“Singular—of course,” nodded Eric, apparently observing the ashes on the end of his cigar, but all the while watching Joe’s face.
“For of course,” Joe continued, “what I have to say to you concerns—my wife.”
“Yes.”
The detective was wondering how Joe meant to bring out his confession.
He did not dream of anything else.
“You have seen that face, Eric”—tapping the photograph—“would you say there was any deceit there?”
This was something of a staggerer—the other had not expected the electric fluid to strike in such a quarter at all.
“Deceit—in that little woman—well, I’m an old bachelor, Joe, but my judgment is generally conceded sound, and I tell you your wife is a woman of a thousand. Her face speaks of purity and charity—one could not look into the depths of those eyes and not read truth there.”
“Good heavens, man! you describe Lillian as I have believed her—one would think you had met her,” cried Leslie, starting out of his moody fit.
“A good photograph can be easily read nowadays, my boy,” replied Darrell, quietly; at the same time conscious that he had made a break that had better not be repeated.