A TERRIBLE DOOM
Before Eric Darrell had been in the place ten minutes he made a discovery
that had a strong bearing on the case.
This was in reference to the artist.
Paul Prescott had shown all the signs of an opium smoker’s eagerness to
have a draw at the subtle drug when he came in.
Nevertheless, Eric had already decided that much of this was assumed.
His own experience showed how such a thing could be; hence, he believed
another might copy the same signs of distress with equal success.
Then Prescott had a reason for coming here other than the desire to
smoke.
What could it be?
Darrell had eyes, and he was able to form conclusions very speedily.
He knew that the presence of the dark-veiled woman in the bunk adjoining
that taken by the artist, was what had drawn him.
Circumstances pointed to this fact—their heads were close together, one
resting upon the right, the other upon the left side.
The detective’s thoughts were busy.
He remembered the note.
Could this veiled creature be the party signing that missive?
According to the conclusions he had already drawn this could not be so,
for he had made up his mind that the writer must be Lillian, and only
waited to prove this fact.
Who then was the veiled lady?
Bah! such a man as Paul Prescott might be engaged in half a dozen little
love affairs at one and the same time.
He would finally abandon all the rest for the charmer who held his fickle
heart most heavily chained, or else whose bank account was the most
promising.
To a man of Darrell’s steadiness of purpose, there was something almost
revolting about such a character as this, and yet he found certain things
to study in the artist’s face—points that rather puzzled him when
scrutinized.
The man was worthy of being analyzed. There might be more to him than
even appeared upon the surface.
Darrell was wide awake, although he pretended to be already under the
magic influence.
He was soothed by the odor of the opium, without giving way to it, and
watched the couple across the way.
The hanging curtains partly concealed him, and he was sure a note passed
from one to the other. If the girl thus heavily veiled was in the charge
of the widow, the latter did not seem in a condition to watch over her
ward, for she had given herself up wholly to her dreams.
In the silence of this den of human misery, where each victim was bound
to his neighbor by the same chains that made him a slave, a long stride
was taken on this night toward the oblivion of death.
Strange scenes sometimes occur in these places, and one was on the tapis
for this night.
So interested had the detective been in watching the couple opposite,
that he seldom glanced at any of the others.
By mere chance his eyes alighted upon the second veiled woman, and at the
same moment he saw that something was wrong.
She had swept her veil aside, and the light revealed a face at once
handsome and dissipated—she had been a beauty earlier in life.
Just now this face was distorted. Pain racked it.
Eric Darrell saw the awful hand of death there—he knew the wretched woman
must have some heart trouble which was aggravated by the opium, and that
she was dying.
He beckoned to the Yankee who represented the American side of the firm.
Then he pointed to the struggling woman. The other sprang to her.
There was a gasp and all was over—death had come to her in the opium den.
By this time Eric was out on the floor, and it was well he happened to be
there, for the man showed the white feather at once, fearing lest a thing
of this kind would ruin his business.
Luckily a strong hand was at the helm.
The orders Eric gave were obeyed—no one was allowed to leave the place.
Most of those present manifested no interest in the game—their minds were
wholly taken up with heavenly visions—death might come and go without
their notice.
Eric knew what must be done.
The woman was elegantly dressed—she was no doubt the wife of a wealthy
citizen, and if it were known that she had expired in this fashionable
opium joint the shame would be terrible. He aroused the widow.
The other veiled lady was trembling, having gained her feet, but she
would answer no questions, only sob and wring her hands, while the artist
pretended not to notice any one, though eagerly taking it all in.
When the dashing widow was brought out of her dreams and made to realize
the truth, she too seemed overwhelmed.
Eric took hold of her.
His strong mind controlled hers, and he soon made her see how essential
it was that this awful business be kept a dead secret.
She must confide in him, giving the name and address of the deceased—he
would then see that the body was taken there unknown to a living soul
save the driver, and the secret would be locked in the breast of her
husband.
The world she moved in would attend her funeral, and never dream that she
had died in any other place than at home.
This gave the widow hope.
She whispered the lady’s name and residence to the detective, who wrote
them down.
He was surprised to discover that her husband was a prominent business
man down town.
It was an awful business, but he managed it with great circumspection—the
body was placed in a hack, and the driver did not know but what she was
merely sick.
