CHAPTER VDuvall's first move, after leaving Mrs. Morton's apartment that morning, was to enter the taxicab which had been waiting for him at the door and return to his hotel. A light overcoat which he had in the vehicle concealed his workman's disguise sufficiently to enable him to reach his room without exciting comment. Once there, he changed his clothes, putting on a professional looking frock coat, and adjusting a pair of shell-rimmed eyeglasses to complete the slight disguise. Thus equipped, he once more set out.Grace had left a note for him, saying that she had gone shopping. Beside it lay the photograph of Ruth Morton, which he had, he remembered, left on his chiffonier while putting on his workman's clothes that morning. At the foot of her hastily written note Grace had added a postscript. "Isthisthe reason for your sudden interest in motion pictures?" it read. "Well, I'll admit she's a raving beauty, Richard, but I'll bet she isn't half as nice as I am." Duvall read the note with a smile. Grace was always such a thoroughly good comrade.Leaving the hotel, he went to the telegraph office from which the message to Ruth Morton had been delivered that morning. It was on Columbus Avenue, some four blocks from the Mortons' apartment."Can you tell me where this telegram was sent from?" he asked. The message showed that it had been filed, as well as delivered, within the city limits.The man behind the desk looked up his records."It was sent from the main office on lower Broadway, at 8.30," he said, briefly.Duvall thanked him, then turned away. Although he realized that he could scarcely hope to obtain even a scanty description of the sender of the telegram from the main office, he determined to go there. First, however, he walked back toward the Mortons' apartment, and going up the steps of the brownstone house adjoining, rang the doorbell.A neat maid-servant opened the door. Duvall favored her with a smile, at the same time taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket."I am making some corrections in the city directory," he said. "Will you please give me the names of all the persons living in this house." The girl stared at him for a moment, but his prosperous appearance, his businesslike manner, disarmed any suspicion she may have felt."There's—there's Mr. William Perkins," she said, "and Mrs. Perkins, and Mr. Robert, that's Mr. Perkins' son, and—and Miss Elizabeth, although she's away at boarding school, and—and Emily Thompson, the cook, and—and me. My name's Mary. Mary Wickes.""Thank you, Mary," Duvall replied, entering the names carefully in his notebook. "And Mr. Perkins, the elder Mr. Perkins, I mean, is he the lawyer?""No, sir. It's Mr. Robert that's the lawyer, sir. Mr. William Perkins is in the leather business.""Ah, yes. I see. Thank you very much indeed. And there are no boarders, or other persons whatever living in the house?""No, sir. Not any, sir."Duvall closed his book and put it carefully in his pocket."Now, Mary," he continued. "Just one more question. Does any one sleep in the attic?""The attic, sir? Why, no sir. Cook and I sleep on the fourth floor, sir, but the attic isn't used, except for storage, sir. Are you going to put that in the directory too, sir?" The girl regarded him with wondering eyes."No, Mary. Not in the directory. But we want to be sure not to omit any names, and I thought that if there was anyone living in the attic——" he paused."No one, as I've told you. Nobody ever goes up there, so far as I know. Is that all, sir?""Yes. That's all. Thank you. Good morning."Duvall went down the steps, and proceeded to the subway station, somewhat mystified. He had handled many curious cases in the past, many that had been notable for their intricacy, their complexity of motive and detail. But here, he felt, was a case of a very different sort, the peculiarity of which lay in its astonishing lack of clues of any sort. Usually in the past there had been motives, evidence, traces of some kind or other, upon which to build a case. Here there was nothing, except the three mysterious letters, the one equally mysterious telegram. He felt baffled, uncertain which way to turn. In rather a dissatisfied frame of mind he made his way to the telegraph office in lower Broadway. There were several clerks engaged in receiving messages. He approached one of them."This telegram," he said, holding out the slip of yellow paper Mrs. Morton had given him, "was sent from this office at half past eight this morning. Can you by any chance give me a description of the person who sent it?" He leaned over and addressed the clerk in a low tone. "I am a detective," he said. "The telegram is part of a blackmailing scheme."The man looked at him for a moment, and then consulted with an older man, evidently his superior. The latter came forward."I received this message myself, sir," he said. "I remember it, because of its peculiar wording. What is it you wish to know?""I would like a description of the person who sent it," Duvall told him.The man thought for a moment."I'm not able to tell you much," he said. "It was a woman—I didn't notice particularly whether she was young or old. In fact, she didn't give me a chance, just laid the message and the money down and went right out. She evidently knew the rate, for the amount she left was correct. I took the message and read it, without noticing her particularly, and then, when I had finished reading it and looked up, she had gone.""Then you can't tell me anything about her?" Duvall asked, greatly disappointed."Not a thing. I remember it was a woman, and my general impression is that she was rather young and small, but I can't be at all sure. You see, sir, a great many persons come in, during the day, and we haven't time to take note of them particularly. As I say, I