"Yes, I had intended to go," she replied. "I always go to my first releases. But to-night I do not feel able to do so.""I think it is just as well. What you need most now is rest."The girl looked at herself in a small mirror affixed to the side of the car."Oh," she exclaimed. "I look terrible. These people are right, it seems. Three more weeks of this persecution and my looks would be quite gone. Mr. Edwards told me only this morning that he had never seen me look so bad." There were tears in her eyes.Duvall realized that she spoke the truth. The effect of the strain upon her nervous system, the brutal shocks of the past two days, the horror of the experience of the night before, had wrought havoc with the girl's beauty. Her face, gray, lined, haggard, her eyes, heavy and drawn, made her the very opposite of the radiant creature that had created such a furore in motion picture circles. The methods of her persecutors, if unchecked, would beyond doubt wreck her strength and health in a short time, and in addition, there was the danger that at any moment a physical attack, a swiftly thrown acid bomb, an explosive mixture concealed in an innocent-looking package, might destroy both her beauty and her reason in one blinding flash. With the fear in her great brown eyes constantly before him, Duvall determined more than ever to free her from this terrible persecution.They separated in the neighborhood of 30th Street, Duvall and Miss Morton taking a taxicab that stood before one of the smaller Fifth Avenue hotels. He made a pretense of entering the hotel, and did not summon the taxi until Mrs. Morton's car was well out of sight up the Avenue. Then he instructed the driver to proceed first to his hotel.Their stop here was but momentary. Duvall went to his room, threw a few articles of clothing into his grip, left a note for Grace, telling her that he would be absent for several days, then rejoined his companion and drove uptown to the hotel opposite the park, the name of which he had mentioned to Mrs. Morton. He felt perfectly certain that they had not been followed.Upon arriving at the hotel, he entered their names, including that of Mrs. Morton, upon the register, using the pseudonym which that latter had suggested. Then, sending Ruth to her room, he asked to see the manager, and had a brief conference with him in private. Immediately thereafter, he went up to his own apartment.As he had arranged, it adjoined the suite selected for the Mortons. He tapped lightly on the communicating door."Are you all right, Miss Morton?" he called."Yes," came the girl's voice from the opposite side. "All right, thank you."CHAPTER IXGrace Duvall said good-by to her husband that morning with very little enthusiasm. She was not jealous of him, she was too sensible a woman, and trusted him too fully for that. But his sudden interest in Ruth Morton, the charming motion picture star, seemed rather incomprehensible to her. Of course she suspected he was working on a case which concerned the girl although Duvall had neither affirmed nor denied it. But she felt lonely, and perhaps a trifle out of sorts, and found her solitary breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, a little trying. So often before, she and Richard had worked together. Why, she wondered, did he so pointedly exclude her from this case? She would have liked to talk it over with him.She sat rather disconsolately in her room most of the forenoon, and about one o'clock made ready for a lonely luncheon. She was just about to leave the apartment when the telephone bell rang. Grace hastened to it at once, hoping that the call might be from her husband. A woman's voice, low, firm, determined sounded in her ears."I want to speak with Mr. Duvall," the voice said."Mr. Duvall is out. This is Mrs. Duvall.""Very well, Mrs. Duvall. If you want to keep your husband from very serious harm, you had better tell him to steer clear of Ruth Morton's affairs in future. A word to the wise, you know. Good day." The speaker suddenly rang off.Grace turned from the telephone, her brain in a whirl. What danger threatened her husband? Ought she not to tell him of the message as soon as possible, so that he might be on his guard? And what did this mysterious reference to "Ruth Morton's affairs"mean? Did it imply that Richard was in any way involved—but that was preposterous. She put the thought from her mind, and went down in the elevator to a lonely and not very enjoyable meal.As she left the dining-room, and passed through the lobby, she thought she saw ahead of her a familiar figure. A moment later she realized that it was Richard himself, walking very rapidly toward the main entrance, his satchel in his hand. Was he leaving the hotel? And if so, ought she not to make an attempt to give him the message she had just received, before he did so? She walked quickly after him, but his pace was so rapid that she reached the sidewalk only in time to see him swing himself into a waiting taxi, baggage in hand, and drive quickly off. But what Grace saw, in addition to this, filled her with queer misgivings. Beside her husband in the cab was a woman—very beautiful woman, whom Grace had no difficulty whatever in identifying as Ruth Morton. And she also noticed, in the brief moment that elapsed before the taxi shot toward the Avenue, that the woman seemed to be in tears, and that Richard leaned over with the utmost solicitude and affection and clasped her hand in his. For the first time in her life, Grace Duvall was actually jealous.Thoughts of possible danger to her husband, however, were paramount in her mind. Without an instant's hesitation she stepped into a second taxi, whose driver was trying to attract her attention, and told him to follow the car containing the man and woman which had just driven off.The chauffeur grinned knowingly, nodded, and started his car. His grin drove from Grace's mind her sudden and unaccustomed jealousy. She knew that Richard must be going away with this girl for some reason connected with his professional work. Of course that work did not usually include consoling beautiful damsels in distress, but there must be extenuating circumstances. She put her unpleasant thoughts from her mind, and proceeded on her mission, to give her husband the warning message she had just received, with a reasonably calm mind.After a drive of some fifteen minutes, she saw the cab ahead of them begin to slow up, and observed that her chauffeur did likewise. Presently the first cab stopped before the doors of a big, imposing looking hotel, and Richard and Miss Morton hurriedly entered.Grace did not at once get out. She knew that her husband might resent her having followed him, and did not care to put him to any disadvantage by appearing so unexpectedly upon the scene. She waited, therefore, for several minutes, until he would have had time to go to his room, and then, paying off her cabman, she strolled quietly into the hotel lobby.There were a few persons sitting about, but Richard was not amongst them. Going to the clerk at the desk, she asked to see Mr. Richard Duvall.The clerk regarded her with a supercilious stare, consulted his records in a bored way, then informed her that no such person was registered there.Grace was completely taken aback."But I saw him come in, only a few moments ago," she protested."No such person here, Miss." With a frigid smile the clerk turned away, watching her, however, out of the corner of his eye, as though he considered her a suspicious character.Grace leaned over and examined the register. There were three entries upon it, in a handwriting clearly that of her husband. "Mrs. Bradley and maid," the first entry said. "Miss Bradley," the second. They had been assigned a suite of rooms. The third and last entry was "John Bradley." His room adjoined the suite. All three were set down as hailing from Boston.Grace puzzled for a long time over this mysterious series of entries without arriving at any definite conclusion regarding them. Where was the so-called Mrs. Bradley? And why had her husband assumed the same name? Was he posing as Ruth Morton's brother, and if so, for what reason? She could not make head or tail of the matter, and wondered whether she had better send up her card, or write Richard a note and leave it for him, telling of the warning. While she was debating the matter in her mind, she suddenly saw him emerge from one of the elevators at the opposite side of the lobby, and come toward the desk.Grace approached him at once, glad that the matter had been so simply arranged."Richard," she said, in a low voice. "I want to speak to you."The gentleman she had addressed regarded her with a frown."My name is not Richard, madam," he said, pointedly. "I am John Bradley. You must have made a mistake." With a polite bow he passedon.Grace was completely taken aback. She knew that between them there existed a tacit understanding never to address each other, in public, during the progress of a case, unless requested to do so by some sign. But she felt that she had important information to give her husband, and then, shehadbeen a trifle jealous and annoyed. The thought that she had committed an error filled her with chagrin. Without a word, she left the hotel.At a nearby corner she stepped into a telephone booth, and calling up the hotel, asked to speak to Mr. John Bradley. In a few moments she heard Richard's familiar tones."This is Grace," she said quickly. "I'm sorry I spoke to you, just now, but I wanted to tell you that some woman telephoned the hotel to-day, and left a warning to the effect that if you did not keep out of Miss Morton's affairs, you would be in serious danger.""How did you know where I was?" Duvall asked."I saw you leave the hotel, and followed you.""You should not have done so.""But I wanted to give you the message. I thought you ought to know.""I understand that, but I wished my presence here to be unknown to anyone. You made a serious mistake. I only hope that no harm will come of it.""But—how could harm come of it?""You drove here in one of the hotel's regular cabs, I suppose?""Yes.""Then the people I am trying to avoid may trace me here, through the driver of that cab.""Oh—Richard—I'm so sorry. Isn't there anything I can do?""Nothing, now, except to make no further attempt to communicate with me here. Good-by."Grace returned to her hotel, very thoroughly dissatisfied with what she had done. It seemed to her that by trying to warn Richard of possible danger, she might only have brought it upon him. Apparently he had left their hotel, to avoid the very persons who had telephoned the warning message to her. She arrived at the door, got out of the cab in which she had made the journey, and looked about, hoping that the cabman who had driven her uptown might now be at his usual stand. To her delight, she saw that he was.She went up to the man, a slim, keen looking young Irishman, and engaged him in conversation."Do you remember driving me uptown an hour or so ago?" she asked."Sure I do, Miss," answered the man, touching his cap."Then please forget completely where you went, will you?" She handed the man a ten dollar bill. "It is barely possible that someone may try to find out, through you, where I went. Be sure that you give them no information.""They'll get nothing out of me, Miss," the man replied, pocketing the bill with a pleased grin."And if anybodydoestry to find out, get their name, if you can, and if not, a description of them.""I'll do my best, Miss.""I am stopping here. My name is Duvall, Mrs. Duvall.""Very good, ma'am. I'll attend to it, ma'am."Grace went up to her room, satisfied that she had remedied her mistake, and began to look through an afternoon paper she had bought. There seemed nothing better to do, during the evening, than to go to the theater. Glancing down the list of attractions, she suddenly saw the name of Ruth Morton, in large letters, billed in a new feature play,An American Beauty, opening at the Grand Theater that night. She at once made up her mind to go. Since yesterday, her interest in Miss Morton had perceptibly increased. And in spite of all, Richardhadheld her hand.She was just finishing her dinner, when a page came through the room, calling her name. She got up at once and followed him to the lobby."I am Mrs. Duvall," she said.The boy looked up."There's a chauffeur outside wants to see you, ma'am," he said, "Tom Leary."Grace understood at once, and made her way to the sidewalk. The cab driver of the morning stood near the entrance."I beg pardon, ma'am, for calling you out," he said, "but I couldn't come in, and there was something I felt you ought to know.""What is it?""A lady came here to see me a while ago," he said. "A smallish looking woman, not pretty, with light hair. She had on a dark brown suit. Not very good style, ma'am. She asked me if I knew anybody in the hotel named Duvall. I said I did. I find she'd been asking all the other cabmen, and had been to the desk, before that. I guess she must have been inquiring for your husband, ma'am.""Yes—yes—very likely," Grace hastily replied. "What then?""Well, ma'am, she then asked me if I knew Mrs. Duvall. I said I did. Then she wanted to know if I'd driven either you or your husband to any other hotel to-day, and I said I hadn't, but that I usually did drive you, when you went anywhere. I took the liberty of saying that, ma'am.""Yes. I'm glad you did. Go on.""Then she hands me five dollars, and says that if Ididdrive you to any other hotel, I was to let her know which one it was.""Where?" Grace asked, eagerly.The man fished from his pocket a small bit of cardboard upon which was scrawled with a pencil "Alice Watson, General Delivery."Grace stared at the bit of paper in surprise. Had she, by some lucky chance, discovered the very person for whom Richard was seeking? Of course the name was probably a fictitious one, and the address "General Delivery," meant nothing, and yet, it provided a clew by means of which this woman might be found."You have acted very wisely, Leary," she said. "I am greatly obliged to you.""Do you want me to send her any word, ma'am?""I may. I am anxious to get hold of this woman, or, to be more exact, my husband is. I will consult with him first, however. It may be that he will want you to write her a letter, giving her some such information as she desires, and then, by going to the general delivery window at the post office and watching, identify her when she comes for it. Do you think you could arrange to get off and do this?""Well, ma'am, even if I can't arrange to get off, you could of course hire my cab, and——""Of course," Grace interrupted. "Very well. I will let you know further about the matter a little later. Meanwhile, here is something more for your trouble." She gave the man another bill. "Now drive me to the Grand Theater."CHAPTER XDuvall, after having satisfied himself that Ruth Morton was safely installed in her suite of rooms at the hotel, came down to the lobby to await