Eric had also discovered the name and address of the other veiled
lady—the widow had given it upon his assurance of good faith. It was
Mrs. Collingwood. Her address was Lexington Avenue.
Darrell’s actions were right to the point in a business light.
His main desire was to save the poor husband all the shame and
mortification possible.
Leaving the hack at the curb he was presently in the presence of the
gentleman, to whom he broke the awful news as gently as possible.
At first the other was dreadfully shocked, but upon learning what bold
measures the detective had taken to conceal the actual facts, he
overwhelmed the other with thanks.
Between them they got the body into the house, Darrell speaking to the
supposed sick lady in a reassuring way.
The driver was heavily feed and cautioned to hold his tongue under any
and all circumstances. Darrell assisted the stricken husband to get his
dead up into her room.
Then in the library he heard the full particulars from the detective.
Afterwards, he insisted on telling his story—how his once lovely and
affectionate wife had secretly taken to the deadly drug from injections
given to make her sleep during a spell of sickness. The harrowing tale
has been often repeated in such a city as New York—her power of
resistance became less and less strong, until he could do nothing with
her.
Knowing that she had heart trouble he had been expecting such a
catastrophe, but nevertheless, it had fallen with crushing force.
He was greatly indebted to the detective for his assistance—it was
possible that the real facts might be covered up, and with the help of
his family physician the death be given as simply one from heart disease.
When Eric felt the gentleman’s grasp at parting, and saw the tears upon
his sad face, he knew that his visit to the opium joint had not been
without its reward, since he was enabled to bring deep satisfaction to
this soul long harrowed by the fear of such a catastrophe.
Meanwhile, he had the address of the veiled woman with whom the artist
had been in communication at the opium joint.
At his leisure on the morrow he could look her up and learn all there was
connected with his case.
Such a scene as the one thus briefly described has occurred at an opium
den in the great metropolis—who the ill-fated lady was no one knew, at
least the facts were never made public, and only a few guessed the truth
by watching the death column in the dailies.
The opium habit gains strength slowly in our midst, but there are more
people slaves to the vice than the public suspects.
Knowing the joint would in all probability be closed for the remainder of
the night, Eric made no attempt to go there but sought his apartments to
rest.
The committee appointed to examine into the strange case of Leslie vs.
Leslie could report progress.
On the morrow the work would be resumed, and a long stride taken toward
the end.
This man had a wonderful power over his mind, and could control it at
will. When he was ready to sleep he dismissed all thought and secured
solid rest, so that when he woke up his mind was as clear as a bell. To
such a fact he owed much of his success.
With the morning he was up and out.
It was a fair day, and Eric hoped he might look upon this as an emblem of
luck—that his case might prove as clear.
His first thought was to get some specimen of Mrs. Leslie’s writing.
To do this he must visit the house but waited until Joe would probably be
on his way down to his business.
Then he went to the dwelling up town.
He asked to see Mrs. Leslie and was shown in. Being left alone for a
short time he glanced around as if in hope of seeing an opportunity to
carry out his design.
A desk caught his eye—if he only had the opportunity to look through it
he felt sure he could find what he wanted, for it was undoubtedly the
property of Lillian Leslie.
There were several books on the library table. These he examined
hastily.
He hoped to find one that Lillian might have written her name in, for he
believed that it would be easy to compare the writing and pronounce
sentence from that.
In this, however, he was disappointed.
Joe’s name was in several, the books being inscribed, with love, to his
wife. This only proved his great love.
Eric was ready to swear by it now, and did not mean to let the case drop
until he had sifted it thoroughly—such honest affection as Joe’s should
never be made sport of in a friend of his, even by the prettiest witch
that ever trod the earth—at least not with his approval.
The rustle of female attire drew his attention, and, turning, he found
himself face to face with the lady of the house.
He had not sent up his name and she appeared quite surprised at seeing
who it was. “You, Mr. Darrell?”
“At your service, Mrs. Leslie.”
“What do you wish this morning, sir?”
There was something of coldness in her tones. He could not tell whence
it sprung, as there were several things that might cause it.
Perhaps she felt humiliated in his presence because she had let him see
her weakness, jealousy of her husband’s affection.
Then, again, if she were guilty she might fear him because he was a
detective and Joe’s friend.
He suspended judgment and resolved to study this fair creature more
closely than he had as yet had a chance to do.