbara warmly—anything but to give our game away in the start.”
“I presume I can go on in the same old rut, provided it is not for long.”
“I’ll promise you that the whole thing will soon be cleared up. There is
a screw loose somewhere, and I’m going to find it.”
Again Joe blushed at the emphasis laid on that word, though Eric was not
looking at him, and it did not seem as though he meant any personal
reflection.
A guilty conscience, Darrell concluded, needs no accuser, and this man
feels the finger of suspicion pointed at him, though he cannot tell from
whom it comes.
Used to reading human nature, the detective knows guilt when he sees it.
Although he refrains from making any remark upon the subject, he is in
reality quite out o£ patience with his friend who has thus early betrayed
his trust—he could never have believed it of Joe Leslie—he ought to be
ashamed of himself, doing anything to make such a sweet woman unhappy,
and if it turns out to be so the detective is determined that he shall
eat the husks of remorse, drinking the bitter cup to the very dregs.
“Let me keep these, Joe?” holding up the pictures and the scrap of paper.
“Certainly, and I most earnestly pray they may be the means of proving
Lillian’s innocence. My life will be wrecked if she proves false.”
He did not seem to think of what a position his own secret action placed
him in.
“We will hope for the best, Joe.”
“Whatever you discover must be a secret between myself and you. I shall
in my own way decide what must be done.”
Darrell looked at his face while he spoke. He found nothing vindictive
there—instead, he saw a look of deep pain.
To himself he thought:
“If I had done anything wrong, I would like to be tried by a judge like
Joe Leslie—he would be merciful. If his wife has erred, he is not the
man to shoot her down—he would fight like a tiger in her defense—but I
believe under such painful circumstances Joe would cry like a baby—and
forgive her.”
That was his estimate of the man he had known so long—he forgot just then
that Joe was also under a cloud, and that there was something in his life
that needed the calcium light of an investigation thrown upon it.
Thus the detective’s opinion went up and down like a shuttle-cock—he
hardly knew how to take this good-natured giant.
The latter was plainly ill at ease, and having said all he desired,
picked up his hat to go.
“Sure you won’t smoke, Joe?”
Another wistful glance and a shake of the head.
“I promised Lillian I would never smoke another cigar until she gave me
voluntary permission; and as she hates tobacco smoke I presume I must
keep my promise always. That is one of the little penalties a man
sometimes has to pay when he captures a darling. You can’t have your
pudding and eat it too—so some of our bachelor freedom must go.”
“Well, the chains are golden ones, forged by love, and if ever I meet a
little woman like your wife, by Jove! I’ll be tempted to have her forge
some.”
“You talk as though Lillian and you were old friends. You must meet her,
Eric—I’ll be proud to have you know her—when this thing is settled.”
“All right, my boy, I’ll keep you to your word. Perhaps she may have a
sister, you see.”
“She has that, and very much like Lillian.”
“Consider the thing fixed and invite me when her sister is on from
Chicago.”
“I certainly will—what did I do with my hat—ah, here it is on the desk—I
will see you again to-morrow, Eric—”
He ceased talking in the middle of a sentence, bent his head down, for
the light was gradually fading in the detective’s office, and then
turning suddenly, said:
“Hello! Darrell, old man, where did you get that—who’s been writing down
the number of my Twenty-seventh Street house?”
Darrell had forgotten to remove the paper upon which Lillian had written
the address, with her gloves on, and Joe Leslie now held it in his hand.