read the telegram first, and counted the words. By that time she had left the office."Duvall thanked the man for his information and made his way to the street. Something at least had been gained. The person who was hounding Ruth Morton was a woman.By this he was not at all surprised. He had felt for some time that Ruth's enemy was, in all probability, some jealous and envious movie actress who, herself unsuccessful, resented the youth and beauty of her successful rival. He called a taxi and directed the driver to take him out to the studio of the company with which Ruth was connected. Here, in all probability, was to be found the woman he sought.The journey consumed considerably over an hour, and it was lunch time when he finally drew up before the entrance to the series of studio buildings. Before entering he went to a nearby restaurant to get a bite to eat.It was a small and rather cheap place, but at this hour was crowded with the employees of the big company. Duvall at first could not find a seat, but presently discovered one at a table not far from the door, at which were seated some young men, apparently stenographers or clerks.While waiting for his order of sandwiches and milk, the detective occupied himself with a newspaper. He was not reading it, however, although he pretended to be deeply engrossed in its contents. He was in reality listening to the gossip of the studio, which rose in a chorus about him.From a nearby table came the voice of a woman, evidently a great admirer of Ruth Morton."I tell you," she said, "that new film that she finished last week, An American Beauty, is going to be a knockout. She's the swellest thing on the screen. Got 'emallfaded,Ithink.""Think so?" questioned one of her companions. "I'm pretty strong for Helen Ward, myself.""Ruth Morton won't last," remarked a third, in a petulant voice."Course she'll last. Say—ain't that a bear of a title? An American Beauty. She always seems like a beautiful big rose, to me.""Well, roses don't last, do they?" asked the petulant voice again. "Not very long, anyway."Duvall turned suddenly in an effort to see the face of the speaker, but try as he would, he was unable to do so. Two of the girls sat with their backs to him. He could not manage to catch a glimpse of either of them. Almost as he turned, the three rose and made their way to the street. For a moment he thought of following them, but the idea seemed absurd. These twelve dollar a week stenographers or clerks could have no part in the plot against Miss Morton. And yet, there was something startling in the young woman's words. "Roses don't last." The telegram received by Ruth Morton that morning had contained almost the same phrase. "Even the beauty of the rose cannot endure." Then he remembered the title of the new film of which the girls had spoken, and smiled at his own suspicions. "An American Beauty." It would be natural, perfectly natural for anyone to refer to Ruth as a rose, with that title for her latest picture. He dismissed the matter from his mind, and proceeded to make a hasty lunch.He was watching, not only Ruth, but those about herHe was watching, not only Ruth, but those about herAt the entrance of the studio he explained that he was a writer of special articles for the Sunday papers, and had come to "write up" the life at the studios. He was promptly turned over to one of the officials who, after a few inquiries, seemed delighted at the opportunity to obtain free publicity for his company and its stars."I want particularly to give a sketch of Miss Ruth Morton," he said. "She seems to be such a universal favorite.""A most delightful and charming woman," his companion asserted, with a pleased smile. "Come this way. You may be able to see her at work." He led Duvall down a long corridor, and into one of the big studio rooms.The first impression Duvall got was that of utter confusion. People were darting here and there, in ordinary clothes, or in all sorts of makeups. Stage carpenters were creating a terrific racket, building a new scene. A tangle of electric light cables, a blinding glare from the arcs, a confusion of voices, a wilderness of scenery and "props" all combined to create an impression quite the reverse of what he had expected. Here, he felt, was something very different from the theater, something bigger, yet more elemental, in which vast sums were expended daily to amuse a vaster indeed, a world-wide, audience. He sat down upon a box, and inspected the scene before him."Miss Morton will be on in a few moments," his guide said.Duvall nodded. His attention was fixed upon the little drama going on before him. He knew nothing of the plot of the play, but the mechanical features of the operation held his interest keenly. The brilliant electric lights, the setting of the little room, the actors in their ghastly greenish makeups, the camera man, grinding stolidly away at his machine, the director, hovering about like a hawk, watching every movement, every gesture, with a superlatively critical eye, all spoke to him of a new world, and one with which he was not in the least familiar.Suddenly he saw the lovely face of Ruth Morton, as the girl appeared from an open doorway. She did not take part in the picture at once, but stood chatting with the director, awaiting the moment when she would make her entrance. Duvall watched her intently. Her face, he thought, was drawn, nervous, her expression one of fear. She seemed suspicious of every one who came near her, as though she suspected that every stage hand, every electrician or helper, had in his possession a bottle of vitriol, which he only awaited the moment to hurl in her face. That the girl's nervous manner, her strained and tense expression, was evident to others as well as to himself, he realized from a remark his