THAT MEERSCHAUM PIPE
In his time Eric Darrell had seen many strange sights, and experienced
odd sensations; but the spectacle that now presented itself to his
wondering eyes created a feeling within him such as had never yet come
upon him.
He gaped in amazement, scarcely able to believe his senses.
To such a high pitch had his expectations been drawn that he looked for
something of a startling nature.
The shock was tremendous, and yet it rather proceeded from a sudden
revulsion of feeling, than because the scene exceeded his expectations.
There was but one occupant in the small apartment, upon the threshold of
which he stood when the door gave way so unceremoniously.
This was Joe.
He was dressed differently than when Eric had seen him enter the house,
and seemed to have on an old suit of clothes, while a soft hat was drawn
down upon his head.
He lay back in an easy chair, from which he started up in wonder and
alarm as the door was thus burst open.
Darrell noted one thing.
In his hand Joe held a large meerschaum pipe and the white smoke was
curling upward from the end of it in wreaths.
Before him was the conspirator, caught in the act, red-handed.
No wonder Joe turned fiery red.
The inside blind was closed, but the window appeared to be open.
Joe had a lamp lighted—doubtless the gas was turned off from the house,
as it generally is from an empty or unoccupied building—and most men
prefer to see when smoking.
Over Eric Darrell there swept a wave of feeling. All his old regard for
this good-natured giant rushed back to him.
He held Joe’s secret.
Thank heaven it was not more serious.
As for Joe himself, not recognizing the other, he sprang up in a
belligerent way.
“Hello, here! What’s wanted?” he demanded.
“Joe!”
“The deuce take it—who are you?” uneasily.
“Eric.”
That was enough.
Leslie advanced, holding out his hand in a sort of hesitating, shamefaced
way.
“Ah! old man, glad to see you, but I declare I didn’t know you at first.”
“Nor I you, Joe,” calmly.
“That’s so—I do look like a tramp, don’t I?” with a glance at his own
person.
“It wasn’t that, but I was amazed at finding you engaged in such a
business when you declared to me you had quit smoking.”
Joe turned still redder in confusion.
“Darrell, you’re mistaken—I’ve never told a living man that!” he cried.
“What! didn’t you refuse my cigar?”
“Yes.”
“And say—”
“I had quit smoking cigars at the request of my wife. Well, I have, and
not a cigar has passed my lips since that day.”
Eric burst out laughing.
“Ah! Joe, my boy, I see it all. You were unable to keep to the letter
of your promise and you have been maintaining this bachelor’s hall ever
since, where once a day you have crept in to have a good smoke.”
“Eric, what you say is true—I am a slave to the weed, and I dare not
confess it to my wife. She despises such slaves. My ears have tingled
many a time at the sarcastic way in which she referred to such poor
devils, at the same time thanking heaven that she had a husband with
stamina enough to give up the vile habit when he became civilized.”
Joe groaned and looked at his meerschaum pipe with a strange mixture of
disgust and veneration.
He had a sympathetic auditor, for Eric was just as deep in the mud as he
was in the mire, so far as smoking was concerned.
“What you say may be true, Joe, and yet it would be well for you to drop
on your marrowbones at once and confess all to your wife.”
“Good heavens! do you mean it?”
“I do, indeed.”
“But I can’t—she will despise me. I had better make a determined effort
to throw off this wretched habit, even if it kills me.”
“You make a mistake in one thing, old man. I believe your wife, instead
of reproaching you, will throw her arms around your neck and tell you to
smoke after this when you please.”
“Goodness gracious! why should she do this?”
“Because she will be so delighted to discover that it is no worse.”
“No worse—it is as bad as it could be in her estimation. I shall feel
like a criminal,” and the good-natured giant shuddered.
He was not accustomed to deceit.
“Well, you mark my words—she will reproach you less than you believe.”
“You speak in riddles—why should she be delighted to know it is no
worse—why are you here—Heavens alive, man, has she employed you to watch
me—does she already know I am engaged in this shameful deceit?”
He poured these questions out.
Already a light was beginning to shine before his eyes.
The detective smiled.
“Thank your stars, Joe Leslie, that when you face your sweet wife you
have nothing more serious to confess than this fault.”
“What did you suspect—what does she think?” he asked, almost
breathlessly.
“That you were false to her.”
“Darrell, I’d sooner be torn to pieces than be such a wretch,” he
declared, vehemently.
“I believe you now, Joe, but must confess that up to this very hour
things looked black for you.”
“How was that?”
“Circumstances were against you.”
“Tell me all, Eric—everything.”
The detective sees no reason why he should not. He believes in this man
thoroughly now, and would trust him through everything.
So he begins and tells him all.
