The carriage lamps shone below.
It was a hack, drawn by dark horses.
So had the other been.
Darrell had not the slightest idea but that they were one and the same—he flattered himself that he could read Joe Leslie like a book, for the man was a poor plotter.
Just as he suspected, there were footsteps on the stairs.
Some one was coming.
A knock sounded on his door.
Opening it, who should be standing there but Joe Leslie in the flesh?
“You are home at last—I have been here twice before and found you out,” he said.
Darrell believed once would answer, but of course he made no such remark.