For once at least in his life the detective confessed himself unable to insure the future.
He knew certain facts, and that others would coalesce, but what the result would be he did not pretend to be chemist enough to decide.
Time alone would tell.
That was the physician who could be depended upon to bind up broken hearts, to solve the deepest mysteries and set everything right.
Given time, nothing was impossible.
As the shades of evening descended, Darrell brought up in the neighborhood of the building on Fourteenth Street where the artist’s studio was located.
He was passing slowly by when a hack drove up and stopped at the curb.
“Engaged?” he asked the driver.
“Sorry, sir, but I am,” returned that worthy. A jehu always hates to lose a fare.
“Can’t accommodate me up town?”