companion made to him."Miss Morton doesn't seem herself to-day," he said. "She must have something on her mind. I shouldn't be surprised if she has been working too hard lately."Duvall made no reply. He was watching, not only Ruth, but those about her. In particular he observed the other women in the cast. It seemed not improbable that among them he would find the one whose envy had led to the sending of the threats Ruth had been receiving.Presently the scene was finished, and Ruth, in response to a call from Duvall's companion, came toward them."Miss Morton," the latter said, "let me present Mr. Richards." This was the name Duvall had given. "He is anxious to meet you, and write you up for one of the newspapers."Ruth gave him her hand with a smile which Duvall saw clearly enough was forced. The girl was palpably worn,distrait."I'm not going to interview you now, Miss Morton," he said. "I can understand that you must be tired, after posing all the morning. Let me come and see you sometime when you are more at leisure."Come to my house some evening, and I'll tell you all about being a 'movie' star"Come to my house some evening, and I'll tell you all about being a 'movie' star"She thanked him with a smile, this time quite genuine."I'm not feeling very well this afternoon," she said. "Come to my home some evening, or better still, on Sunday, and I'll tell you all I know about being a 'movie' star. So glad to have met you." She was just about to turn away, when a small boy came up, carrying in his hand a flat package, wrapped in brown paper. Duvall observed that the package had upon it a typewritten address."Something for you, Miss Morton," he said, and placed the package in Ruth's hand.The girl looked at it for a moment in dismay. Then realizing that the eyes of the two men werebent curiously upon her, she recovered herself and tore open the brown paper envelope. Duvall, with one eye on the boy, saw that he had disappeared through the door leading to the company's executive offices.Suddenly Ruth, who had been examining the contents of the package, gave a faint cry, and swayed backward, as though about to fall. Duvall's companion sprang to her assistance, while Duvall himself snatched the object which had so affected her from her hand and hastily examined it.It was a photograph of Ruth Morton herself, but Duvall, as he gazed at it, comprehended instantly the effect it had produced upon the girl's over-wrought nerves. Some clever hand had been at work upon the photograph, retouching it, changing its lovely expression, until the portrait, instead of being a thing of beauty, grinned up at him in frightful hideousness. The blank, sightless eyes, the haggard cheeks, the thin wasted lips, the protruding and jagged teeth, all created an impression shocking beyond belief. And yet, the result had been obtained by the addition of but a few simple lines and shadows.Along the blank space at the bottom of the picture a line of typewritten characters had been placed. Duvall glanced at them. "As you will look soon," the words read. Below them was fixed the grinning Death's head seal. Unobserved in the confusion, Duvall thrust the photograph into his pocket, and turned to Ruth and the others.The girl had recovered herself by now, and was being conducted to her dressing room by a solicitous crowd. So far as Duvall would see, she had said nothing to those about her as to the cause of her sudden indisposition, and with the exception of the man who had been Duvall's guide, none of them had observed the opening of the package containing the photograph, nor its immediate effect upon her.The latter, however, whose name was Baker, came over to Duvall and addressed him."What was it about that photograph that upset Miss Morton so?" he asked. "And what has become of it?"Duvall drew him to one side."Let us go to your office, Mr. Baker," he said. "I have a most important matter to discuss with you."Baker regarded the detective for a moment in surprise, then, seeing that Duvall was very much in earnest, he led the way to his private office."I am not a newspaper writer, Mr. Baker," Duvall said, as soon as they were seated. "As a matter of fact, I am a detective, in the employ of Mrs. Morton, Ruth Morton's mother.""A detective?" he questioned. "Why has Miss Morton's mother employed a detective?""Because someone is persecuting the girl, by sending her threatening letters, saying that her beauty is to be destroyed. This photograph"—he drew the hideous picture from his pocket—"is a sample of their work."Mr. Baker regarded the photograph for a moment in silence, then rose with a growl of rage and struck his clenched fist upon the desk."This is outrageous—damnable!" he cried. "It cannot go on. No wonder the poor girl looked tired out. We will put the matter in the hands of the police. We will spend any amount of money——""Wait a moment, Mr. Baker," Duvall interrupted, urging the angry man back into his chair. "Nothing is to be gained by giving any publicity to this matter. The scoundrels who are at the bottom of it will at once be warned, and then our chance of catching them will be small indeed. So far, not a soul knows that I am working on this case, outside of Mrs. Morton, and yourself. Even Miss Ruth does not know it. I have already unearthed some very surprising things connected with the case, although I have been occupied with it only since this morning. Within a few days, I have no doubt, I shall be able to place my hands upon the person or persons responsible for the trouble, but I must insist that I be given a free hand.""But," Mr. Baker expostulated, "she may be in immediate danger. At any moment something may happen that would ruin her beauty, and incidentally, ruin us as well. She is our star attraction.""I do not think the danger is immediate," Duvall