“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.