He realized that now the game would probably be worth the hunting.
At any rate, since the opportunity was now given him, he was determined to learn more about the artist than he had known before.
Paul Prescott headed down town, boarding a Third Avenue street car near Fourteenth Street. On the same car, out in front, stood Eric, enjoying the bracing night air.
He could see without being seen, and managed to keep an eye on the artist. When he saw the other finally rise he knew he was about to leave the car, and the detective forestalled him.
Once on the pavement he waited for his man and then shadowed him.
Darrell was not greatly surprised at what he learned—the place he entered was an opium joint, kept by a Chinaman and an American in partnership, probably the largest about town. Here a good class of customers were wont to resort, and among others several actors, a doctor, a well known jurist, a writer, together with several women, whose attire and jewelry proved them to belong to the upper circle.
Many a man’s history received a downward impetus dating from the hour he first entered this den of iniquity.
Darrell knew it well.
He had been in it a number of times in the course of the last year—those whom he hunted had come here.
A clerk had robbed his employer for money to pay the opium fiend—once the habit gains full sway and the victim will do anything on earth in order to get money to pay for a few pipes and an hour of the peculiar drunken fancy.