replied gravely. "All the threats so far received set thirty days as the period within which the attack is to be made. Only three days have passed, so far. And in addition, Miss Morton is being very carefully guarded.""She certainly shall be while she is here at the studio," Mr. Baker exclaimed. "But, man, something ought to be done—at once.""The first thing to be done is to find out how that photograph got here—who brought it—and when. It was not delivered by mail. Look here." He handed the angry official the torn manilla envelope, which Ruth, in her excitement, had dropped upon the floor.Mr. Baker regarded it for a moment in angry silence, then pressed an electric button upon his desk. A young woman responded."Send Jim here," he said. The girl nodded and withdrew.A few moments later a freckled-faced boy of twelve or fourteen came in. Duvall saw that it was the same boy who had brought in the photograph."You sent for me, sir?" he asked."Yes. Where did you get the package you delivered to Miss Morton a little while ago?""From Mr. Curry, sir.""Good." Mr. Baker rose and went toward the door. "Come with me," he said to Duvall, "and you too, Jim." The three of them went along the corridor, arriving presently at the main entrance to the building. An elderly man sat at a high desk behind a wire grating."Curry," Mr. Baker burst out, "this boy tells me you gave him a package for Miss Morton a while ago.""Yes, sir.""Where did you get it?"The man looked up in surprise."Why, sir, someone left it here—on my desk. I don't know who, sir. Right after lunch, it was. You know people deliver things here all the time. I didn't take any particular notice how it got here. It was just pushed through the window, I guess, same as usual. There was a lot of mail in the rack, after lunch, and everybody asking for theirs as they came in. In fact, I don't remember seeing the package handed in at all. Just found it lying on my desk, along with a lot of letters and things. Why,sir? Is anything wrong?"Baker turned to Duvall in disgust."No system here at all," he grumbled. "The trail is lost, of course. Half a hundred people come through here every hour. That's all, Jim," he said, turning to the boy, who disappeared at once. Accompanied by Duvall, Baker returned to the private office."Well?" Mr. Baker asked. "What next?""How many typewriters have you in your offices, Mr. Baker? Machines, I mean, not operators.""About thirty, I guess. Or maybe thirty-five. Why?""I want you to get me a sample of the writing of each machine, without letting anyone know about it. Put each one on a separate sheet of paper, with a note added, stating whose machine it is—that is, in whose office."Mr. Baker nodded. "I'll do it to-night," he said. "Attend to it myself. I see your idea. You think this thing is the work of someone inside the studio.""It may be, I don't know. But I mean to find out.""All right. Anything else?""Yes. Tell me something about this new film you've just gotten out. 'An American Beauty,' I think it is called."Mr. Baker's manner became enthusiastic."Greatest film Ruth Morton ever did," he exclaimed. "A knockout. It is to be shown at the Grand, on Broadway, to-morrow night. First time on the screen. You'd better look it over.""I probably shall. Now, tell me this. If I wanted to add anything to that picture, put in an insert, I believe you call it, could I do so, if I told you about it to-morrow?""Well—it might be done," Mr. Baker replied, dubiously. "But we wouldn't want to change the film any. It's perfect as it is.""I don't doubt that. I have no idea of improving it in any way. But it is just possible that I may have a scheme that will help us to catch these people who are threatening Miss Morton. I'll tell you more about it, to-morrow. Meanwhile, don't forget about the typewriter samples. I'll see you in the morning." He rose. "And for the present, I think it would be best for you to keep what I have told you to yourself."Mr. Baker nodded."I'll do that," he said, putting out his hand. "For the present, at least. But don't forget, Mr. Duvall, that this is a very vital matter to our company, and we can't afford to take any chances.""I realize that fully. You can depend on me. I intend to save Miss Morton from any harm, not primarily on your company's account, but on her own. Good day.""Good day, and the best of luck."Duvall went toward the entrance, and in the corridor met Mrs. Morton. She was about to pass him, but he detained her."Twenty-seven days more," he whispered to her. She turned sharply, a look of fear upon her face, but as she recognized Duvall, her expression changed."Oh—it's you," she exclaimed. "I've just come down in the car, to take Ruth home. Is everything all right?""Yes, so far. At least no harm has come to your daughter. But I am sorry to say that she has received another warning.""Here?" Mrs. Morton started, and glanced about in alarm."Yes.""What was it?""A photograph." Duvall explained the contents of the mysterious package, but did not show the hideous picture to the girl's mother."And you haven't found out anything yet?""Nothing definite. There has scarcely been time. But we will. You may be sure of that.""Have you seen Ruth?" Mrs. Morton asked."Yes. Mr. Baker introduced me to her. She thinks I am a newspaper man, who wants to write a special article about her for one of the Sunday papers. She suggested that I call at your house some evening, or possibly Sunday. If you are going back to town soon, I think it might be a good idea for me to drive back with you.""By all means. I shall feel much safer. Suppose you wait for us at the entrance. I shall not be long."Duvall nodded, and strolled toward the street, his mind busy with the events of the day. He stood for quite a while near the door, watching the people who came