the arrival of Mrs. Morton.The unexpected meeting with Grace caused him the utmost anxiety. He appreciated fully her reasons for having come to see him, and yet he deeply regretted her coming. The enemies of Ruth Morton were far too clever, too shrewd, he feared, not to take advantage of her mistake, and by means of it, trace him at once to his present address. A complete disguise became an immediate necessity. He decided to assume one, as soon as Mrs. Morton had arrived.The latter came in about ten minutes later accompanied by Nora. Duvall explained matters to the clerk at the desk, and the supposed Mrs. Bradley was conducted to her rooms at once. Duvall accompanied her.They found Ruth resting quietly, but her joy at her mother's arrival was very apparent. She feared to be left alone, and seemed to expect her persecutors to appear from every closet, through every door or window."Oh, mother, I'm so glad to see you," she exclaimed."I'm glad to find you safe," Mrs. Morton returned."I advise you to stay right here with your daughter throughout the evening, Mrs. Morton," said Duvall, as he made ready to go to his own room. "Have your meals sent up. Admit no one. Open no packages. I have every hope that before the night is over, I may have some most important and satisfactory news for you. I shall probably not see you again until after the performance to-night, but if anything vital occurs, I will of course communicate with you by telephone. Good-by, and good luck."When he reached his own room, he proceeded to the business of divesting himself completely of all resemblance to Richard Duvall. It was clear that the persons he was seeking knew him by sight, and hence his opportunities to accomplish anything against them were very greatly lessened. The threatening telephone message received by Grace did not worry him at all, but the fact that those people were so constantly upon his heels did. He determined to disappear completely as Duvall, and reappear in the person of John Bradley, using all his skill in the matter of disguise to create for himself a totally different personality.Taking a makeup box from his grip, he proceeded first to give his dark brown hair a very decided and natural looking touch of gray, over the temples and at the sides. Then he fitted into place a short pointed grayish beard, and a mustache with waxed ends. These were products of the skill of one of the best wig-makers in Paris, and so cleverly made that they would defy detection, even in broad daylight. A pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses completed the facial disguise. Duvall might now have passed anywhere for a well-groomed professional man of fifty-five or sixty.The impression was heightened by his frock coat and silk hat. He felt quite sure that, in his present disguise, the plotters against Ruth Morton's welfare could not possibly recognize him.He went down to the theater very early, after a hasty dinner, and found Mr. Baker in the box office. The moving picture man did not recognize him, of course, and Duvall, after drawing him aside, had some little difficulty in convincing him of his identity. Once it had been established, however, Mr. Baker conducted him to a dressing room behind the scenes, and motioned him to a chair."We can talk here without being seen or heard," he said. "Is there anything new?""Nothing. I have taken Mrs. Morton and her daughter to a hotel, where I feel sure they will be quite safe from further annoyance. Ruth will not come to the studio for a few days, until we have gotten to the bottom of this affair. I am staying in an adjoining room, so as to be on hand at once in case of any trouble. I suppose you have everything fixed for to-night?""Yes." Mr. Baker's tone was dubious. "I have inserted in the film the material you gave me. It will appear just at the end of Part I. I hope it will not spoil our picture.""I think not. As a matter of fact, when the reasons for its introduction become known, I imagine it will give you a lot of very valuable advertising.""Possibly so," Mr. Baker granted. "But after all, I begin to feel very doubtful as to the results. This woman, whoever she is, that is persecuting Miss Morton seems to be mighty clever. She may not be affected in the way you think, by what she sees on the screen.""I realize that. It is only a chance. But don't you think that, under the circumstances, it is a chance worth taking?""Most certainly; otherwise I should not have consented to it. But, as I say, I doubt very much its success.""Well—we can only try. You will remember what I said about the lights, and the call for a doctor, if one appears to be needed.""Yes. I have all that in mind. Miss Morton is not coming to-night, I presume.""No. I advised against it.""I'm glad of that."Duvall sat in silence for a moment."By the way," he said presently. "There is one important matter that I have overlooked. Do you give your employees passes for these opening performances?""No—not regularly, that is. But any member of our organization who wishes to see the performance would of course be admitted. We reserve a section of the house for that purpose. A number of our people usually come over.""Good! That's just what I had hoped for. Where is this section?""The last five rows on the left-hand side of the house. But why?""Don't you see? All the evidence points to the fact that the person who is responsible for these threats either works in your studio, or is in some way able to gain access to it at any time. Witness the stolen photograph—the substituted telegram of this morning. In the latter it was definitely stated that the woman in the case would be in the audience to-night. I am hoping sincerely that she will not have the cleverness to enter as one of the public, but will come in as one of your people, and sit in the section of the house reserved exclusively for your employees. In that event, I think we shall discover who she is beyond a doubt.""I certainly hope so," sighed Mr. Baker. "This thing has got us all up in the air. Our President had a long conference with me this afternoon about Miss Morton. He seems to think she is going to pieces, and recommended trying to get Joan Clayton away from the Multigraph people to take her place. He says that she is losing her good looks. I told him nothing, of course, but it worried me a lot. I am very fond of Ruth Morton, and I don't want to see her lose her place.""She won't lose it," asserted Duvall. "When we get through, her position with your company will be stronger than it has ever been before. Shall we go out in the lobby and take a look at the crowd as it comes in?"Mr. Baker assented, and the two men stationed themselves near the box office.Without appearing to do so, Duvall inspected the various members of the incoming crowd. His scrutiny was careful, comprehensive, but the only person he recognized was Grace.That she also recognized him he knew. She had seen the disguise he wore, many times, and was familiar with it. She did not betray herself, however, by so much as a glance, but proceeded at once to her seat.When the moment arrived for the beginning of the performance, the house was filled. Duvall, with Baker at his side, stationed himself back of the left-hand section of seats, so that the rows reserved for the employees of the company were directly in front of him. He occupied himself, during the interval before the lights were switched off, by noting carefully all the women in the last five rows, but none of them attracted his attention particularly.Soon the performance began. Ruth Morton, the American Beauty, stepped upon the screen, a compelling vision of loveliness. The audience followed eagerly her exciting adventures. Duvall himself, in spite of his preoccupation, found himself absorbed by the charm and action of the picture. In the opening scenes, Ruth appeared as a poor girl, trying to make her way in the great world of the theater. Her struggles, her sacrifices, her failures, were almost vividly portrayed. When at last, through her marvelous beauty, she succeeded in gaining recognition from the critics, he applauded with those about him, completely under the spell of her charm.The final scene of the first part was a view of Ruth, as Catherine Grey, the American Beauty, refusing the dubious offers made her by a rich New Yorker. With a faith in herself by no means assumed, Catherine turned from his picture of luxury, of steam yachts, of country estates, of unlimited bank accounts, with a smile which showed her confidence in her beauty, her talents. The audience watched her, spellbound, as she stood on the sidewalk before the theater, looking with grave inscrutable eyes after the costly limousine that had just driven away without her. In no picture heretofore taken of the girl had she appeared to better advantage. Every line of her lovely face seemed responsive to the effect of the lighting, the situation, the motives which inspired her. The audience drew itself back, ready to register its approval of the first part of the film with hearty applause.And then, something happened. The lovely, smiling face of Ruth Morton faded from view, and in its place came with brutal suddenness the picture of a huge grinning death's head, amazing in its suggestion of horror. The audience sat in utter silence, wondering what could be the reason for this sudden apparition. Beneath the death's head appeared in huge letters the words:"We know the woman."The thing had come as a complete surprise. The tension throughout the house was electric. Duvall saw his wife rise from her seat on the aisle, a few rows away, and come quickly to the rear of the house. She, at least, realized that a moment of importance had arrived.And then, without warning, the stillness of the theater was broken by a sudden cry, and a woman, sitting some three rows from where Duvall stood, but on the opposite side of the aisle from the seats indicated by Mr. Baker, rose to her feet, turned, and fell heavily against the back of the seat ahead of her. At almost the same moment the lights were switched on, and a voice was heard calling. "Is there a doctor in the house?"It was Mr. Baker, and Duvall, who stood beside him, sprang forward at once."I am a doctor," he cried, and approached the place where the woman sat."Can I be of any assistance?" Grace asked. "I am a trained nurse.""Yes," replied Duvall, quickly. "Get this woman to the ladies' dressing room at once."Grace sprang forward. There was a bustle among the audience, a sudden rising, a craning of necks. Everyone seemed to be looking for the person who had uttered the sudden cry. Before anyone fully realized what had happened, Grace had reached the fainting woman's side, and supporting her with an arm about her waist, was leading her toward the rear of the house.Almost at once the theater became dark, and the second part of the picture was flashed upon the screen. The lovely face of Ruth Morton once more greeted the eyes of theaudience. The interruption had occupied less than a minute.Duvall, standing at the entrance to the aisle, watched Grace come quickly toward him, supporting the fainting woman. The latter seemed completely overcome, and Grace was obliged almost to carry her."Keep her there, in the dressing room, until I return," he said in a quick whisper. Then with a nod to Mr. Baker, who stood close by, he went toward the street. A taxicab drew up, awaiting a fare. Duvall signaled to it."Wait for me here," he said to the driver. "I will be back in a moment." Then he re-entered the theater.Grace meanwhile had conducted the woman to the ladies' dressing room, and placed her upon a couch.She was a frail, insignificant looking creature, not at all the sort of person one would associate with threats of the kind that Ruth Morton had been receiving. She appeared to be greatly ashamed of her sudden collapse, and kept insisting, in spite of her evident weakness, that she was quite all right again, and wanted to go.Grace, however, paid no attention to her protestations, but insisted that she remain quiet."The doctor will be here in a moment," she said. "You must wait quietly until he comes."The woman, however, seemed determined to leave, and it was with a sigh of relief that Grace welcomed her husband's return.Duvall came in hurriedly, as he did so taking a small brown bottle from his waistcoat pocket."Get me a glass of water," he said to the negro maid. The woman brought one at once.Duvall took a tablet from the bottle and placed it in the glass, stirring the water about with the end of alead pencil until the tablet was dissolved. Then he went up to the woman on the couch."Here—drink this," he commanded. "It will quiet your nerves."The woman took the glass, her eyes regarding him with suspicion. Duvall, in his character of a physician, turned aside, and addressed a few words to Grace, fearing that in some way the woman might succeed in recognizing him. As a result both failed to see that instead of drinking the medicine he had given to her, the girl swiftly poured it upon the floor. When he again turned to her, she held the empty glass in her hand.Duvall took it from her, and handed it to Grace."Come with me, Miss," he said. "I will see you home.""It isn't necessary," the woman gasped. "I—I'm all right now.""You have had a severe shock, Miss. As a physician, it is my duty to see that you arrive home safely. I have already engaged a cab. Come." He took the woman by the arm and in spite of her objections, raised her from the couch.Suddenly her opposition vanished. She seemed glad of his assistance, and, leaning on his arm, made her way from the theater. Duvall was in high spirits. He fully believed that his plan had succeeded, that the woman at his side was the one who was responsible for the threats which had made Ruth Morton so wretched for the past few days.The cab that he had engaged stood waiting at the door. He put the woman inside. She seemed very weak and helpless. "Drive to the —— Hotel," Duvall called to the chauffeur, then entered the cab and seated himself at the woman's side. He saw Mr. Baker standing upon the sidewalk, and nodded. Then they drove off.The woman lay, in a state of apparent collapse, in one corner of the cab, her face pale, her eyes closed. Duvall, inspecting her as well as he could in the faint light, began to feel grave doubts as to whether after all he had been successful in his ruse. She seemed so little the type of woman he would have associated with the brutal campaign of terror that had been directed against Miss Morton.She clutched a black leather satchel tightly in one hand. Duvall regarded it with interest. If he was right in his assumption that this was the woman he sought, it seemed highly probable that within that satchel lay evidence that might convict her. At least there would be some clue as to who she was, and that in itself would be valuable.The woman seemed to grow weaker and weaker. Her closed eyes, her slow but regular breathing, indicated that the drug he