THE MAN DRESSED AS A BULL FIGHTER
When Eric Darrell left the little grocery on the corner, it was with a
bad feeling at his heart.
It seemed as though a cold, clammy hand had suddenly come in contact with
that member of his anatomy, and chilled it.
Could this thing be?
If Joe Leslie turned out to be that moral leper, a bigamist, Darrell
believed he would never put any trust in human nature again.
Did it not look like it?
Nothing was lacking.
Good heavens! even the names were almost alike—Leslie and Lester.
He was horrified—dazed—dumfounded.
Then his teeth came together with a snap, and he swore he would solve
this mystery—the man might be living two lives—others had done it
before—perhaps many in New York are doing it to-day.
In his time Darrell had met with just such cases as this, and he believed
his experience justified him in solving the puzzle.
So her husband was in California.
It was a likely story.
California must be very near by if he could drop in six times a week.
He passed the house again and found that there were still no signs of
light.
Evidently those who lived there, perhaps enjoying the luxuries of the
season, knew how to hide their light under a bushel.
Darrell remembered what Joe had said—he had long since despaired of
renting the house, and probably did not try very hard.
Then again about his income—no wonder he did not know how he stood if he
had to keep two separate establishments running.
They might do that economically out in Salt Lake City among the Mormons
but it is quite an expensive luxury in New York.
So the detective made his way down to Twenty-third Street and entering a
dairy kitchen where a thousand were being served to the music of an
orchestra, had his dinner.
He took his time over it, read the evening paper, and when he finally
passed out it was well on to eight o’clock.
Then he smoked a cigar and watched the passers by for half an hour more.
Then he sauntered away.
At nine o’clock he found himself one of a little crowd gathered at the
door of a hall.
A masquerade was to take place here, and as carriage after carriage drove
up, depositing nymphs and devils, cavaliers and knights, upon the
pavement, the crowd laughed in a good-natured way.
Some of the rougher element might have indulged in jeers or remarks that
would have brought on trouble, but for their fear of the law, which was
represented by two stalwart policemen, armed with their long night sticks
which are a dread to the heathen of the slums.
Darrell was interested too, and stood with the rest, looking on.
While thus engaged, a gentleman and lady left a hack and walked toward
the entrance.
He represented a Spanish bull fighter, and with his splendid figure made
a remarkably good _matador_, while his companion, as a lady of cards,
caused a ripple of admiration among the lookers-on.
Both were fully masked, and, having wraps over their costumes, only a
portion of the latter were seen; but it was evident that the lady was
possessed of a lovely figure, her arms were rounded and perfect, while
her neck, glimpses of which could be seen, was dazzlingly white, and
royally built.
Darrell looked at her with interest.
Then his eyes fell on her escort.
He started.
Surely that figure was owned by none other than Joe Leslie.
What was he doing at the ball?
Was this his wife?
Of course it must be—the figure and beautiful neck corresponded with what
Darrell remembered of Mrs. Leslie.
Still, he could not help but think it odd, even at that brief moment, for
Joe to bring his lovely wife here to this ball.
True, it was a respectable affair, and many good people attended it, but
none of the first families in New York would dream of being seen at the
public masquerade—at least if they came they went away without unmasking.
As the couple passed him he could not resist saying aloud:
“Hallo! Joe!”
The man seemed to start, and muttered something to his companion, at
which she laughed, but he did not look around to see who had spoken.
Others were following them.
Darrell stood a while longer, and then left the scene.
Somehow or other he was troubled—he knew not exactly why.
If that was Lillian with her husband, it was all well and good—although
surprised at Joe taking his wife to such a carnival, so long as her
husband was with her it was all right.
But was it Lillian?
This thought kept crowding into his brain. He could not expel it.
After a little he became angry with himself for brooding over the matter
so.
“Hang it, I can settle the matter easily,” he muttered, as he found
himself at the foot of the stairs leading to the elevated station.
So up he ran.
It was not a great while later when he found himself walking along the
street on which the Leslies lived.
He had never seen their house before, but having the number speedily
found it.
Of course it was one of a row. How neat and clean everything looked up
in this region when compared with the neighborhood of the Twenty-seventh
Street house.
His sympathies naturally ran in favor of Lillian—he seemed to believe she
was the more innocent of Joe’s dupes—provided the case was really as bad
as it seemed.
Making sure he had the right number, as the houses were built pretty much
alike, he ran up the steps and pulled the bell.
A minute later a girl came to the door. “I wish to see Mr. Leslie.”
“He is out, sir.”
“Ah!”
Darrell’s suspicions took firmer ground.
The girl held the door open a crack, as though it were secured by a chain
bolt.
“Mrs. Leslie will do—can I see her?”
He almost held his breath waiting for the answer—it seemed as though the
fate of a seemingly happy household depended upon it—whether Joe Leslie
were saint or sinner.
“Mrs. Leslie is in—what name, please?”
“You may say—stay, here is my card,” believing the girl would have no
chance to read it on the way.