in and out. Many of them were women. He wondered if among them was the woman who was responsible for the threats of the past three days. It seemed improbable, and yet, there were indications that it was within the studio, rather than outside it, that the guilty person was to be found.Mrs. Morton came out presently, accompanied by Ruth. The girl looked pale and troubled. Duvall went up to her."I have met your mother, Miss Morton," he said, "and she has very kindly suggested that I ride back to the city with you."The girl nodded, without particular interest."We shall be very glad to have you," she said, "but you will excuse me, I know, if I do not talk to you about my work. I am feeling rather bad to-day, and I'm sure I couldn't tell you anything interesting.""I'm sure I would not expect it, under the circumstances," Duvall replied, as Miss Morton, accompanied by her mother, went toward the automobile that stood near the entrance. "I don't doubt your work is full of trying incidents.""Oh, it isn't my work," the girl replied, as he assisted her into the car. "I love my work. But there are other things." She glanced toward her mother with a tired smile, then sank back upon the cushions.A moment later they were whirling toward the city.CHAPTER VIDuvall's ride back to town with Mrs. Morton and Ruth was quite uneventful. The latter, as she had explained, was ill, weak, indisposed to talk. Duvall and Mrs. Morton kept up a brisk conversation upon topics of the day, but both knew that it was of the girl they were thinking, and their interest in the subjects they discussed was clearly forced. Both were glad when the car at last stopped before the apartment building, and the long ride was over.Mrs. Morton invited Duvall to come in and dine with them, and he promptly accepted. Ruth seemed indifferent. Assisted by her maid, she left the car and on reaching the apartment, at once went to her room."You will excuse me, I know," she said to Duvall. "I am tired out, and think I had better lie down at once.Nora will bring me some dinner," she said, turning to her mother.Duvall and Mrs. Morton ate their dinner in silence. Some sense of oppression, of impending evil, hung over them both. Mrs. Morton left the table toward the close of the meal, and went to her daughter's room. With the solicitude of the typical mother she arranged the windows. That opening to the fire escape she raised to its full height. The one facing upon the court she left as it was, raised some six or eight inches. Then, having kissed her daughter good night, she returned to the library, where Duvall sat smoking a cigar."Ruth has gone to bed," she told him. "Both the windows in her room are open, the one on the fire-escape wide, the other partly raised."Duvall looked at her with an expression of doubt."I think it would be better, for the present," he said, "to close and fasten the one opening on the fire escape. We cannot tell to what danger your daughter may be exposed."Mrs. Morton rose and left the room."I will do as you advise," she said. Going to Ruth's bedroom she closed and fastened the window in question, then she went back to the library."Have you hit upon any theory to account for the sending of these letters?" she asked.Duvall shook his head. "The whole thing is very mysterious," he said. "Of course it was easy enough for anyone to leave the photograph at the studio this afternoon. In fact it might readily have been done by one of the other actresses, who might be jealous of your daughter's success. But if the thing was done by anyone employed at the studio, how can we account for the message left in the bedroom at half-past nine this morning, the one we found on the floor? If the woman who is responsible for these threats was at the studio this morning, how could she arrange to have the note left in your daughter's bedroom here at the same hour? That would seem to imply a confederate. I confess that the entire matter is for the moment beyond me.""Were you able to find out anything concerning the telegram which came this morning?""Nothing, except that it was sent by a woman. I was not surprised to learn that. Naturally I should expect that a woman was responsible for these threats. But what woman? That is the question." He sat for a long time, thinking, his eyes fixed upon the floor.Suddenly there came a ring at the doorbell. Mrs. Morton, without waiting for the maid, sprang to the hall, with Duvall close at her heels. As she threw it open, they saw a man standing in the doorway. Duvall was the first to recognize their caller."How do you do, Mr. Baker," he said, holding out his hand.Mr. Baker came in, and greeted Mrs. Morton."I didn't expect to find Mr. Duvall here," he said. "In fact, I came to you to get his hotel address. Luckily I won't need it, now.""Anything new?" Duvall asked, as they returned to the library."Nothing much. I got those samples of the writing of the various typewriters, as you requested," Baker replied, "and I thought that instead of waiting until to-morrow, it would be better to bring them to you to-night." He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket. "There are thirty-two in all. What are you going to do with them?" He placed the papers in Duvall's hand.The latter sat down at the library table and placed the sheets of paper before him."Of course you know," he said to Baker, "that every typewriting machine has its unmistakable peculiarities. It is almost impossible to find a machine that has been used at all, that has not developed certain individual defects, or qualities, found in no other machine. Now let us take for instance the letters that Miss Morton has received during the past few days. They have all been written on the same machine, and I am of the opinion that it is a fairly old one. While going down to the