COMPARING NOTES
Joe was in.
When the detective sent his card by the same clerk whom he had helped Joe
rescue from the clutches of the gamblers, he was shown to the private
office.
Here he found his friend seated at his desk, and busily engaged with a
pile of letters that had come in the morning mail.
Joe greeted him cordially and begged him to wait a few minutes, when he
would be through with his task.
This suited the detective exactly, since it gave him a chance to watch
the other.
He was able to read a face pretty thoroughly and he saw very quickly that
Joe was still greatly troubled in his mind.
He had gotten rid of one burden, but another had come in its stead.
What could it mean?
There was little need for Eric to ask that.
He knew, beyond all doubt, that the old suspicions had arisen again in
Joe’s mind, perhaps strengthened by some circumstance.
Finally Joe leaned back in his chair and looked at his visitor.
“Eric, for a short time last night I was really and truly happy—it seemed
to me that the clouds had all rolled by. Then, by a strange
circumstance, they were brought forward again and now I am worse off than
ever.”
“That is too bad—I am sorry for it.”
“Before, it was my foolish habit that gave me sorrow—now it is a dreadful
thought that I endeavor to banish from my mind, but which rises up again
and again in all its hideous deformity until I almost feel as though I am
mad.
“Still I keep my thoughts clear, for I know that this awful question must
be grappled with, and fought to the death.
“My whole future is concerned in it, and I mean to lay the ghost forever,
or else know the very worst.”
“Spoken like a true man, Joe. Shake hands on that as a bargain. I am,
in this matter, hoping to prove your wife’s innocence, but I shall take
up any evidence that comes along, and apply it where it belongs.”
“I want you to, old fellow, no matter what the pain it brings.”
“To begin with, you know all my hopes are to the end that Lillian may
prove to be as innocent as a babe.”
“Heaven grant it,” Joe groaned.
His tone betokened despair.
The detective judged from this that his friend must have made some
discovery since last they met.
“At the same time, Joe, you know as it looks at present, things are
decidedly against your wife.”
“I try to deceive myself, Eric, into the belief that it is not so, but I
cannot, I cannot. She shall have a fair trial—I will give her the
advantage of every doubt, and then—”
He could not finish the sentence.
Poor fellow! how Eric pitied him, and in that moment, believing Lillian
guilty, cursed the hour she ever crossed Joe’s path, to blight a life
devoted to her.
Never mind—the end was not yet.
“Tell me what you have discovered, Eric,” said Leslie, throwing off the
terrible feeling that almost overcame him.
“After you, my boy.”
“How do you know I have anything to tell?” in a surprised tone.
“Your looks give it away. Proceed.”
So, being encouraged to speak, Joe gave a brief account of the charming
scene that had taken place in his home on the preceding night.
Eric was quite interested, and his reflections upon the little woman were
flattering to her.
Then came the climax.
The note with the charred edge was produced, and submitted to
examination.
Eric looked upon it as furnishing quite a link in the chain of
evidence—he believed the secret referred to must indeed mean that which
they were looking up.
When Joe heard the opinion of his friend, he was not much
encouraged—indeed, his spirits were reduced to a lower ebb; but he shut
his teeth and said nothing.
“Now I want your opinion, Joe, as a man of some legal acumen. It is a
little question I desire to have settled,” he said.
With that he took out the document he had received from Lillian.
“You recognize the handwriting?”
“I do—it is my wife’s,” with a shiver.
“I had another paper, but gave it up to the owner; but, as it fortunately
turned out, ere doing so I traced the signature with a piece of tracing
paper—see, here it is.”
He put the two together.
“Bend over, Joe.”
“What do you want me to decide?” nervously, as might a man who feared
lest his words might convict one he loved.
“Examine these signatures.”
“I am doing so.”
“If asked your opinion frankly as an outsider, would you incline to the
belief that one hand had made both of these?”
“You insist on a reply?”
“I think you had better give it.”
“Then, according to my humble opinion, those letters are alike, and the
chances are decidedly in favor of the same party having made both.”
“My opinion exactly—I would not swear to it but I put the chances in that
way.”
Then he turned the paper over to Joe.
“What of this?” asked that worthy.
“There is nothing out of the way in it. I only had your wife write it
out and sign her initials in order to compare it with the other
document.”
“Tell me about the other.”
“I will reproduce it, word for word.”
Drawing some paper to him he wrote rapidly for a few minutes.
Then he placed the duplicate of Prescott’s letter in front of Joe.