had given her had begun to take effect. Stealthily Duvall's hand reached toward the small black satchel. With eager fingers he pressed the catch, and as the bag opened, began to draw out its contents.The woman, however, seemed far less helpless than he had supposed. She pulled the satchel toward her, her fingers seeking to close it. Duvall discontinued his efforts at once. It would be time enough, he felt, when they had reached the hotel, and the woman had been safely conducted to a room there. He had made his plans carefully in advance, and arranged matters with the hotel manager. There was nothing to do, now, but wait.Presently the woman, who had been regarding him, unnoticed, from beneath lowered lids, uttered a groan, as though in great pain, and clutched her breast. Duvall turned to her at once, speaking in a soothing voice, and assuming a professional manner."Is anything wrong, Miss? I had hoped you were feeling better.""No, doctor. I'm not. I feel terrible—terrible.""In what way?""My—my heart. It is in awful shape. I need some stimulant. The—the medicine you gave me made me feel very ill."Her words surprised Duvall. He had given her a simple drug, the effect of which should have been to make her drowsy, to quiet her nerves. That she had not taken it, he of course did not know. His greatest fear had been that she would refuse to enter the cab with him. Now that she had done so, he was prepared to use even force, if necessary, to retain her in his custody until he had either obtained the evidence he desired, or forced from her a confession. What he particularly hoped to find was the seal with which the death's head impression had been made. He felt certain that, if this was the woman he sought, she would have this seal somewhere about her person. It was far too significant a bit of evidence to be left lying about at home.But there was always the chance that this woman, who had been so instantly affected by the ghastly apparition on the screen, the significant words beneath it, might not, after all, be the right one, the one he sought. There was always the possibility that the real criminal, although present in the audience, had made no sign, and that his companion in the cab might be entirely innocent. As he had told Baker, it was a chance—a long chance, yet something seemed to say to him that he had made no mistake in taking it. Now, however, a new situation had arisen to upset his plans. His prisoner, instead of having been quieted by the drug he had administered, was apparently becoming more and more agitated and nervous every minute. Her groans, as she lay huddled up in the corner of the cab, puzzled him, filled him with vague alarm. Was it possible that she had a weak heart? Had the sedative he had given her, harmless as he knew the dose would be to a normal person, affected her in so unfavorable a way? He took her wrist in his hand, and felt her pulse. It was quick, indicative of nervous excitement, but certainly not weak."Oh—doctor, doctor, won't youpleasegive me something to make me feel a little better?" the woman gasped. "It's my heart, I tell you. I—I can't breathe. I'm suffocating. I must have something at once—some aromatic spirits of ammonia—some brandy—anything, to make me feel a little better."Her earnestness, her trembling voice, her excited manner, all served to convince Duvall that his companion was really in need of a stimulant of some sort. He decided to humor her. A dose of aromatic spirits, he reflected, could do no harm, and would doubtless serve to lessen her excitement. He leaned out, and directed the driver of the cab to stop at the nearest drug store."Oh—thank you—thank you," the woman gasped. "Tell him to hurry, please." Then collapsing in the corner of the seat, she closed her eyes and sat so silent that Duvall began to wonder whether she had lost consciousness.The taxicab, meanwhile, had drawn up in front of a drug store on Sixth Avenue. Duvall took a look at the apparently unconscious woman, then spoke quickly to the chauffeur."Stay here until I return," he said. "Don't go away under any circumstances. I shall be gone but a moment."The man nodded."I'll stay, sir," he said. "Don't worry."Duvall went quickly into the store. Going up to the soda counter, he instructed the clerk to prepare him a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia as quickly as possible. While waiting for it, he watched the cab through the store window.The preparation of the dose required but a few moments. Then, explaining matters to the clerk, Duvall took the glass in his hand and went back to the cab. He smiled to himself at his anxiety, as he passed through the door. The woman was far too ill, he reflected, to entertain any thoughts of escape."Here," the detective said, opening the door of the cab. "Drink this."There was no response. Duvall stuck his head into the vehicle with some misgivings. Then he experienced a sudden and most mortifying shock. There was no fainting woman huddled against the cushions in the far corner. There was no woman at all.The cab was empty!CHAPTER XIRichard Duvall had had charge of many unusual and intricate cases, in the past, and he prided himself upon the fact that he had handled them with skill and discretion, and that the results which had followed had been both quick and decisive. But in all his career he had not, so far as he could remember, ever felt quite so chagrined, as he did when he threw open the door of the cab and found that the woman he had left there had disappeared.The fault was his, he knew that well—entirely and unmistakably his. This woman was evidently far more clever, more subtle than he had imagined. He realized now that she had in all probability not taken the drug he had given her in the dressing room of the theater, that she had seen his effort to examine the contents of her handbag, that her weakness, her call for a stimulant of some sort had been but clever acting, and that she had purposely sent him into thedrug store in order that she might escape. He blamed himself, utterly and completely, for his amazing stupidity in not realizing that the woman, instead of ordering the cabman to drive away, had only to slip out through the door on the opposite side of the vehicle, and vanish in the darkness.And this she had quite evidently done. The door of the cab opposite him stood open. No doubt she had purposely refrained from closing it, fearing that the click of the lock might attract the driver's attention. The latter with his eyes following Duvall, as the detective entered the store, had remained serenely unconscious of his passenger's movements, her clever escape.At least three or four minutes had elapsed. Duvall glanced up and down the street, but no sight of the vanished woman greeted his anxious gaze. She had had ample time to reach the next corner, and disappear in the darkness. Thoughts of pursuit entered his mind, but he realized at once the fruitlessness of such an attempt. His captive might have fled east or west, at either of the streets north or south of where he stood. Or she might have entered some restaurant, some motion picture house, or other convenient doorway along the Avenue. She might even have boarded a Sixth Avenue car, or hailed a passing cab. He looked up at the chauffeur, who still sat at his steering wheel, totally unaware of the flight of one of his passengers."The woman has gone," Duvall exclaimed, nodding toward the vacant cab.The man turned in complete surprise. He seemed scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses."I—why sir—she was here just a moment ago, sir," he gasped, gazing into the interior of the cab as though he expected its recent occupant to suddenly materialize in the flesh."She got out on the other side, while I was in the store," Duvall remarked, shortly, then taking an electric searchlight from his pocket, made a thorough examination of the interior of the cab. He scarcely expected to find anything, although it flashed through his mind that the woman, in her hurry to escape, might have left her bag, her gloves, or something that might afford him a clue to her identity.At first he saw nothing. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the brilliant glare of the electric torch, he observed a bit of white cardboard lying on the floor. It looked like a visiting card, and he snatched it up, devoutly hoping that it had fallen from the woman's bag during the attempt he had made to rifle it.Under the light of his pocket lamp he made a quick examination of his find. It proved a lamentable disappointment. It was in fact a visiting card, or to be more correct, the torn half of one, but what was engraved upon it afforded him not the least clue to either the identity or the address of the woman he sought. On the first line were the words, "Miss Mar"—then came the torn edge of the card. On the second line there was but the figure 1, and then the break.Was the name so tantalizingly suggested by the letters before him "Miss Mary" something or other? Or "Miss Margaret?" Or was it "Miss Martin," or "Miss Marvin," or "Miss Marbury," or any one of a score of other names beginning with the letters "Mar?" And what was the missing address? What numbers followed the figure 1, on that part of the card that had been torn off? And what was the name of the street? He realized at once that while what he had found might, under certain circumstances, act as a suggestion, it would not serve to get him very far, unless reinforced by other and more definite evidence. He thought for a moment of securing from Mr. Baker a list of the women employees of the studio. It was true, he remembered, that his prisoner had not been seated in that particular section of the house reserved for the company's employees, but that might have readily come from the fact that the section was fully occupied when she arrived. Then, as more names beginning with "Mar" occurred to him, the futility of the idea became apparent. Apart from any possible number of Marys, and Margarets there were Martha, Maria, Marcia, Marian, Marcella—others perhaps. Of course he would be able to recognize the woman, if he saw her, but she would be too clever to return to her place in the studio the following day, if by any chance she worked there, knowing, as she must inevitably know, that she would be identified at once.Still, there was of course the chance that Mr. Baker might have recognized her. He presumably knew all the employees of his company by sight. Duvall got into the cab with a mortifying sense of having made a very foolish blunder, and directed the cabman to drive him back to the Grand Theater.Mr. Baker was waiting in the lobby when the detective arrived, and at a nod from the latter the two men retired to the dressing room in which they had had their previous consultation. The moving picture man's face was eager, expectant, as he waited for Duvall to speak, and the latter felt his chagrin increase by the moment.When he had at last finished his account of the affair, Mr. Baker looked exceedingly grave."Too bad—too bad," he muttered, "to have had her in our hands like that, and then, to lose her.""Did you ever see the woman before?" Duvall questioned."No. Of course she might be in our employ, but I doubt it, although I could not be expected to know by sight every girl who works in the plant. There are stenographers, film cutters and pasters, dozens of others, that I do not engage directly, and never see. Let me look at the card."Duvall handed the torn bit of pasteboard to him."Not much to go on," he said, quietly."No. Not much.""Of course," the detective went on, "the evening has not been entirely wasted. We know the woman by sight, and that is a great deal. As for her name, I have made a careful study of this card, and assuming it to have been of the usual length in comparison to its width, the name following the 'Miss,' if it was a first name, points to a very short one, such as Mary, and not a long one, such as Margaret.""How do you make that out?""Simply enough. The entire name would of course have been placed in the center of the card, which was, it appears, torn almost exactly in half. On the left-hand side, which we have in our possession, there are, in the word 'Miss,' four letters, and in 'Mar' three, or seven in all. We should correspondingly expect to find seven letters on the right or missing half of the card. But were the first name Margaret, or Marcella, which each contain eight letters, or five to be added to the 'Mar' we already have, it would leave but two letters for the woman's last name, and names of that length, or rather shortness, are so rare as to be negligible. It is far more probable that we have but to add a 'y' to the 'Mar,' or one letter, leaving six for the last name. This would give us 'Miss Mar-y Gordon,' with the name evenly divided by the tear. Or, if by chance, the first name is such a one as Marian, containing six letters, we need add but the 'ian,' or three letters, to the left-hand side of our card, leaving us four letters for the last name. Thus, Miss Marian Kent. The full name on the card should have just fourteen letters, provided the card is, as I conclude, torn exactly inhalf.""Why do you conclude that?""Because visiting cards of this sort are usually made in standard sizes. I happen to have a woman's card—Miss Morton's, in fact, in my pocket. Its width is the same as that of the torn card, and if the latter was of the same length, you can readily see that it was torn exactly in half." He took a card from his wallet and laid the torn bit of pasteboard upon it. Their widths were identical. The whole card was just twice the length of the torn one."That is a most interesting deduction," Baker exclaimed. "What use can we make of it?""I will tell you. You have your car here, have you not?""Yes.""Then I suggest that we run down to the studio at once, get your list of employees, examine the name of every woman upon it, and see if we cannot find one of fourteen letters, including the 'Miss,' of which the first name begins with 'Mar.' The chances are that we will be able to locate the name immediately.""Yes," Mr. Baker exclaimed, rising in some excitement, "but, as you have before said, the woman, if she works for us, will not dare to appear in the morning, for fear that she will be recognized at once.""That is true, but you will no doubt have on your books her home address. If we hurry, we can get there and back by midnight, and we may be able to place our hands on the woman before she can have time to escape."Mr. Baker reached the door in two steps."Come along," he said. "We'll burn up the roads."The two men said little, during their long ride. When they reached the entrance to the dark and silent studio building, only the night watchman appeared to greet them.Inside the building, however, there were more signs of life. Some stage carpenters were busy, working overtime on a piece of scenery. In the developing and drying departments were also signs of