studio this afternoon, I worked out and wrote down in my notebook the particular features which appear in all these letters." He took a small leather-covered book from his pocket."In the first place," he said, "the letter 'a' throughout the several communications is always found to be out of line. The key bar is doubtless a trifle bent. Let us, therefore, see if, in any of the samples you have brought me, there exists a similar defect."He took the samples of writing, one by one, and after scrutinizing them carefully, passed them over to Baker, who likewise subjected them to a critical examination. When their work was completed, it was found that of the thirty-two samples, the displacement of the letter "a" occurred in but three, and in one of these it was so slight as to be scarcely noticeable. Duvall laid the three pages to one side. "A second fault shown in the typewriting of the letters," he said, "is to be found in the capital 'W.' Its lower right-hand corner has been worn or broken off, so that it invariably fails to register." He handed one of the letters to Baker. "See here, and here. The corner of the 'W' instead of being clear and distinct, is blunt and defective. Let us see whether a similar fault is to be found in any one of these three samples." He picked up the three sheets of paper that he had placed to one side.As he examined them, Mr. Baker and Mrs. Morton saw a shadow of disappointment cross his face. He handed the three pages to Baker."The threatening letters were not written on any machine at your studio," he said.Baker took the pages and looked them over carefully."No," he said at length. "You are right. None of these show the second defect you have named.""Well," observed Duvall cheerfully, "we have accomplished something, at least. We know that these letters were not written at the studio, and it seems reasonably certain that the woman we are looking for has a typewriter in her rooms, or wherever she may live. Of course she might have had the typewriting done by some public stenographer, but I consider it unlikely. A person sending threats of this character would not be apt to entrust so dangerous a secret to a third person. We must therefore make up our minds to find a woman who has a typewriting machine, and knows how to use it.""There are probably a hundred thousand such women in New York," Baker observed, gloomily."No doubt. But we have more information than that about the person who sent these letters.""What, for instance?" asked Baker and Mrs. Morton in a breath."Well, in the first place, this woman was able to secure possession of a photograph of Miss Morton." He took the hideously distorted picture from his pocket. "Do either of you know where this photograph was made?"Mrs. Morton examined the picture with a shudder. Then she rose, went to a cabinet at the other end of the room, and took out an album. Returning to the table, she placed the book before her, and began to turn the pages. In a few moments she found what she was looking for, a duplicate of the likeness which lay before them, with the exception, of course, of its frightful distortions."This picture was made by Gibson, on Fifth Avenue," she said, referring to the photograph in the book. Both Baker and Duvall saw at once that on the retouched picture, the name of the photographer had been scratched off."How many of them were made, and what became of them?" Duvall asked quickly."Ordinarily I could not answer such a question," Mrs. Morton replied, "for Ruth has had many photographs taken, and we have not of course kept a record of them, or what has become of them, but in this particular case I happen to remember that she did not like the pose particularly, and ordered but half a dozen. I do not think that she gave any of them away. If I am right in my supposition, there should be five more here in the apartment." Closing the book, Mrs. Morton went to the cabinet again, and took out a portfolio containing numberless photographs of her daughter in all sorts of poses.After some searching, she produced a brown-paper envelope, containing a number of pictures, all taken by the same photographer, at the same time. There were in the envelope four copies of the photograph, the fifth of which was contained in the album."Evidently one has been given away," Duvall exclaimed. "Now if we can only find out to whom, our search for the writer of these letters may be very quickly ended."Mr. Baker regarded them both with a puzzled look."I have seen that picture before," he said, "and of course I could not have done so, had I not seen the one that is missing." He sat for a while in silence, searching his recollection for a solution of the problem. Suddenly he spoke. "There was a picture like that in my office, at one time," he exclaimed. "Miss Morton sent a number down, for advertising purposes, and I am positive that this one was among them. I remember distinctly the pose of the head, the unusual arrangement of the hair. That photograph should be in our files. The fact that it has been taken out shows that the person who has been writing these letters is a member of our own staff, or at least has access to our files.""That does not necessarily follow," observed Duvall."Why not?""Because the picture might have been obtained from the photographer.""But they are not allowed to dispose of the portraits of others, without the sitter's permission.""I know that, but they sometimes do so, especially in the case of anyone so well known as Miss Morton. She has become a sort of publiccharacter."Well," remarked Duvall, "we can readily find out, in the morning. You, Mr. Baker, can go through your files, and should you find the photograph to be there, I will take the matter up with the photographer. If, on the contrary, the picture is missing, it will be fairly