“Not at all, Mrs. Leslie—in fact, I shall do the work all the more eagerly, hoping it may all prove to be a mistake.”
“I too hope so, but my heart is filled with fears. I seem to have lived years since making this discovery. At first I meant to ask my husband plainly to explain it, but something held my tongue—for my life I could not—and only as a last resort have I come to you.”
“Kindly write the number of the house here—you know it, of course.”
“Indeed it is burned on my brain as with letters of fire,” and she obeyed him.
“Now, Mrs. Leslie, you are to leave this matter in my hands and think of it as little as you can. At home appear as natural as you may, and believe that I will serve your interests faithfully, first, last and all the time.
“Joe is a friend of mine, and yet if he is a villain—which I cannot believe—I will discover the proofs of it and hand them to you.”
“Mr. Darrell, I thank you,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
“There is no occasion for it, madam—this is business with me, leaving sentiment aside—I shall charge you my regular price for such work; but at the same time I honestly hope your husband will be able to prove his innocence.”
“Amen!” she said, solemnly.
At this moment there came a loud rap on the door—Mrs. Leslie uttered a little scream, which was pretty well muffled by the cobweb of a handkerchief she thrust up to her mouth.