activity. Mr. Baker led the way to his office. "It happens," he said, "that as I am obliged to O. K. the payroll each week, I have a list of our employees in my desk." As he spoke, he took his keys, opened a drawer, and drew out a small red book."Here is the list, with the home addresses," he said. "How shall we go to work?""Read me all the women's names, in which the first name begins with'Mar,'" Duvall said. "I will put them down on a sheet of paper." He drew a pad toward him, took out his pencil, and the two set to work.When they had at last reached the end of the book, both Duvall and Mr. Baker were surprised to find that the names they had picked out were so few. In all there were but eight, as follows:Miss Mary Sollenberger,Miss Mary Green,Miss Margaret Schwartz,Miss Maria Rosenheim,Miss Martha Simmons,Miss Marcia Ford,Miss Marian Greenberg,Miss Mary King.Duvall ran his pencil down the list of names. "There is but one that fulfills the requirements," he announced. "The sixth name, that of Miss Marcia Ford, contains in all fourteen letters. None of the others do. Two, those of Miss King and Miss Green, come the nearest. Miss King's full name contains twelve letters, Miss Green's, thirteen. Any one of the threemightbe the one we seek.""I can answer for Miss King at once," said Mr. Baker, quietly. "She is my stenographer, and most certainlynotthe woman who was in the theater to-night.""That leaves then, Miss Green and Miss Ford. What do they do, and what are their addresses?"Mr. Baker referred to his book."Miss Green is a telephone operator. Her address is given here as 310 Gold Street, Brooklyn. Miss Ford is a film cutter, and lives at 122 West 9th Street, New York.""Neither sounds particularly promising," Duvall remarked, with a frown."No. But of course we are assuming that the woman in question works in the studio. If she doesnot, our whole fabric falls to pieces." Duvall took the torn piece of card from his pocket and glanced at it."The address given here begins with the number 1," he said, significantly."It may be that Miss Marcia Ford, of 122 West Ninth Street, is the woman we are looking for, although I confess I should have suspected some rival motion picture star, rather than a film cutter.""By George, I forgot the fact that the card had an address on it," Baker exclaimed. "I think we had better look up Miss Ford at once.""I agree with you," Duvall said. A few moments later they were driving at top speed back toward New York.It was five minutes to twelve when they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street and turned west. Duvall realized that they were following a very slim clue, but it seemed for the moment the only promising one they had.The house, No. 122, proved to be a typical high stooped, brownstone boarding house of this section of the city. It was for the most part dark, although one or two of the upper windows showed lights.Accompanied by Baker, Duvall quickly mounted the steps and rang the bell. At first there was no answer, although they could hear the sound of the bell tinkling mournfully inside. A second summons brought no greater response. At the third, a woman's head appeared in one of the upper windows, and they heard a shrill and not over pleasant voice asking them what they wanted."I have an important message for Miss Marcia Ford," Duvall replied pleasantly. "I must see her at once.""Miss Ford moved away from here three months ago," the woman snapped."Will you please give me her present address?" the detective exclaimed, somewhat taken aback."I don't know it. She didn't say where she was going. Good night!" A moment later the window above them was closed with a slam.The two men stood staring at each other in the utmost disappointment. They had expected a more favorable outcome of their expedition."How long has she been with you?" Duvall asked, turning to his companion."I don't know. Certainly over three months, or we shouldn't have this address on our books. I suppose, when she changed it, she omitted to notify us. What are we going to do now?""There isn't anything we can do, until morning. If Miss Marcia Ford reports for work to-morrow, and you see that she is the woman who fainted in the theater to-night, have her arrested at once. If she doesn't report for work, at least we shall know that she is the woman we are after.""That isn't much consolation," Mr. Baker grumbled."I don't agree with you. Having the woman's name, knowing her appearance, we are certain to catch her, sooner or later. And in the meanwhile, I do not think that she will attempt anything further so far as Miss Morton is concerned. We are too close on her trail, for that.""I hope you are right," said the motion picture man. "Well, I guess I'll go along home. I'll be at the studio first thing in the morning, however, and I suppose you will be there too.""By all means. I am most curious to see whether our reasoning to-night has been correct.""Shall I take you to your hotel in my car?""No, thanks. I'll take a taxi. Good night.""Good night."A few moments later, Duvall was speeding up Fifth Avenue, his brain still puzzling over the curious contradictions which the events of the night had developed. On one point he felt secure, however. He was certain that the woman who had so narrowly escaped him earlier in the evening would not soon again attempt anything against Ruth Morton.Arrived at his hotel, he asked for his key. The man behind the desk, with a queer look, handed him along with it a slip of paper. On it was written: "Mrs. Bradley wishes Mr. John Bradley to come to her room at the moment he returns.""When was this message left?" the detective asked."Oh—nearly two hours ago. The time is stamped on the back of it, sir."Duvall turned the card over, and saw from the stamp on the other side that Mrs. Morton had sent for him at half past ten."The message was phoned down by the lady herself," the clerk added, by way of explanation.Duvall went up in the elevator, and a few moments later, was knocking at the door of Mrs. Morton's suite.The latter herself appeared in the doorway. She was pale and agitated. "Come in, Mr. Duvall," she said.The detective entered, closing the door behind him."What is wrong, Mrs. Morton?" he asked."There has been another warning—a dreadful one," the older woman exclaimed, her voice trembling. "It came a little after ten.""What was it?" Duvall's voice was almost as strained as that of the woman before him. Her words came to him as a complete surprise. Had all the work of the evening, then, been wasted?"At a little after ten," Mrs. Morton said slowly, "I sent my maid Nora out for some medicine for my daughter. She went to a drug store some three blocks away. As she returned to the hotel, she saw a young woman standing near the entrance, apparently watching those who went in and out. As soon as the maid came up to the doorway, the woman stepped up to her, and thrusting a package into her hands, said quickly, 'Give this to Miss Ruth Morton. It is from the studio.' Then she walked away at once."Nora, as she tells me, did not know just what to do. You will remember that while she realizes from our presence here under an assumed name, that something is wrong, she knows little or nothing of the circumstances surrounding Ruth's terrible persecution. Hence she foolishly took both the medicine and the package the woman had given her, to my daughter.""Yes—yes—go on," Duvall exclaimed, seeing Mrs. Morton pause."Ruth opened them both. I was in the next room at the moment. Suddenly I heard a cry, and on rushing in, found her standing in the center of the room, holding a small bottle in one hand, and staring at it in the utmost consternation. In her other hand was a sheet of paper, which, as I subsequently found, had been wrapped around the bottle, inside the outer brown-paper cover."The bottle was labeled 'carbolic acid.' Here is the sheet of paper." Mrs. Morton, with trembling fingers, extended a half sheet ofnote-paper toward the detective.Duvall took it and read the typewritten words upon it."We gave you thirty days. Now we give you seven. Drink this, and save yourself from a horrible fate." The death's head signature ended the message. "Ruth has been very ill ever since," Mrs. Morton added drearily. "If she is not better in the morning, I shall call in a doctor. She felt herself absolutely safe, here, and was recovering her cheerfulness. Now all her fears have returned with redoubled force. I am terribly worried about her—terribly worried." Taking out her handkerchief, the poor woman wiped the tears from her eyes. "How could these people have known we were here?" she whispered, in an awed voice. "It seems like the work of fiends."There was little that the detective could say in reply. Even to his sober judgment, there came a suggestion of the uncanny, the supernatural. The woman in the cab had escaped at half past nine, presumably quite ignorant of the location of Mrs. Morton's retreat. Half an hour later, the campaign of intimidation was renewed with greater vigor than before."I'm afraid, Mrs. Morton," he said, "that itwill be necessary for you to remain with your daughter every minute of the time, for a day or two. By then, I am convinced that we shall have laid our hands on the guilty parties. Good night."Duvall rose very early the following morning, and drove at once to the studio, but early as he was, Mr. Baker was there before him.The latter was seated in his office, poring over a mass of reports, when Duvall entered. He glanced up, rose, shook hands nervously, then motioned to a chair."Nothing new yet," he said. "My stenographer, Miss King, is here. Neither Miss Green nor Miss Ford have yet arrived, but it is still a little early. Miss King came before her usual time, as she had some reports to get out that she could not complete last night. We have at least fifteen minutes to wait."Duvall told him to proceed with his work, and drawing a newspaper from his pocket, made an effort to interest himself in it. In this, however, he was not very successful. Time after time his mind would wander from the printed sheet before him to the strange events of the night before. The thing that puzzled him most was, how did the persecutors of Miss Morton discover her new address so soon? Was the woman who had handed the package to Nora, the maid, the same one that had vanished from the cab? He remembered that it had been about nine o'clock when they left the Grand Theater, and perhaps half-past when he had gone into the drug store in Sixth Avenue to get the aromatic spirits of ammonia. Had the woman gone directly from the cab to the hotel? She must have done so, without much loss of time, in order to reach there by ten o'clock. How had she known the address? He knew very well that he had given it to the cabman, when they started away from the theater. Had the supposedly fainting woman overheard his words? If she had, and had so promptly acted upon them, she was far more clever and determined than her appearance would seem to warrant. He revolved the matter endlessly in his mind, waiting for Mr. Baker to announce that the time had come, when Miss Ford's or Miss Green's arrival or non-arrival would indicate which of the two, if either, was the woman they sought.Suddenly the bell of the telephone on Mr. Baker's desk ran sharply. He answered it, then turned to Duvall."Miss Green, the telephone operator, is at her desk," he said. "Would you like to take a look at her?""Yes." The detective arose, and followed Mr. Baker into the corridor. The switchboard of the building was located at the end of the hall, in a small bare room. When they reached it, Mr. Baker spoke to a dark-haired, rather stout, woman who sat at the desk."Miss Green," he said, "if any calls come in for Mr. Duvall, he will be in my office." Then he went back along the corridor."She certainly isn't the woman we are after," he remarked to Duvall, as soon as they were out of earshot."No. It must be Miss Ford," the detective replied."Suppose we go to the developing and finishing department," Baker suggested. "It is time all our people were on hand. Mr. Emmett, who is in charge there, can tellus about Miss Ford."They crossed to the other side of the building, and entered a small office. A bald-headed man sat at a littered desk."Mr. Emmett," Baker said, "shake hands with Mr. Duvall. He is looking for a young woman in the finishing department. Miss Marcia Ford. Has she come in yet?""No," replied the bald-headed man, gravely shaking hands. "She is not here this morning. It is rather surprising, too, for she usually is on time.""What sort of a looking woman is she?" Duvall inquired."Oh—a rather insignificant looking girl of about twenty-five. Small, slender, not very prepossessing, but clever—enormously clever. One of the best film cutters we have. I should be sorry to lose her.""Light blue eyes, and light hair," Duvall questioned. "And a thin, rather cruel mouth?""Exactly. But why? Has she gotten into any trouble?""No—I hope not. I merely wanted to see her.""Well—of course she may show up later, although as I say she has usually been very punctual. I shouldn't be surprised if she is sick. She's been acting rather peculiarly, the past few days.""How so?" asked Duvall, quickly."I can't say—exactly. I got the impression from her manner that she was nervous, excited, out of sorts. Merely an impression, but such things count.""Telephone me, Emmett," Mr. Baker said, "if she comes in during the next hour. Come along, Mr. Duvall, you can wait in my office."They returned to the other side of the immense building, and Duvall sat down to wait. He felt sure that they were on the right track, and was impatient to get back to New York and try to locate the missing woman. The description given by Mr. Emmett left little doubt in his mind that she and Miss Marcia Ford were one and the same. He sat in Mr. Baker's office, reading the paper, waiting anxiously for the hour the latter had specified to pass.After what seemed an interminable wait, Mr. Baker glanced at his watch, then rose."It is ten o'clock, Mr. Duvall," he announced. "Miss Ford has not come, or Mr. Emmett would have notified me. I do not see that there is anything further to be accomplished here."As he spoke, the telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Baker picked up the receiver, listened intently for a few moments, then slammed the receiver back upon the hook."Hell!" he ejaculated softly."What is it?" Duvall asked."Miss Ford has just reported for work!"
"Yes, I had intended to go," she replied. "I always go to my first releases. But to-night I do not feel able to do so."
"I think it is just as well. What you need most now is rest."
The girl looked at herself in a small mirror affixed to the side of the car.
"Oh," she exclaimed. "I look terrible. These people are right, it seems. Three more weeks of this persecution and my looks would be quite gone. Mr. Edwards told me only this morning that he had never seen me look so bad." There were tears in her eyes.