conclusive evidence that the person or persons we are looking for are in some way connected with the studio.""I will make an investigation the first thing in the morning," Mr. Baker announced, rising. "Do you expect to be at the studio early, Mr. Duvall?""Yes. Quite early.""Then we had best leave matters until then. Good night. Good night, Mrs. Morton." He turned and started toward the door.He had proceeded but a few steps, when the three occupants of the room were startled by a series of sudden and agonizing cries. From the rear of the apartment came a succession of screams so piercing in their intensity, so filled with horror, that they found themselves for a moment unable to stir. Then Mrs. Morton gave a cry of anguish, and darted out into the hall, closely followed by Duvall and Mr. Baker.The screams continued, filling the entire apartment with their clamor. That the voice which uttered them was that of Ruth Morton none of the three doubted for a moment. With sinking hearts they went on, prepared for the worst. Duvall found himself dreading the moment when they should reach the bedroom door, and face the girl, her beauty, perhaps, disfigured beyond all recognition.There was a sharp turn, at the end of the hall, into a shorter cross hall, at the end of which was the door of Ruth's bedroom. It was closed, but as though in response to Mrs. Morton's agonized appeals, it suddenly opened as they reached it, and Ruth Morton, pale as death, appeared.With wide open eyes staring straight ahead, she half stepped, half fell through the doorway, her slender figure clothed only in her night dress. "Ruth," Mrs. Morton screamed, as she caught sight of her daughter.The girl tried to say something, but her tongue failed her. Then, with a faint moan, she lurched forward and fell limply into her mother's arms.PART IICHAPTER VIIWhen Duvall, Mr. Baker, of the motion picture company, and Mrs. Morton rushed down the hallway of the latter's apartment in response to the screams from Ruth's bedroom, they were one and all convinced that the girl had suffered some terrible injury—that the mysterious threats to destroy her beauty which had been made during the past few days had been converted into some frightful reality.One glance at the girl's white face as she fell fainting into her mother's arms told the detective that their fears had been, to that extent at least, groundless. The girl's lovely features, although drawn and contorted by fear, showed no signs of the disfigurement they feared.Leaving the girl to her mother's care, Duvall, closely followed by Baker, dashed into the bedroom, and at once switched on the lights. The place, to the intense surprise of both, presented a picture of perfect quiet and order. The bed clothing was slightly disarranged, but this of course was but natural, since Ruth had sprung up under the influence of some terrible fear, and rushed from the room. Everything else seemed in its place.Duvall's first act was to examine the window. The one fronting on the fire escape was closed and tightly fastened. It was perfectly clear that no one had entered the room in that way.The other window, facing on the court, was raised a few inches, just as Mrs. Morton had left it half an hour before. Duvall turned to his companion with apuzzled frown."I had supposed, Mr. Baker," he said, "that someone had entered this room, and frightened Miss Morton while she was asleep, but that is impossible. The windows have not been disturbed."Baker glanced at the one which faced the court."That one may have been," he said, indicating it with a nod. "Someone may have come in that way, raising the window to effect an entrance, and lowering it again after leaving.""I admit that what you say would be possible, were there any way in which the window might be reached from outside," Duvall replied, "but if you will look out, and tell me how anyone could make an entrance from the court, I will agree to the possibility you suggest."Baker raised the window, and glanced out."The apartment above," Duvall went on, "is unoccupied, and the window above is closed and fastened. The little attic in the adjoining house is unused, although that is not important, since no one could reach this window from it, in any event. Can you suggest any other way?"Mr. Baker shook his head."She must have been frightened by some terrible nightmare," he said. "I do not wonder at it. She has gone through enough to upset anybody's nerves. Suppose we go back and question her.""Just a moment," exclaimed Duvall. Then he dropped upon his knees beside the disordered bed, and began to examine the surface of the counterpane with minute care."What is it?" Baker asked, joining him."I don't know—yet," returned Duvall, as he took a magnifying glass from his pocket and proceeded to scrutinize with the greatest interest some marks upon the counterpane's surface. Presently he rose, replaced the glass in his pocket, and turned to his companion."There is something very astonishing about this whole affair," he exclaimed. "What do you make of those?" He indicated a series of dark smudges upon the bedspread, arranged in little groups.Baker bent over and examined the marks with an exclamation of surprise."Why—they look like finger prints," he cried. "Large finger prints.""It is impossible to say whether they are finger prints or not," Duvall replied. "As you see, there are a great many of them, very confusingly arranged. But there is something else, that you have not noticed. What do you suppose could have made a mark like this?" He pointed to a long straight dark line, which extended half way across the counterpane, and pointed directly toward the window which faced upon the court. The line was very faint, but clearly defined, as though someone had laid a thin dusty stick across the bed."I can't