“At eleven he appears again—it is always my wife who lets him in and sees him to the door.
“Eric, this thing is killing me—sooner than believe Lillian could be false to me I would discredit my own mother; and yet here is something very, very strange—something that must be explained before my peace of mind comes back to me again. In a few words, I want you to find out who this man is, and why he calls to see my wife invariably at ten o’clock when I am supposed to be down-town money-making, and why she has never breathed one syllable of all this to me.”
“I will do it, Joe, for old friendship’s sake, and I most heartily pray it may turn out all right.”
“Oh! I haven’t any doubt of that. My dear fellow, don’t imagine for an instant that I suspect my wife of anything wrong, but—well, you see—hang it, Eric, I must know the truth, and if my thoughts have wronged Lillian I shall go down on my knees before the little woman.”
On his part, Mr. Darrell had, while Joe was speaking, conceived a sudden idea that would possibly explain the matter.
He did not mention it, because the explanation hinged upon his other client’s case, but he kept it in mind all the same.
It was to this effect:
Perhaps Lillian had sought the advice of some other detective before coming to him, and it was this party calling at a certain hour every day to deliver his report, whom Joe had seen.
Possibly little or no progress had been made, and hence she had finally determined to change, just as a patient, becoming dissatisfied with his doctor, calls in another physician.
Luck alone had brought her to his office—perhaps it was the sweet little cherub that watches over the affairs of lovers.