Duvall realized that she spoke the truth. The effect of the strain upon her nervous system, the brutal shocks of the past two days, the horror of the experience of the night before, had wrought havoc with the girl's beauty. Her face, gray, lined, haggard, her eyes, heavy and drawn, made her the very opposite of the radiant creature that had created such a furore in motion picture circles. The methods of her persecutors, if unchecked, would beyond doubt wreck her strength and health in a short time, and in addition, there was the danger that at any moment a physical attack, a swiftly thrown acid bomb, an explosive mixture concealed in an innocent-looking package, might destroy both her beauty and her reason in one blinding flash. With the fear in her great brown eyes constantly before him, Duvall determined more than ever to free her from this terrible persecution.
They separated in the neighborhood of 30th Street, Duvall and Miss Morton taking a taxicab that stood before one of the smaller Fifth Avenue hotels. He made a pretense of entering the hotel, and did not summon the taxi until Mrs. Morton's car was well out of sight up the Avenue. Then he instructed the driver to proceed first to his hotel.
Their stop here was but momentary. Duvall went to his room, threw a few articles of clothing into his grip, left a note for Grace, telling her that he would be absent for several days, then rejoined his companion and drove uptown to the hotel opposite the park, the name of which he had mentioned to Mrs. Morton. He felt perfectly certain that they had not been followed.
Upon arriving at the hotel, he entered their names, including that of Mrs. Morton, upon the register, using the pseudonym which that latter had suggested. Then, sending Ruth to her room, he asked to see the manager, and had a brief conference with him in private. Immediately thereafter, he went up to his own apartment.
As he had arranged, it adjoined the suite selected for the Mortons. He tapped lightly on the communicating door.
"Are you all right, Miss Morton?" he called.
"Yes," came the girl's voice from the opposite side. "All right, thank you."
Grace Duvall said good-by to her husband that morning with very little enthusiasm. She was not jealous of him, she was too sensible a woman, and trusted him too fully for that. But his sudden interest in Ruth Morton, the charming motion picture star, seemed rather incomprehensible to her. Of course she suspected he was working on a case which concerned the girl although Duvall had neither affirmed nor denied it. But she felt lonely, and perhaps a trifle out of sorts, and found her solitary breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, a little trying. So often before, she and Richard had worked together. Why, she wondered, did he so pointedly exclude her from this case? She would have liked to talk it over with him.
She sat rather disconsolately in her room most of the forenoon, and about one o'clock made ready for a lonely luncheon. She was just about to leave the apartment when the telephone bell rang. Grace hastened to it at once, hoping that the call might be from her husband. A woman's voice, low, firm, determined sounded in her ears.
"I want to speak with Mr. Duvall," the voice said.
"Mr. Duvall is out. This is Mrs. Duvall."
"Very well, Mrs. Duvall. If you want to keep your husband from very serious harm, you had better tell him to steer clear of Ruth Morton's affairs in future. A word to the wise, you know. Good day." The speaker suddenly rang off.
Grace turned from the telephone, her brain in a whirl. What danger threatened her husband? Ought she not to tell him of the message as soon as possible, so that he might be on his guard? And what did this mysterious reference to "Ruth Morton's affairs"mean? Did it imply that Richard was in any way involved—but that was preposterous. She put the thought from her mind, and went down in the elevator to a lonely and not very enjoyable meal.
As she left the dining-room, and passed through the lobby, she thought she saw ahead of her a familiar figure. A moment later she realized that it was Richard himself, walking very rapidly toward the main entrance, his satchel in his hand. Was he leaving the hotel? And if so, ought she not to make an attempt to give him the message she had just received, before he did so? She walked quickly after him, but his pace was so rapid that she reached the sidewalk only in time to see him swing himself into a waiting taxi, baggage in hand, and drive quickly off. But what Grace saw, in addition to this, filled her with queer misgivings. Beside her husband in the cab was a woman—very beautiful woman, whom Grace had no difficulty whatever in identifying as Ruth Morton. And she also noticed, in the brief moment that elapsed before the taxi shot toward the Avenue, that the woman seemed to be in tears, and that Richard leaned over with the utmost solicitude and affection and clasped her hand in his. For the first time in her life, Grace Duvall was actually jealous.
Thoughts of possible danger to her husband, however, were paramount in her mind. Without an instant's hesitation she stepped into a second taxi, whose driver was trying to attract her attention, and told him to follow the car containing the man and woman which had just driven off.
The chauffeur grinned knowingly, nodded, and started his car. His grin drove from Grace's mind her sudden and unaccustomed jealousy. She knew that Richard must be going away with this girl for some reason connected with his professional work. Of course that work did not usually include consoling beautiful damsels in distress, but there must be extenuating circumstances. She put her unpleasant thoughts from her mind, and proceeded on her mission, to give her husband the warning message she had just received, with a reasonably calm mind.
After a drive of some fifteen minutes, she saw the cab ahead of them begin to slow up, and observed that her chauffeur did likewise. Presently the first cab stopped before the doors of a big, imposing looking hotel, and Richard and Miss Morton hurriedly entered.
Grace did not at once get out. She knew that her husband might resent her having followed him, and did not care to put him to any disadvantage by appearing so unexpectedly upon the scene. She waited, therefore, for several minutes, until he would have had time to go to his room, and then, paying off her cabman, she strolled quietly into the hotel lobby.
There were a few persons sitting about, but Richard was not amongst them. Going to the clerk at the desk, she asked to see Mr. Richard Duvall.
The clerk regarded her with a supercilious stare, consulted his records in a bored way, then informed her that no such person was registered there.
Grace was completely taken aback.
"But I saw him come in, only a few moments ago," she protested.
"No such person here, Miss." With a frigid smile the clerk turned away, watching her, however, out of the corner of his eye, as though he considered her a suspicious character.
Grace leaned over and examined the register. There were three entries upon it, in a handwriting clearly that of her husband. "Mrs. Bradley and maid," the first entry said. "Miss Bradley," the second. They had been assigned a suite of rooms. The third and last entry was "John Bradley." His room adjoined the suite. All three were set down as hailing from Boston.
Grace puzzled for a long time over this mysterious series of entries without arriving at any definite conclusion regarding them. Where was the so-called Mrs. Bradley? And why had her husband assumed the same name? Was he posing as Ruth Morton's brother, and if so, for what reason? She could not make head or tail of the matter, and wondered whether she had better send up her card, or write Richard a note and leave it for him, telling of the warning. While she was debating the matter in her mind, she suddenly saw him emerge from one of the elevators at the opposite side of the lobby, and come toward the desk.
Grace approached him at once, glad that the matter had been so simply arranged.
"Richard," she said, in a low voice. "I want to speak to you."
The gentleman she had addressed regarded her with a frown.
"My name is not Richard, madam," he said, pointedly. "I am John Bradley. You must have made a mistake." With a polite bow he passedon.
Grace was completely taken aback. She knew that between them there existed a tacit understanding never to address each other, in public, during the progress of a case, unless requested to do so by some sign. But she felt that she had important information to give her husband, and then, shehadbeen a trifle jealous and annoyed. The thought that she had committed an error filled her with chagrin. Without a word, she left the hotel.
At a nearby corner she stepped into a telephone booth, and calling up the hotel, asked to speak to Mr. John Bradley. In a few moments she heard Richard's familiar tones.
"This is Grace," she said quickly. "I'm sorry I spoke to you, just now, but I wanted to tell you that some woman telephoned the hotel to-day, and left a warning to the effect that if you did not keep out of Miss Morton's affairs, you would be in serious danger."
"How did you know where I was?" Duvall asked.
"I saw you leave the hotel, and followed you."
"You should not have done so."
"But I wanted to give you the message. I thought you ought to know."
"I understand that, but I wished my presence here to be unknown to anyone. You made a serious mistake. I only hope that no harm will come of it."
"But—how could harm come of it?"
"You drove here in one of the hotel's regular cabs, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Then the people I am trying to avoid may trace me here, through the driver of that cab."
"Oh—Richard—I'm so sorry. Isn't there anything I can do?"
"Nothing, now, except to make no further attempt to communicate with me here. Good-by."
Grace returned to her hotel, very thoroughly dissatisfied with what she had done. It seemed to her that by trying to warn Richard of possible danger, she might only have brought it upon him. Apparently he had left their hotel, to avoid the very persons who had telephoned the warning message to her. She arrived at the door, got out of the cab in which she had made the journey, and looked about, hoping that the cabman who had driven her uptown might now be at his usual stand. To her delight, she saw that he was.
She went up to the man, a slim, keen looking young Irishman, and engaged him in conversation.
"Do you remember driving me uptown an hour or so ago?" she asked.
"Sure I do, Miss," answered the man, touching his cap.
"Then please forget completely where you went, will you?" She handed the man a ten dollar bill. "It is barely possible that someone may try to find out, through you, where I went. Be sure that you give them no information."
"They'll get nothing out of me, Miss," the man replied, pocketing the bill with a pleased grin.
"And if anybodydoestry to find out, get their name, if you can, and if not, a description of them."
"I'll do my best, Miss."
"I am stopping here. My name is Duvall, Mrs. Duvall."
"Very good, ma'am. I'll attend to it, ma'am."
Grace went up to her room, satisfied that she had remedied her mistake, and began to look through an afternoon paper she had bought. There seemed nothing better to do, during the evening, than to go to the theater. Glancing down the list of attractions, she suddenly saw the name of Ruth Morton, in large letters, billed in a new feature play,An American Beauty, opening at the Grand Theater that night. She at once made up her mind to go. Since yesterday, her interest in Miss Morton had perceptibly increased. And in spite of all, Richardhadheld her hand.
She was just finishing her dinner, when a page came through the room, calling her name. She got up at once and followed him to the lobby.
"I am Mrs. Duvall," she said.
The boy looked up.
"There's a chauffeur outside wants to see you, ma'am," he said, "Tom Leary."
Grace understood at once, and made her way to the sidewalk. The cab driver of the morning stood near the entrance.
"I beg pardon, ma'am, for calling you out," he said, "but I couldn't come in, and there was something I felt you ought to know."
"What is it?"
"A lady came here to see me a while ago," he said. "A smallish looking woman, not pretty, with light hair. She had on a dark brown suit. Not very good style, ma'am. She asked me if I knew anybody in the hotel named Duvall. I said I did. I find she'd been asking all the other cabmen, and had been to the desk, before that. I guess she must have been inquiring for your husband, ma'am."
"Yes—yes—very likely," Grace hastily replied. "What then?"
"Well, ma'am, she then asked me if I knew Mrs. Duvall. I said I did. Then she wanted to know if I'd driven either you or your husband to any other hotel to-day, and I said I hadn't, but that I usually did drive you, when you went anywhere. I took the liberty of saying that, ma'am."
"Yes. I'm glad you did. Go on."
"Then she hands me five dollars, and says that if Ididdrive you to any other hotel, I was to let her know which one it was."
"Where?" Grace asked, eagerly.
The man fished from his pocket a small bit of cardboard upon which was scrawled with a pencil "Alice Watson, General Delivery."
Grace stared at the bit of paper in surprise. Had she, by some lucky chance, discovered the very person for whom Richard was seeking? Of course the name was probably a fictitious one, and the address "General Delivery," meant nothing, and yet, it provided a clew by means of which this woman might be found.
"You have acted very wisely, Leary," she said. "I am greatly obliged to you."
"Do you want me to send her any word, ma'am?"
"I may. I am anxious to get hold of this woman, or, to be more exact, my husband is. I will consult with him first, however. It may be that he will want you to write her a letter, giving her some such information as she desires, and then, by going to the general delivery window at the post office and watching, identify her when she comes for it. Do you think you could arrange to get off and do this?"
"Well, ma'am, even if I can't arrange to get off, you could of course hire my cab, and——"
"Of course," Grace interrupted. "Very well. I will let you know further about the matter a little later. Meanwhile, here is something more for your trouble." She gave the man another bill. "Now drive me to the Grand Theater."
Duvall, after having satisfied himself that Ruth Morton was safely installed in her suite of rooms at the hotel, came down to the lobby to await the arrival of Mrs. Morton.
