As for Eric Darrell, the detective, he glanced up at the small tell-tale mirror just inside the transom over the door—his face was screwed up into a pucker, and pressing his finger on his lips he said in a low voice:
“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! The man who knocks is your husband, Mrs. Leslie.”
CHAPTER II
TWO OF A KIND
The pretty little lady came very near swooning when she heard this.
Darrell arose from his chair.
“Come with me through the inner office,” he said in low tones.
She followed him, trembling like a leaf, and looking back as though she expected the door to be broken in, and an angry husband to make his appearance on the scene.
“He must have followed me—he will be so angry—oh! what shall I do—how shall I look him in the face again?” she moaned.
“He need not see you now—here is a door that lets you out into the passage around the corner, and you can descend the stairs without being discovered. As for looking him in the face again, you have no reason to shun him, my dear madam—you are innocent of wrong-doing at any rate, and if anybody is going to be ashamed let it be him. Good-bye, madam, trust me to the utmost.”
She gave him one pitiful look that haunted the old bachelor for many days, and then, allowing her veil to fall over her pretty face, passed on toward the stairs.