CHAPTER VII

A BRAND FROM THE BURNING

The detective was a man.

He admired courage and grit, no matter in whom it was found, and when he saw the Spanish bull fighter holding his own against the number who had assailed him he could not but express this feeling.

It seemed as though these young bloods were furious because the other kept his partner to himself, and allowed her to dance with no one else—it is always the case that a pack of such hot heads may be found at a public gathering, and trouble often ensues.

Perhaps the Lady of Cards, secure behind her mask, had flirted with some of them, and had driven them wild.

It is human nature to covet what we cannot have and their anger toward the giant bull fighter had grown intense.

As we have seen, it culminated in what threatened to be a riot.

The woman was frightened now—she trembled, and cowered behind her protector.

He stood up like a rock before her.

Twice his arm had shot out and on each occasion one of his assailants had gone down. They pressed him hard.

The bull fighter turned to the right and left and defended himself gallantly, while he shielded his companion as best he could.

It was a singular spectacle to be seen at a New York public ball.

When passion rules men’s minds their surroundings have no effect on them.

They would fight in a tomb, over the dead.

Seeing that in all probability the rascals would get the better of the man, Darrell pushed that way; at this moment one of the men grasped the lady by the wrist.

She screamed.

The bull fighter turned like a mad tiger, saw what was transpiring, threw the assailants who were clinging to him, and plunged at the man who was grasping the lady’s arm and endeavoring to drag her away, for the music still kept up, and many were dancing all unconscious of the _melee_.

There was a tremendous rush, the bull fighter caught the wretch and whirled him, spinning like a teetotum, ten feet away. Never did a dancing dervish spin so merrily.

Then came an awful crash, as the man struck a swaying column of dancers, who immediately toppled over upon him.

By this time the detective was at the side of the bull fighter.

“Keep back, you young fools! Keep back, I say, or I’ll land the whole of you in the Tombs!” His words were heard.

Backed up as they were with the shining barrel of a revolver, they commanded respect.

By this time the management had succeeded in getting the officers from the supper-room to the spot, and upon seeing them come, the young fellows who had been the cause of the disturbance slunk away, losing themselves in the crowd.

The management apologized to the bull fighter when they learned what had occurred, but his companion seemed to have received a nervous shock—at any rate they retired for their wraps.

Darrell moved outside.

There was something more he desired to learn and the chance must soon come.

He waited.

Just at twelve they came.

The hour for unmasking had arrived, and there was quite a high time within.

This displeased the detective, for he was afraid lest he might not hear what he desired.

The couple walked down the pavement in search of the carriage, which was waiting near by, the driver having received instructions.

They soon reached it.

Darrell hovered near.

The bull fighter assisted his companion in and then entered himself.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver, probably not knowing but what they had another engagement at some private ball.

A burst of laughter from the house deadened the reply, but Darrell’s keen ears caught:“—Twenty-seventh Street.”

It was enough.

He felt down-spirited.

In so far as he could see ahead, the case was a settled one—Joe Leslie was guilty.

He seemed to feel it as keenly as though it were a brother of his.

Poor Lillian! that it should come to this in one short year.

It would have seemed incredible, but he was used to meeting with strange things, and being of a philosophical train of mind could take things pretty much as they came.

So Darrell turned homeward.

There was nothing more to be done that night.

He remembered that on the morning he had engaged to watch the house in which the Leslies lived.

That strange man would come and must be tracked to discover his identity.

It was a task Darrell did not like.

Every time he thought of it he saw the face of Lillian before him, and in the depth of those liquid eyes there appeared such a world of truth that the detective was fain to shake his head.

Experienced man of the world as he was, he could not believe her guilty.

There must be some mistake.

So he made his way to his rooms, feeling depressed over the events of the night.

He hated the thought of his next meeting with the lady—how could he face her and tell her what he had seen and heard?

“Hang the foolish fellow—how could he treat such an angel in that way?”