The unexpected meeting with Grace caused him the utmost anxiety. He appreciated fully her reasons for having come to see him, and yet he deeply regretted her coming. The enemies of Ruth Morton were far too clever, too shrewd, he feared, not to take advantage of her mistake, and by means of it, trace him at once to his present address. A complete disguise became an immediate necessity. He decided to assume one, as soon as Mrs. Morton had arrived.
The latter came in about ten minutes later accompanied by Nora. Duvall explained matters to the clerk at the desk, and the supposed Mrs. Bradley was conducted to her rooms at once. Duvall accompanied her.
They found Ruth resting quietly, but her joy at her mother's arrival was very apparent. She feared to be left alone, and seemed to expect her persecutors to appear from every closet, through every door or window.
"Oh, mother, I'm so glad to see you," she exclaimed.
"I'm glad to find you safe," Mrs. Morton returned.
"I advise you to stay right here with your daughter throughout the evening, Mrs. Morton," said Duvall, as he made ready to go to his own room. "Have your meals sent up. Admit no one. Open no packages. I have every hope that before the night is over, I may have some most important and satisfactory news for you. I shall probably not see you again until after the performance to-night, but if anything vital occurs, I will of course communicate with you by telephone. Good-by, and good luck."
When he reached his own room, he proceeded to the business of divesting himself completely of all resemblance to Richard Duvall. It was clear that the persons he was seeking knew him by sight, and hence his opportunities to accomplish anything against them were very greatly lessened. The threatening telephone message received by Grace did not worry him at all, but the fact that those people were so constantly upon his heels did. He determined to disappear completely as Duvall, and reappear in the person of John Bradley, using all his skill in the matter of disguise to create for himself a totally different personality.
Taking a makeup box from his grip, he proceeded first to give his dark brown hair a very decided and natural looking touch of gray, over the temples and at the sides. Then he fitted into place a short pointed grayish beard, and a mustache with waxed ends. These were products of the skill of one of the best wig-makers in Paris, and so cleverly made that they would defy detection, even in broad daylight. A pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses completed the facial disguise. Duvall might now have passed anywhere for a well-groomed professional man of fifty-five or sixty.
The impression was heightened by his frock coat and silk hat. He felt quite sure that, in his present disguise, the plotters against Ruth Morton's welfare could not possibly recognize him.
He went down to the theater very early, after a hasty dinner, and found Mr. Baker in the box office. The moving picture man did not recognize him, of course, and Duvall, after drawing him aside, had some little difficulty in convincing him of his identity. Once it had been established, however, Mr. Baker conducted him to a dressing room behind the scenes, and motioned him to a chair.
"We can talk here without being seen or heard," he said. "Is there anything new?"
"Nothing. I have taken Mrs. Morton and her daughter to a hotel, where I feel sure they will be quite safe from further annoyance. Ruth will not come to the studio for a few days, until we have gotten to the bottom of this affair. I am staying in an adjoining room, so as to be on hand at once in case of any trouble. I suppose you have everything fixed for to-night?"
"Yes." Mr. Baker's tone was dubious. "I have inserted in the film the material you gave me. It will appear just at the end of Part I. I hope it will not spoil our picture."
"I think not. As a matter of fact, when the reasons for its introduction become known, I imagine it will give you a lot of very valuable advertising."
"Possibly so," Mr. Baker granted. "But after all, I begin to feel very doubtful as to the results. This woman, whoever she is, that is persecuting Miss Morton seems to be mighty clever. She may not be affected in the way you think, by what she sees on the screen."
"I realize that. It is only a chance. But don't you think that, under the circumstances, it is a chance worth taking?"
"Most certainly; otherwise I should not have consented to it. But, as I say, I doubt very much its success."
"Well—we can only try. You will remember what I said about the lights, and the call for a doctor, if one appears to be needed."
"Yes. I have all that in mind. Miss Morton is not coming to-night, I presume."
"No. I advised against it."
"I'm glad of that."
Duvall sat in silence for a moment.
"By the way," he said presently. "There is one important matter that I have overlooked. Do you give your employees passes for these opening performances?"
"No—not regularly, that is. But any member of our organization who wishes to see the performance would of course be admitted. We reserve a section of the house for that purpose. A number of our people usually come over."
"Good! That's just what I had hoped for. Where is this section?"
"The last five rows on the left-hand side of the house. But why?"
"Don't you see? All the evidence points to the fact that the person who is responsible for these threats either works in your studio, or is in some way able to gain access to it at any time. Witness the stolen photograph—the substituted telegram of this morning. In the latter it was definitely stated that the woman in the case would be in the audience to-night. I am hoping sincerely that she will not have the cleverness to enter as one of the public, but will come in as one of your people, and sit in the section of the house reserved exclusively for your employees. In that event, I think we shall discover who she is beyond a doubt."
"I certainly hope so," sighed Mr. Baker. "This thing has got us all up in the air. Our President had a long conference with me this afternoon about Miss Morton. He seems to think she is going to pieces, and recommended trying to get Joan Clayton away from the Multigraph people to take her place. He says that she is losing her good looks. I told him nothing, of course, but it worried me a lot. I am very fond of Ruth Morton, and I don't want to see her lose her place."
"She won't lose it," asserted Duvall. "When we get through, her position with your company will be stronger than it has ever been before. Shall we go out in the lobby and take a look at the crowd as it comes in?"
Mr. Baker assented, and the two men stationed themselves near the box office.
Without appearing to do so, Duvall inspected the various members of the incoming crowd. His scrutiny was careful, comprehensive, but the only person he recognized was Grace.
That she also recognized him he knew. She had seen the disguise he wore, many times, and was familiar with it. She did not betray herself, however, by so much as a glance, but proceeded at once to her seat.
When the moment arrived for the beginning of the performance, the house was filled. Duvall, with Baker at his side, stationed himself back of the left-hand section of seats, so that the rows reserved for the employees of the company were directly in front of him. He occupied himself, during the interval before the lights were switched off, by noting carefully all the women in the last five rows, but none of them attracted his attention particularly.
Soon the performance began. Ruth Morton, the American Beauty, stepped upon the screen, a compelling vision of loveliness. The audience followed eagerly her exciting adventures. Duvall himself, in spite of his preoccupation, found himself absorbed by the charm and action of the picture. In the opening scenes, Ruth appeared as a poor girl, trying to make her way in the great world of the theater. Her struggles, her sacrifices, her failures, were almost vividly portrayed. When at last, through her marvelous beauty, she succeeded in gaining recognition from the critics, he applauded with those about him, completely under the spell of her charm.
The final scene of the first part was a view of Ruth, as Catherine Grey, the American Beauty, refusing the dubious offers made her by a rich New Yorker. With a faith in herself by no means assumed, Catherine turned from his picture of luxury, of steam yachts, of country estates, of unlimited bank accounts, with a smile which showed her confidence in her beauty, her talents. The audience watched her, spellbound, as she stood on the sidewalk before the theater, looking with grave inscrutable eyes after the costly limousine that had just driven away without her. In no picture heretofore taken of the girl had she appeared to better advantage. Every line of her lovely face seemed responsive to the effect of the lighting, the situation, the motives which inspired her. The audience drew itself back, ready to register its approval of the first part of the film with hearty applause.
And then, something happened. The lovely, smiling face of Ruth Morton faded from view, and in its place came with brutal suddenness the picture of a huge grinning death's head, amazing in its suggestion of horror. The audience sat in utter silence, wondering what could be the reason for this sudden apparition. Beneath the death's head appeared in huge letters the words:
"We know the woman."
The thing had come as a complete surprise. The tension throughout the house was electric. Duvall saw his wife rise from her seat on the aisle, a few rows away, and come quickly to the rear of the house. She, at least, realized that a moment of importance had arrived.
And then, without warning, the stillness of the theater was broken by a sudden cry, and a woman, sitting some three rows from where Duvall stood, but on the opposite side of the aisle from the seats indicated by Mr. Baker, rose to her feet, turned, and fell heavily against the back of the seat ahead of her. At almost the same moment the lights were switched on, and a voice was heard calling. "Is there a doctor in the house?"
It was Mr. Baker, and Duvall, who stood beside him, sprang forward at once.
"I am a doctor," he cried, and approached the place where the woman sat.
"Can I be of any assistance?" Grace asked. "I am a trained nurse."
"Yes," replied Duvall, quickly. "Get this woman to the ladies' dressing room at once."
Grace sprang forward. There was a bustle among the audience, a sudden rising, a craning of necks. Everyone seemed to be looking for the person who had uttered the sudden cry. Before anyone fully realized what had happened, Grace had reached the fainting woman's side, and supporting her with an arm about her waist, was leading her toward the rear of the house.
Almost at once the theater became dark, and the second part of the picture was flashed upon the screen. The lovely face of Ruth Morton once more greeted the eyes of theaudience. The interruption had occupied less than a minute.
Duvall, standing at the entrance to the aisle, watched Grace come quickly toward him, supporting the fainting woman. The latter seemed completely overcome, and Grace was obliged almost to carry her.
"Keep her there, in the dressing room, until I return," he said in a quick whisper. Then with a nod to Mr. Baker, who stood close by, he went toward the street. A taxicab drew up, awaiting a fare. Duvall signaled to it.
"Wait for me here," he said to the driver. "I will be back in a moment." Then he re-entered the theater.
Grace meanwhile had conducted the woman to the ladies' dressing room, and placed her upon a couch.
She was a frail, insignificant looking creature, not at all the sort of person one would associate with threats of the kind that Ruth Morton had been receiving. She appeared to be greatly ashamed of her sudden collapse, and kept insisting, in spite of her evident weakness, that she was quite all right again, and wanted to go.
Grace, however, paid no attention to her protestations, but insisted that she remain quiet.
"The doctor will be here in a moment," she said. "You must wait quietly until he comes."
The woman, however, seemed determined to leave, and it was with a sigh of relief that Grace welcomed her husband's return.
Duvall came in hurriedly, as he did so taking a small brown bottle from his waistcoat pocket.
"Get me a glass of water," he said to the negro maid. The woman brought one at once.
Duvall took a tablet from the bottle and placed it in the glass, stirring the water about with the end of alead pencil until the tablet was dissolved. Then he went up to the woman on the couch.
"Here—drink this," he commanded. "It will quiet your nerves."
The woman took the glass, her eyes regarding him with suspicion. Duvall, in his character of a physician, turned aside, and addressed a few words to Grace, fearing that in some way the woman might succeed in recognizing him. As a result both failed to see that instead of drinking the medicine he had given to her, the girl swiftly poured it upon the floor. When he again turned to her, she held the empty glass in her hand.
Duvall took it from her, and handed it to Grace.
"Come with me, Miss," he said. "I will see you home."
"It isn't necessary," the woman gasped. "I—I'm all right now."
"You have had a severe shock, Miss. As a physician, it is my duty to see that you arrive home safely. I have already engaged a cab. Come." He took the woman by the arm and in spite of her objections, raised her from the couch.
Suddenly her opposition vanished. She seemed glad of his assistance, and, leaning on his arm, made her way from the theater. Duvall was in high spirits. He fully believed that his plan had succeeded, that the woman at his side was the one who was responsible for the threats which had made Ruth Morton so wretched for the past few days.
The cab that he had engaged stood waiting at the door. He put the woman inside. She seemed very weak and helpless. "Drive to the —— Hotel," Duvall called to the chauffeur, then entered the cab and seated himself at the woman's side. He saw Mr. Baker standing upon the sidewalk, and nodded. Then they drove off.
The woman lay, in a state of apparent collapse, in one corner of the cab, her face pale, her eyes closed. Duvall, inspecting her as well as he could in the faint light, began to feel grave doubts as to whether after all he had been successful in his ruse. She seemed so little the type of woman he would have associated with the brutal campaign of terror that had been directed against Miss Morton.
She clutched a black leather satchel tightly in one hand. Duvall regarded it with interest. If he was right in his assumption that this was the woman he sought, it seemed highly probable that within that satchel lay evidence that might convict her. At least there would be some clue as to who she was, and that in itself would be valuable.