He handed her a calling card which simply bore his name.
In a minute she came back.
“Mrs. Leslie will see you, sir.”
The door opened.
Eric Darrell found himself under the roof of Joe Leslie’s little “bird’s
nest,” as the latter was fond of styling it.
Everything around him showed evidences of good taste and plenty of money.
Poor bachelor Eric heaved a sigh as he noted the comfortable air of the
cozy house.
“What a fool,” he muttered, “but some men never know when they’re well
off. With a wife and a home like his, Joe ought to be the happiest man
in New York. Seems to me these things generally go to the ones least
capable of appreciating them.”
By this time the philosopher, in following the servant along the hall,
came to the open library door, through which she motioned him to enter.
He did so.
Here his old bachelor soul was worse rattled than ever—such a dream of
bliss may have come to him over his post-prandial cigar, but he had never
believed it could be realized to a human being here below.
The soft lights, the cases of books, the cheery fire in the large grate,
and, chief of all, the pretty little lady seated at the table engaged in
some delicate fancy work—it all took poor Eric’s breath away.
He had sense enough to walk up and shake hands.
“You see the plight I am in—you will forgive my not rising, Mr. Darrell,”
she said, referring to her lap full of silk threads and such odds and
ends.
“Certainly, Mrs. Leslie, don’t move, I beg. I will find a seat near by,”
he returned.
She was looking at him eagerly.
“Mr. Darrell, it is not accident that brings you up here to-night?” she
said, and there was a question in her eyes as well as in her voice.
He cannot get out of this.
“I came on a little business.”
“You asked to see Mr. Leslie?”
“In reality I expected to see you.”
“Ah! you have already solved our terrible mystery—tell me the worst—does
Joe visit that awful house to play cards?”
It is hard work dealing with a woman—she is apt to ask so many questions
and demand an answer—then, if important facts are told her she may in a
fit of pique or anger disclose them to the very one who should not know.
Darrell knows all this.
He understands how to manage the gentler sex, and in the present instance
does not mean to tell one whit more than is necessary.
“I am sorry to say, Mrs. Leslie, that the case is not yet closed—indeed,
the complications are growing more serious—but,” as he observes the look
of pain on her sweet face, “I expect and hope to soon clear it all up.”
“Heaven grant it,” she replied.
Luckily Lillian had considerable reserve force in her nature, and now
that this was brought into play, she gave promise of rising to meet the
exigencies of the occasion.
Darrell admired her courage.
He found it harder to believe evil of her than he did of Joe, for he had
great respect for the gentler sex, and believed all men had a good share
of the old Adam in them—some fought the good fight and conquered—others
lay down their arms and surrendered, while many ran to meet the evil half
way, so misshapen were their souls.
Alone, when speculating upon this strange double case, he might figure
out this thing or that by force of logic; but when looking upon that
truthful, lovely face, and into those calm eyes, he was ready to exclaim:
“Shame upon you, Eric Darrell, for ever even thinking this little woman
and wrong could have anything in common. She’s an angel if ever there
was one on earth, and I hope her sister is built upon the same pattern.”
“Where is Joe?” he asked, suddenly.
“You haven’t seen him then?”
“I—no, indeed, not to speak to since he was in my office this afternoon.”
“I—thought he had gone to you—he spoke your name in connection with the
matter.”
“What matter, may I ask?”
“The sad affair that took him from me to-night.”
Sad affair!
As Darrell saw again in imagination the gay surroundings of the hall
where the grand _bal masque_ was being held, he ground his teeth in
silent rage, but knowing that a pair of sharp eyes were upon him he did
not allow his fury to find a vent.
“Indeed! I am just as much in the dark as ever, Mrs. Leslie—enlighten
me.”
“I presume it’s the same sad business he went to see you about to-day.”
Darrell thought not.
“You know he has a young clerk and cashier in his employ, Georgie
Kingsley, of whom Joe is very fond. Of late he has been led to believe
the boy is getting a little wild—reports have been reaching Joe of little
things, showing that Georgie is keeping bad company, and gambling. I
know this has worried Joe of late.”
Darrell thought something else might be giving him a nervous spell too—no
man can live a double life except at a great mental strain, for the risk
of sudden exposure must be terrible.
“So he’s gone to try and save poor Georgie to-night, has he?
Noble-hearted old Joe.”
She could not help but catch something of the sneer under his words, and
trembled as she realized that the detective had grave doubts.
“He said he would probably go to your room and get your company.”
“He changed his mind, no doubt,” muttered the detective—indignation was
apt to make him tell more than discretion warranted.
“What do you mean—you know something that you do not want to tell me. I
insist on your speaking. Have you seen my husband?”
“I believe I have.”
“Where was it?”
“Entering the hall where a _bal masque_ was being held—quite a large
affair.”
“Alone?” breathlessly.
“No—with a lady. Good heavens! Mrs. Leslie, take it calmly, I beg of
you!”