A minute later a girl came to the door. “I wish to see Mr. Leslie.”
“He is out, sir.”
“Ah!”
Darrell’s suspicions took firmer ground.
The girl held the door open a crack, as though it were secured by a chain bolt.
“Mrs. Leslie will do—can I see her?”
He almost held his breath waiting for the answer—it seemed as though the fate of a seemingly happy household depended upon it—whether Joe Leslie were saint or sinner.
“Mrs. Leslie is in—what name, please?”
“You may say—stay, here is my card,” believing the girl would have no chance to read it on the way.
He handed her a calling card which simply bore his name.