The woman seemed to grow weaker and weaker. Her closed eyes, her slow but regular breathing, indicated that the drug he had given her had begun to take effect. Stealthily Duvall's hand reached toward the small black satchel. With eager fingers he pressed the catch, and as the bag opened, began to draw out its contents.
The woman, however, seemed far less helpless than he had supposed. She pulled the satchel toward her, her fingers seeking to close it. Duvall discontinued his efforts at once. It would be time enough, he felt, when they had reached the hotel, and the woman had been safely conducted to a room there. He had made his plans carefully in advance, and arranged matters with the hotel manager. There was nothing to do, now, but wait.
Presently the woman, who had been regarding him, unnoticed, from beneath lowered lids, uttered a groan, as though in great pain, and clutched her breast. Duvall turned to her at once, speaking in a soothing voice, and assuming a professional manner.
"Is anything wrong, Miss? I had hoped you were feeling better."
"No, doctor. I'm not. I feel terrible—terrible."
"In what way?"
"My—my heart. It is in awful shape. I need some stimulant. The—the medicine you gave me made me feel very ill."
Her words surprised Duvall. He had given her a simple drug, the effect of which should have been to make her drowsy, to quiet her nerves. That she had not taken it, he of course did not know. His greatest fear had been that she would refuse to enter the cab with him. Now that she had done so, he was prepared to use even force, if necessary, to retain her in his custody until he had either obtained the evidence he desired, or forced from her a confession. What he particularly hoped to find was the seal with which the death's head impression had been made. He felt certain that, if this was the woman he sought, she would have this seal somewhere about her person. It was far too significant a bit of evidence to be left lying about at home.
But there was always the chance that this woman, who had been so instantly affected by the ghastly apparition on the screen, the significant words beneath it, might not, after all, be the right one, the one he sought. There was always the possibility that the real criminal, although present in the audience, had made no sign, and that his companion in the cab might be entirely innocent. As he had told Baker, it was a chance—a long chance, yet something seemed to say to him that he had made no mistake in taking it. Now, however, a new situation had arisen to upset his plans. His prisoner, instead of having been quieted by the drug he had administered, was apparently becoming more and more agitated and nervous every minute. Her groans, as she lay huddled up in the corner of the cab, puzzled him, filled him with vague alarm. Was it possible that she had a weak heart? Had the sedative he had given her, harmless as he knew the dose would be to a normal person, affected her in so unfavorable a way? He took her wrist in his hand, and felt her pulse. It was quick, indicative of nervous excitement, but certainly not weak.
"Oh—doctor, doctor, won't youpleasegive me something to make me feel a little better?" the woman gasped. "It's my heart, I tell you. I—I can't breathe. I'm suffocating. I must have something at once—some aromatic spirits of ammonia—some brandy—anything, to make me feel a little better."
Her earnestness, her trembling voice, her excited manner, all served to convince Duvall that his companion was really in need of a stimulant of some sort. He decided to humor her. A dose of aromatic spirits, he reflected, could do no harm, and would doubtless serve to lessen her excitement. He leaned out, and directed the driver of the cab to stop at the nearest drug store.
"Oh—thank you—thank you," the woman gasped. "Tell him to hurry, please." Then collapsing in the corner of the seat, she closed her eyes and sat so silent that Duvall began to wonder whether she had lost consciousness.
The taxicab, meanwhile, had drawn up in front of a drug store on Sixth Avenue. Duvall took a look at the apparently unconscious woman, then spoke quickly to the chauffeur.
"Stay here until I return," he said. "Don't go away under any circumstances. I shall be gone but a moment."
The man nodded.
"I'll stay, sir," he said. "Don't worry."
Duvall went quickly into the store. Going up to the soda counter, he instructed the clerk to prepare him a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia as quickly as possible. While waiting for it, he watched the cab through the store window.
The preparation of the dose required but a few moments. Then, explaining matters to the clerk, Duvall took the glass in his hand and went back to the cab. He smiled to himself at his anxiety, as he passed through the door. The woman was far too ill, he reflected, to entertain any thoughts of escape.
"Here," the detective said, opening the door of the cab. "Drink this."
There was no response. Duvall stuck his head into the vehicle with some misgivings. Then he experienced a sudden and most mortifying shock. There was no fainting woman huddled against the cushions in the far corner. There was no woman at all.The cab was empty!
Richard Duvall had had charge of many unusual and intricate cases, in the past, and he prided himself upon the fact that he had handled them with skill and discretion, and that the results which had followed had been both quick and decisive. But in all his career he had not, so far as he could remember, ever felt quite so chagrined, as he did when he threw open the door of the cab and found that the woman he had left there had disappeared.
The fault was his, he knew that well—entirely and unmistakably his. This woman was evidently far more clever, more subtle than he had imagined. He realized now that she had in all probability not taken the drug he had given her in the dressing room of the theater, that she had seen his effort to examine the contents of her handbag, that her weakness, her call for a stimulant of some sort had been but clever acting, and that she had purposely sent him into thedrug store in order that she might escape. He blamed himself, utterly and completely, for his amazing stupidity in not realizing that the woman, instead of ordering the cabman to drive away, had only to slip out through the door on the opposite side of the vehicle, and vanish in the darkness.
And this she had quite evidently done. The door of the cab opposite him stood open. No doubt she had purposely refrained from closing it, fearing that the click of the lock might attract the driver's attention. The latter with his eyes following Duvall, as the detective entered the store, had remained serenely unconscious of his passenger's movements, her clever escape.
At least three or four minutes had elapsed. Duvall glanced up and down the street, but no sight of the vanished woman greeted his anxious gaze. She had had ample time to reach the next corner, and disappear in the darkness. Thoughts of pursuit entered his mind, but he realized at once the fruitlessness of such an attempt. His captive might have fled east or west, at either of the streets north or south of where he stood. Or she might have entered some restaurant, some motion picture house, or other convenient doorway along the Avenue. She might even have boarded a Sixth Avenue car, or hailed a passing cab. He looked up at the chauffeur, who still sat at his steering wheel, totally unaware of the flight of one of his passengers.
"The woman has gone," Duvall exclaimed, nodding toward the vacant cab.
The man turned in complete surprise. He seemed scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses.
"I—why sir—she was here just a moment ago, sir," he gasped, gazing into the interior of the cab as though he expected its recent occupant to suddenly materialize in the flesh.
"She got out on the other side, while I was in the store," Duvall remarked, shortly, then taking an electric searchlight from his pocket, made a thorough examination of the interior of the cab. He scarcely expected to find anything, although it flashed through his mind that the woman, in her hurry to escape, might have left her bag, her gloves, or something that might afford him a clue to her identity.
At first he saw nothing. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the brilliant glare of the electric torch, he observed a bit of white cardboard lying on the floor. It looked like a visiting card, and he snatched it up, devoutly hoping that it had fallen from the woman's bag during the attempt he had made to rifle it.
Under the light of his pocket lamp he made a quick examination of his find. It proved a lamentable disappointment. It was in fact a visiting card, or to be more correct, the torn half of one, but what was engraved upon it afforded him not the least clue to either the identity or the address of the woman he sought. On the first line were the words, "Miss Mar"—then came the torn edge of the card. On the second line there was but the figure 1, and then the break.
Was the name so tantalizingly suggested by the letters before him "Miss Mary" something or other? Or "Miss Margaret?" Or was it "Miss Martin," or "Miss Marvin," or "Miss Marbury," or any one of a score of other names beginning with the letters "Mar?" And what was the missing address? What numbers followed the figure 1, on that part of the card that had been torn off? And what was the name of the street? He realized at once that while what he had found might, under certain circumstances, act as a suggestion, it would not serve to get him very far, unless reinforced by other and more definite evidence. He thought for a moment of securing from Mr. Baker a list of the women employees of the studio. It was true, he remembered, that his prisoner had not been seated in that particular section of the house reserved for the company's employees, but that might have readily come from the fact that the section was fully occupied when she arrived. Then, as more names beginning with "Mar" occurred to him, the futility of the idea became apparent. Apart from any possible number of Marys, and Margarets there were Martha, Maria, Marcia, Marian, Marcella—others perhaps. Of course he would be able to recognize the woman, if he saw her, but she would be too clever to return to her place in the studio the following day, if by any chance she worked there, knowing, as she must inevitably know, that she would be identified at once.
Still, there was of course the chance that Mr. Baker might have recognized her. He presumably knew all the employees of his company by sight. Duvall got into the cab with a mortifying sense of having made a very foolish blunder, and directed the cabman to drive him back to the Grand Theater.
Mr. Baker was waiting in the lobby when the detective arrived, and at a nod from the latter the two men retired to the dressing room in which they had had their previous consultation. The moving picture man's face was eager, expectant, as he waited for Duvall to speak, and the latter felt his chagrin increase by the moment.
When he had at last finished his account of the affair, Mr. Baker looked exceedingly grave.
"Too bad—too bad," he muttered, "to have had her in our hands like that, and then, to lose her."
"Did you ever see the woman before?" Duvall questioned.
"No. Of course she might be in our employ, but I doubt it, although I could not be expected to know by sight every girl who works in the plant. There are stenographers, film cutters and pasters, dozens of others, that I do not engage directly, and never see. Let me look at the card."
Duvall handed the torn bit of pasteboard to him.
"Not much to go on," he said, quietly.
"No. Not much."
"Of course," the detective went on, "the evening has not been entirely wasted. We know the woman by sight, and that is a great deal. As for her name, I have made a careful study of this card, and assuming it to have been of the usual length in comparison to its width, the name following the 'Miss,' if it was a first name, points to a very short one, such as Mary, and not a long one, such as Margaret."
"How do you make that out?"
"Simply enough. The entire name would of course have been placed in the center of the card, which was, it appears, torn almost exactly in half. On the left-hand side, which we have in our possession, there are, in the word 'Miss,' four letters, and in 'Mar' three, or seven in all. We should correspondingly expect to find seven letters on the right or missing half of the card. But were the first name Margaret, or Marcella, which each contain eight letters, or five to be added to the 'Mar' we already have, it would leave but two letters for the woman's last name, and names of that length, or rather shortness, are so rare as to be negligible. It is far more probable that we have but to add a 'y' to the 'Mar,' or one letter, leaving six for the last name. This would give us 'Miss Mar-y Gordon,' with the name evenly divided by the tear. Or, if by chance, the first name is such a one as Marian, containing six letters, we need add but the 'ian,' or three letters, to the left-hand side of our card, leaving us four letters for the last name. Thus, Miss Marian Kent. The full name on the card should have just fourteen letters, provided the card is, as I conclude, torn exactly inhalf."
"Why do you conclude that?"
"Because visiting cards of this sort are usually made in standard sizes. I happen to have a woman's card—Miss Morton's, in fact, in my pocket. Its width is the same as that of the torn card, and if the latter was of the same length, you can readily see that it was torn exactly in half." He took a card from his wallet and laid the torn bit of pasteboard upon it. Their widths were identical. The whole card was just twice the length of the torn one.
"That is a most interesting deduction," Baker exclaimed. "What use can we make of it?"
"I will tell you. You have your car here, have you not?"
"Yes."
"Then I suggest that we run down to the studio at once, get your list of employees, examine the name of every woman upon it, and see if we cannot find one of fourteen letters, including the 'Miss,' of which the first name begins with 'Mar.' The chances are that we will be able to locate the name immediately."
"Yes," Mr. Baker exclaimed, rising in some excitement, "but, as you have before said, the woman, if she works for us, will not dare to appear in the morning, for fear that she will be recognized at once."
"That is true, but you will no doubt have on your books her home address. If we hurry, we can get there and back by midnight, and we may be able to place our hands on the woman before she can have time to escape."
Mr. Baker reached the door in two steps.
"Come along," he said. "We'll burn up the roads."
The two men said little, during their long ride. When they reached the entrance to the dark and silent studio building, only the night watchman appeared to greet them.
Inside the building, however, there were more signs of life. Some stage carpenters were busy, working overtime on a piece of scenery. In the developing and drying departments were also signs of activity. Mr. Baker led the way to his office. "It happens," he said, "that as I am obliged to O. K. the payroll each week, I have a list of our employees in my desk." As he spoke, he took his keys, opened a drawer, and drew out a small red book.
"Here is the list, with the home addresses," he said. "How shall we go to work?"