“This looks like a deep conspiracy, Eric—you say this was signed that
way?”
“Yes.”
“Was it—in—her handwriting?”
“There were enough points of resemblance to make it striking.”
“Heavens!” and he beat his fist against his forehead in despair—then
recovered his calmness after an effort.
“You say you have lost this document?”
“I had compared them in the elevated coming down here, and was still
looking at that one when a hand was laid on my arm and a man asked me
what I was doing with his property. I saw he was the owner and gave it
over—we had a few words and separated.”
“Was that man known to me?”
“By sight, yes.”
Joe shuddered visibly, as though he understood the suggestive words of
the other.
“Then it was _he_?”
“Paul Prescott, the artist.”
“Curses on him for a meddler! Lillian has a weakness for art, and I have
often jokingly told her she should have married a painter.”
“That explains his power in a measure—he has fed her on art and won her
regard by posing as a hero.”
Joe struck the duplicate paper fiercely.
“Eric, you may think me crazy to doubt it, but unless Lillian declares in
my presence that this is the product of her pen I will never believe it.”
“Joe, my friend, I honor you for such a feeling, and I hope as I never
hoped before in my life that this thing will prove a false alarm. All
the same I shall do my duty by you every time, as a true friend.”
“A thousand thanks. I feel fifty years old to-day instead of
thirty-six—it is my birthday, you know, Eric,” with a sad smile.
“I wish you many happy returns, my dear fellow—just three years younger
than I am. I wish I had a gift to give you.”
“The best gift this world could give me would be the proof that my wife
is the true and faithful wife I have always believed her. Great heavens!
Eric, when I think of it all, a spasm comes over me—my fingers twitch as
though they would love to encircle the throat of that arch-devil and
choke his life out.”
Eric was surprised.
He had not believed this of Joe, looking upon the other as a sort of
good-natured giant whom any one could impose upon. Now he saw him angry
he made up his mind that if ever Paul Prescott and Joe came in contact it
would go hard with the artist.
“Well, I declare, you will make a modern Othello yet, Joe.”
“No, no,” with a shudder, “I might kill him, but I would never raise a
finger against her if she deceived me time and again. I couldn’t; I must
love her always.”
Eric shrugged his shoulders.
“Every man to his taste. Your character is one in a thousand, Joe. As
for me I confess I have more of the tiger about me, and if a man or woman
foully wrongs me I look forward with pleasure to revenge.”
“Don’t let us talk about it—the worst I would do to her would be to seek
a separation—but for him,” and his face grew grandly dark and gloomy, but
he did not finish.
“I wish to ask you a few questions about your home, Joe.”
“Do so.”
“In the first place you have a girl.”
“Yes, two of them.”
“What positions do they occupy?”
“One is in the kitchen—the other a sort of upstairs girl, to take care of
the rooms, answer the door, and wait upon the table.”
“Describe the cook.”
Joe laughed.
“She is as fat as she is long, almost, and as good-natured as she is
fat.”
Eric made a gesture.
“That point is settled. Now the other.”
“Nanny is a woman too, but much smaller, and ladylike in her ways. She
came here from Chicago with us.”
“Ah! a favorite of your wife’s?”
“Yes. Nanny was in her mother’s employ as a girl. She is faithful to
us.”
“Ahem! Just the person, in fact, to be entrusted with a message of a
secret nature, that must be handed to a certain party?”
At this Joe turned red and white by turns. “I presume so,” he admitted,
uneasily.
“Is Nanny about my height, rather slim, and quick in her actions?”
“Yes.”
“Dresses in black?”
“My soul! man, you seem to drive the nails into my coffin with each
question.”
“Answer, Joe.”
“She does dress in black—most maids do in New York now.”
“Wear a white apron?”
“No,” with a gleam of hope.
“Neither did this girl. I knew she was a maid by the courtesy she made
when handing Prescott the letter, and also from the little white cap she
wore.”
Poor Joe’s last chance seemed gone—the other had knocked away the pins
upon which his house was built.
“That was probably Nanny, but I can not and will not believe Lillian
wrote that note. Some other party had hired Nanny to give it to that
man.”
Darrell knew Joe was hugging a phantom to his heart, but he could not
take pleasure in arguing with the deceived husband—besides, Joe’s actions
proved that he believed more than he would admit either to himself or his
confidential adviser, and if the blow did come it would not be such a
terrible shock as if he had received no warning.
The end was not far away.