Joe’s head rests upon his hand—the detective could not see his face, but
he knew how it worked with feeling, and when he described how Lillian was
dreadfully shocked when she heard of the _bal masque_ and Joe’s apparent
presence there, he was not at all surprised to see a large tear drop upon
the arm of the chair.
With tears in his eyes Joe looked up.
“Darrell, you ought to know me better than that. I am not that kind of a
man. My whole life is wrapped up in my wife, and if I should lose her,
either by death or any other means, it would kill me outright.”
“I believe it, Joe, I do indeed.”
Then he finished his story.
Joe was greatly wrought up.
“I shall go to Lillian at once—she shall hear the truth from my lips
first, not yours. Perhaps she will forgive me. If she says the word I
will break my pipe”—with a sort of sob—“and quit the whole infernal
business if it kills me.”
“I can arrange it so that she will beg you to smoke, Joe. Depend upon
it, Lillian has learned that there are evils a thousand times worse than
the one habit to which you are addicted.”
“See here, Eric, you don’t believe this thing of my being at the _bal
masque_?”
“I do not, and yet just see how circumstantial evidence will hang a man.
The chain of evidence was complete. You went out on an apparent quixotic
errand; I saw a man with your figure escort a lady into that place; his
name, singularly enough was Joe, and I heard some one say she was a Mrs.
Lester or something of that kind, while I heard her tell the driver
Twenty-seventh Street.”
“Good heavens!” muttered poor Joe, appalled.
“Worse still, your wife showed me a picture of her sister, at my request.
I pretended to be interested and spoke of your joking me, and my promise
to call when that sister came from California.
“To my horror I heard that man whom I supposed to be you, call that
dark-haired lady at the masquerade by that name.”
“Marian?”
“Yes. You can imagine the awful feelings it aroused within me; the whole
thing seemed so plain that I was appalled. Joe Leslie dropped from the
high place he held in my esteem and at that time I almost hated you.”
“I don’t wonder at it, old fellow, and think all the more of you for it.”
“Later on I became vacillating—several things occurred that broke me up
completely, among others the statement made by your driver.”
“How was that?”
“He declared you were down town all the evening and to prove it stated
that he had talked with an officer I know just at midnight.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“I proved this true, and that aroused my suspicions for the first time.
If you were down town you could not be at the _bal masque_ at the same
minute—for it was a few minutes before midnight that the melee occurred
and the man I thought to be you floored his assailants.”
“I see. I must hunt up this Joe Lester and discover who and what he is.
Perhaps we have been playing the two Dromios again.”
Joe had knocked the ashes from his pipe and locked the treasure up in a
closet in the larger front room, where his clothes were hanging.
The artful villain was wont to change his garments when he entered here,
in order that he might not go home saturated with tobacco smoke.
Eric saw the whole thing plainly.
He felt in exuberant spirits.
So far as Joe was concerned, the whole business had turned out
delightfully.
Just then the detective’s mind did not turn in any other direction.
He forgot all about the other side of the case, and seemed to consider
the matter settled.
Peace would again come upon the disturbed family relations of his friend
Joe, and all be as lovely as of yore.
Of course Lillian would be only too glad to close up the matter by
forgiving her husband.
His sin was not a grievous one, and so great would be her relief at
finding him faithful and true that she would gladly forget it all.
Under these circumstances Darrell watched Joe get into his clothes with
sincere satisfaction.
He had never been more worried over anything than he was with this, and
now that it had all turned out so well, he felt a satisfaction that
seemed to permeate his whole system.
When Joe had dressed himself, he seemed to have made up his mind about a
certain thing.
Taking the beloved meerschaum pipe out of the closet, he laid it in a
case and tucked the whole under his arm.
“What’s that for?” asked Eric.
“She shall smash it to pieces—I cannot.”
“Well, I don’t believe Lillian ever will. Make a clean breast of it, old
fellow.”
“I intend to.”
“Then you are safe—she is too gentle not to forgive, and I expect to see
you soon smoking a cigar on the street like other men.”
“No, no, I can’t do that—I would feel like a wretch to ever do that.”
“Mark my words, she will insist on it—her scruples must vanish, and I
expect she will really enjoy the flavor of a fine cigar soon, when her
Joe is at the other end of it.”
Joe smiled dismally—he realized that he had business before him that
would try his nerves, for as a man he had pride and must now humble
himself before the woman he loved! But his mind was made up, and he
actually felt already as though a load had been taken from his
shoulders—just as the prodigal son, as soon as he decided to return to
his father, experienced a new feeling of peace.
They left the house and parted at the elevated station, one going up, the
other down town.
As he reached the platform, the detective suddenly felt a cold shiver go
over him at sight of a man.
It was Paul Prescott, the artist.
There rushed over Eric the memory of that other half of the mystery, and
he groaned—this time his sympathy was with Joe and not his wife.