"Read me all the women's names, in which the first name begins with'Mar,'" Duvall said. "I will put them down on a sheet of paper." He drew a pad toward him, took out his pencil, and the two set to work.
When they had at last reached the end of the book, both Duvall and Mr. Baker were surprised to find that the names they had picked out were so few. In all there were but eight, as follows:
Miss Mary Sollenberger,Miss Mary Green,Miss Margaret Schwartz,Miss Maria Rosenheim,Miss Martha Simmons,Miss Marcia Ford,Miss Marian Greenberg,Miss Mary King.
Duvall ran his pencil down the list of names. "There is but one that fulfills the requirements," he announced. "The sixth name, that of Miss Marcia Ford, contains in all fourteen letters. None of the others do. Two, those of Miss King and Miss Green, come the nearest. Miss King's full name contains twelve letters, Miss Green's, thirteen. Any one of the threemightbe the one we seek."
"I can answer for Miss King at once," said Mr. Baker, quietly. "She is my stenographer, and most certainlynotthe woman who was in the theater to-night."
"That leaves then, Miss Green and Miss Ford. What do they do, and what are their addresses?"
Mr. Baker referred to his book.
"Miss Green is a telephone operator. Her address is given here as 310 Gold Street, Brooklyn. Miss Ford is a film cutter, and lives at 122 West 9th Street, New York."
"Neither sounds particularly promising," Duvall remarked, with a frown.
"No. But of course we are assuming that the woman in question works in the studio. If she doesnot, our whole fabric falls to pieces." Duvall took the torn piece of card from his pocket and glanced at it.
"The address given here begins with the number 1," he said, significantly."It may be that Miss Marcia Ford, of 122 West Ninth Street, is the woman we are looking for, although I confess I should have suspected some rival motion picture star, rather than a film cutter."
"By George, I forgot the fact that the card had an address on it," Baker exclaimed. "I think we had better look up Miss Ford at once."
"I agree with you," Duvall said. A few moments later they were driving at top speed back toward New York.
It was five minutes to twelve when they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street and turned west. Duvall realized that they were following a very slim clue, but it seemed for the moment the only promising one they had.
The house, No. 122, proved to be a typical high stooped, brownstone boarding house of this section of the city. It was for the most part dark, although one or two of the upper windows showed lights.
Accompanied by Baker, Duvall quickly mounted the steps and rang the bell. At first there was no answer, although they could hear the sound of the bell tinkling mournfully inside. A second summons brought no greater response. At the third, a woman's head appeared in one of the upper windows, and they heard a shrill and not over pleasant voice asking them what they wanted.
"I have an important message for Miss Marcia Ford," Duvall replied pleasantly. "I must see her at once."
"Miss Ford moved away from here three months ago," the woman snapped.
"Will you please give me her present address?" the detective exclaimed, somewhat taken aback.
"I don't know it. She didn't say where she was going. Good night!" A moment later the window above them was closed with a slam.
The two men stood staring at each other in the utmost disappointment. They had expected a more favorable outcome of their expedition.
"How long has she been with you?" Duvall asked, turning to his companion.
"I don't know. Certainly over three months, or we shouldn't have this address on our books. I suppose, when she changed it, she omitted to notify us. What are we going to do now?"
"There isn't anything we can do, until morning. If Miss Marcia Ford reports for work to-morrow, and you see that she is the woman who fainted in the theater to-night, have her arrested at once. If she doesn't report for work, at least we shall know that she is the woman we are after."
"That isn't much consolation," Mr. Baker grumbled.
"I don't agree with you. Having the woman's name, knowing her appearance, we are certain to catch her, sooner or later. And in the meanwhile, I do not think that she will attempt anything further so far as Miss Morton is concerned. We are too close on her trail, for that."
"I hope you are right," said the motion picture man. "Well, I guess I'll go along home. I'll be at the studio first thing in the morning, however, and I suppose you will be there too."
"By all means. I am most curious to see whether our reasoning to-night has been correct."
"Shall I take you to your hotel in my car?"
"No, thanks. I'll take a taxi. Good night."
"Good night."
A few moments later, Duvall was speeding up Fifth Avenue, his brain still puzzling over the curious contradictions which the events of the night had developed. On one point he felt secure, however. He was certain that the woman who had so narrowly escaped him earlier in the evening would not soon again attempt anything against Ruth Morton.
Arrived at his hotel, he asked for his key. The man behind the desk, with a queer look, handed him along with it a slip of paper. On it was written: "Mrs. Bradley wishes Mr. John Bradley to come to her room at the moment he returns."
"When was this message left?" the detective asked.
"Oh—nearly two hours ago. The time is stamped on the back of it, sir."
Duvall turned the card over, and saw from the stamp on the other side that Mrs. Morton had sent for him at half past ten.
"The message was phoned down by the lady herself," the clerk added, by way of explanation.
Duvall went up in the elevator, and a few moments later, was knocking at the door of Mrs. Morton's suite.
The latter herself appeared in the doorway. She was pale and agitated. "Come in, Mr. Duvall," she said.
The detective entered, closing the door behind him.
"What is wrong, Mrs. Morton?" he asked.
"There has been another warning—a dreadful one," the older woman exclaimed, her voice trembling. "It came a little after ten."
"What was it?" Duvall's voice was almost as strained as that of the woman before him. Her words came to him as a complete surprise. Had all the work of the evening, then, been wasted?
"At a little after ten," Mrs. Morton said slowly, "I sent my maid Nora out for some medicine for my daughter. She went to a drug store some three blocks away. As she returned to the hotel, she saw a young woman standing near the entrance, apparently watching those who went in and out. As soon as the maid came up to the doorway, the woman stepped up to her, and thrusting a package into her hands, said quickly, 'Give this to Miss Ruth Morton. It is from the studio.' Then she walked away at once.
"Nora, as she tells me, did not know just what to do. You will remember that while she realizes from our presence here under an assumed name, that something is wrong, she knows little or nothing of the circumstances surrounding Ruth's terrible persecution. Hence she foolishly took both the medicine and the package the woman had given her, to my daughter."
"Yes—yes—go on," Duvall exclaimed, seeing Mrs. Morton pause.
"Ruth opened them both. I was in the next room at the moment. Suddenly I heard a cry, and on rushing in, found her standing in the center of the room, holding a small bottle in one hand, and staring at it in the utmost consternation. In her other hand was a sheet of paper, which, as I subsequently found, had been wrapped around the bottle, inside the outer brown-paper cover.
"The bottle was labeled 'carbolic acid.' Here is the sheet of paper." Mrs. Morton, with trembling fingers, extended a half sheet ofnote-paper toward the detective.
Duvall took it and read the typewritten words upon it.
"We gave you thirty days. Now we give you seven. Drink this, and save yourself from a horrible fate." The death's head signature ended the message. "Ruth has been very ill ever since," Mrs. Morton added drearily. "If she is not better in the morning, I shall call in a doctor. She felt herself absolutely safe, here, and was recovering her cheerfulness. Now all her fears have returned with redoubled force. I am terribly worried about her—terribly worried." Taking out her handkerchief, the poor woman wiped the tears from her eyes. "How could these people have known we were here?" she whispered, in an awed voice. "It seems like the work of fiends."
There was little that the detective could say in reply. Even to his sober judgment, there came a suggestion of the uncanny, the supernatural. The woman in the cab had escaped at half past nine, presumably quite ignorant of the location of Mrs. Morton's retreat. Half an hour later, the campaign of intimidation was renewed with greater vigor than before.
"I'm afraid, Mrs. Morton," he said, "that itwill be necessary for you to remain with your daughter every minute of the time, for a day or two. By then, I am convinced that we shall have laid our hands on the guilty parties. Good night."
Duvall rose very early the following morning, and drove at once to the studio, but early as he was, Mr. Baker was there before him.
The latter was seated in his office, poring over a mass of reports, when Duvall entered. He glanced up, rose, shook hands nervously, then motioned to a chair.
"Nothing new yet," he said. "My stenographer, Miss King, is here. Neither Miss Green nor Miss Ford have yet arrived, but it is still a little early. Miss King came before her usual time, as she had some reports to get out that she could not complete last night. We have at least fifteen minutes to wait."
Duvall told him to proceed with his work, and drawing a newspaper from his pocket, made an effort to interest himself in it. In this, however, he was not very successful. Time after time his mind would wander from the printed sheet before him to the strange events of the night before. The thing that puzzled him most was, how did the persecutors of Miss Morton discover her new address so soon? Was the woman who had handed the package to Nora, the maid, the same one that had vanished from the cab? He remembered that it had been about nine o'clock when they left the Grand Theater, and perhaps half-past when he had gone into the drug store in Sixth Avenue to get the aromatic spirits of ammonia. Had the woman gone directly from the cab to the hotel? She must have done so, without much loss of time, in order to reach there by ten o'clock. How had she known the address? He knew very well that he had given it to the cabman, when they started away from the theater. Had the supposedly fainting woman overheard his words? If she had, and had so promptly acted upon them, she was far more clever and determined than her appearance would seem to warrant. He revolved the matter endlessly in his mind, waiting for Mr. Baker to announce that the time had come, when Miss Ford's or Miss Green's arrival or non-arrival would indicate which of the two, if either, was the woman they sought.
Suddenly the bell of the telephone on Mr. Baker's desk ran sharply. He answered it, then turned to Duvall.
"Miss Green, the telephone operator, is at her desk," he said. "Would you like to take a look at her?"
"Yes." The detective arose, and followed Mr. Baker into the corridor. The switchboard of the building was located at the end of the hall, in a small bare room. When they reached it, Mr. Baker spoke to a dark-haired, rather stout, woman who sat at the desk.
"Miss Green," he said, "if any calls come in for Mr. Duvall, he will be in my office." Then he went back along the corridor.
"She certainly isn't the woman we are after," he remarked to Duvall, as soon as they were out of earshot.
"No. It must be Miss Ford," the detective replied.
"Suppose we go to the developing and finishing department," Baker suggested. "It is time all our people were on hand. Mr. Emmett, who is in charge there, can tellus about Miss Ford."
They crossed to the other side of the building, and entered a small office. A bald-headed man sat at a littered desk.
"Mr. Emmett," Baker said, "shake hands with Mr. Duvall. He is looking for a young woman in the finishing department. Miss Marcia Ford. Has she come in yet?"
"No," replied the bald-headed man, gravely shaking hands. "She is not here this morning. It is rather surprising, too, for she usually is on time."
"What sort of a looking woman is she?" Duvall inquired.
"Oh—a rather insignificant looking girl of about twenty-five. Small, slender, not very prepossessing, but clever—enormously clever. One of the best film cutters we have. I should be sorry to lose her."
"Light blue eyes, and light hair," Duvall questioned. "And a thin, rather cruel mouth?"
"Exactly. But why? Has she gotten into any trouble?"
"No—I hope not. I merely wanted to see her."
"Well—of course she may show up later, although as I say she has usually been very punctual. I shouldn't be surprised if she is sick. She's been acting rather peculiarly, the past few days."
"How so?" asked Duvall, quickly.
"I can't say—exactly. I got the impression from her manner that she was nervous, excited, out of sorts. Merely an impression, but such things count."
"Telephone me, Emmett," Mr. Baker said, "if she comes in during the next hour. Come along, Mr. Duvall, you can wait in my office."
They returned to the other side of the immense building, and Duvall sat down to wait. He felt sure that they were on the right track, and was impatient to get back to New York and try to locate the missing woman. The description given by Mr. Emmett left little doubt in his mind that she and Miss Marcia Ford were one and the same. He sat in Mr. Baker's office, reading the paper, waiting anxiously for the hour the latter had specified to pass.
After what seemed an interminable wait, Mr. Baker glanced at his watch, then rose.
"It is ten o'clock, Mr. Duvall," he announced. "Miss Ford has not come, or Mr. Emmett would have notified me. I do not see that there is anything further to be accomplished here."
As he spoke, the telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Baker picked up the receiver, listened intently for a few moments, then slammed the receiver back upon the hook.
"Hell!" he ejaculated softly.
"What is it?" Duvall asked.
"Miss Ford has just reported for work!"