Hold on, Mr. Darrell, before twenty-four hours have flown you will perhaps have changed your mind and concluded that even angels may be of the earth, earthy.

When he arrived at his apartments it was about half-past twelve.

As he opened the door he saw a card below. When he had applied the burning match to the gas, he picked this up.

“Hello!” was his exclamation.

His eyes had fallen upon a name.

“Joseph Gregory Leslie.”

Turning the card over he found, scribbled in pencil, the words:

“Called to see you—may come in later to-night. Some important business.”

When he had read this the detective scratched his head and mused.

“How is this—he must have run down here first. Come in later, eh? Well, who knows but what after he has seen _Marian_ home he may run down?”

He stopped to listen to a carriage rumbling along the street—at this time of night they were not very frequent here, and when it stopped in front of the house he smiled.

“Ah, he has seen her home and come down to carry out his promise to Lillian. The story of the erring clerk may not be all moonshine.”

He put his head out of the window.

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.

“Well, come in and sit down.”

“No, I haven’t time.”

“What do you want with me?” asked Darrell, just as though he did not already know.

“Can you give me an hour or so?”

“Yes.”

“I have a favorite clerk—I am afraid he has fallen into bad company. For his mother’s sake I want to rescue him before it is too late.”

Darrell admired the motive however much he distrusted the man.

“Wait a minute and I will go with you.”

He kicked off his slippers and drew on his shoes. Then a coat and hat followed. The minute was not yet over when he announced himself in readiness.

Truly, Eric Darrell would do for a lightning change artist on the stage.

They passed down the stairs of the house, which had apartments for gentlemen only.

New York is full of these bachelor dens, some of them having suites of rooms furnished in a gorgeous manner that speaks of the sybarite taste of the rich young or old owner. The bachelors of to-day live for their own comfort, surrounded by all the luxuries money can purchase for them.

No one thinks of pitying them any longer, least of all do they themselves feel forlorn.

People who love a home may sigh at such a picture, but it is the truth in all large cities and New York above the rest. On the way down Joe spoke:

“You know the places where such a young man is apt to be found, Eric?”

“Well, I ought to—my business carries me into them every week,” replied the other.

“Then let us make the rounds.”

He spoke wearily.

Why not?

When a man has been dancing for several hours, he cannot feel as fresh as a daisy—it does not stand to reason.

They entered the hack.

Darrell gave his first address to Joe who repeated it to the driver.

Away they went.

“Hello! what’s wrong with your hand?” asked the detective. The carriage lamps gave enough light for him to see that Joe had his handkerchief wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand.

“Took a tumble up a dark flight of stairs when I was looking awhile back and bruised my knuckles.”

Darrell smiled but made no remark. He thought he knew how that hand had become bruised—it was in a more honorable business than falling up stairs—in defending a weak and helpless woman against ruffians.

“You know some of these places then, Joe?”

“My driver knew of several, but I had hard work getting in.”

Darrell thought so.

“Perhaps they did not think I wanted to play, and may have been suspicious of my intentions.”

“No doubt. If you rescued some young fellow from their clutches, it meant less money for their pockets.”

They lapsed into silence.

Soon the vehicle stopped.

They entered a gambling den.

Joe quickly declared his clerk was not there and they proceeded to another.

Four had been visited, and in the last one he discovered the young man at the green baize, his face flushed with wine and excitement.

The detective drew him out and brought him to his employer, at sight of whom he turned white and put his hands to his eyes.

Joe Leslie talked to him beautifully—even that hard-hearted detective, Eric Darrell, who had seen so much of the world, had to turn his head away and wink hard to dry up his tears.

As for the boy—he was hardly more—what he heard so affected him that he caught hold of Joe’s arm and sobbed outright.

“As heaven is my judge, Mr. Leslie, from this hour I will never again yield to temptation in any shape. What you said about my mother has taken the scales from my eyes and I see.”

Even Darrell knew he would stand firm.

Joe Leslie had saved one soul.