make anything of it," Baker exclaimed, gazing toward the window."Nor can I," said Duvall. "At one time, because of certain indentations on the letters found in this room, I had thought that they might have been introduced through the partly opened window by means of a long rod, a fishing pole, perhaps. This mark on the counterpane appears to bear out that theory. The smudges which look like finger prints may have been merely the points at which the end of the pole, or whatever was attached to the end of the pole, came in contact with the bed. All that is perfectly supposable. But you can see for yourself that if a long pole were thrust through the window, raised as the latter was but a trifle above the level of the bed, the other end of such a pole must of necessity have been held at approximately the same level, and the only point outside the window from which it could have been so held isin the air, forty feet above the bottom of the court! The thing is absurd.""There is, of course, the window of the apartment below," Baker suggested. "Might not it have been used?""I thought of that," Duvall replied. "You can see for yourself that even a tall man standing on the window sill below, would find not only his hands, but even his head, far below the sill of thiswindow, nor could anyone so support themselves, without something to hold on to. But all that is beside the question. The people in the apartment below are friends of Mrs. Morton's, a middle-aged man and his wife, with two young children. They are eminently respectable people, and quite above suspicion.""Then I give the thing up," exclaimed Baker. "Suppose we have a talk with Miss Morton."They found the girl lying on a couch in the library, with her mother sitting beside her. She seemed very weak and quiet, but in full possession of her faculties. Duvall drew up a chair, and asked her if she felt able to tell them what had occurred."Yes," she replied in a faint voice, her face still showing evidences of her fright. "I will try to tell you exactly what happened.""I had taken some medicine to make me sleep, before I got into bed, because I was very nervous and upset. When mother came back to fix the windows I was already drowsy, and just remember that she turned out the lights, and then I must have dozed."All of a sudden I heard a strange rasping noise, and I woke up, with the feeling that there was someone in the room. I don't know just why I felt so sure of that, whether it was merely a sense of someone's presence, or the sound of someone moving about near my bed. I think, however, that it was the latter."The room was dark, of course, but enough light came through the windows to make a moving object distinguishable. I looked about, terribly frightened, but for a moment I saw nothing. The noise I had heard at first continued. Then without the least warning, a hand seemed to clutch at the bedclothes, and I saw above me, bending over me, a terrible dark face, exactly like the grinning death's head on those letters I've been getting."I lay perfectly still, frozen with horror, and in a moment the face had disappeared, and then I began to scream. Right after that I sprang from the bed and threw open the door, and found mother and Mr. Baker and yourself standing in the hall. That is all I know."Duvall looked at her for a moment, puzzled."Are you sure you really saw someone leaning over you? Might it not have been an illusion, the result of your nervous condition?""No. I am certain someone was there—someone quite tall, I should say, and with a terrible, evil face.""It might have been a mask, of course," Duvall suggested. "Someone wearing a mask.""Yes. It might have been. It was too dark for me to tell, of course. But I remember the eyes, for I saw them distinctly. They were only a few inches from my own." She put her hands to her face and shuddered. "It was terrible, terrible. I shall never sleep in that room again.""There—there, dearie," Mrs. Morton whispered in a soothing voice. "You need not sleep there. You can lie right here, for the rest of the night, and I will stay with you and see that no one harms you.""That would be best, Mrs. Morton," Duvall remarked. "And to-morrow I suggest that you and your daughter move, temporarily at least, to another location. Some quiet hotel, where you will not be subject to these terrible annoyances. I cannot imagine how it is done, but in some way, some almost superhuman way, it seems, someone can apparently either enter your daughter's room, or at least reach it from without, at will.""What do you mean by that?" asked Ruth, somewhat mystified."I mean this, Miss Morton. I do not believe that there was anyone in your room to-night. I do not believe that there has ever been anyone there. But Idobelieve that the two letters we found there were introduced from without, in some mysterious way, at the end of a long pole, or rod. And I think that what frightened you so to-night was merely a mask, a grotesque representation of the seal used on the letters, and pushed toward you in some way, as you lay in bed for the purpose of terrifying you.""But—why—why?" the girl cried."I cannot say. But it has occurred to me that these people, whoever they are, that are trying to injure you, may not intend any physical violence at all, at least for the present, but may be depending solely upon the terrible and insidious power of suggestion. You must bear this possibility in mind, and try to control your fears. I can readily believe that thirty days of this sort of persecution, and you would be a physical and mental wreck. But we shall stop it. You need have no fears on that score." Mrs. Morton turned to her daughter with a few words of explanation."Mr. Richards, or rather, Mr. Duvall, is not a newspaper man, Ruth, but a detective, who is trying to bring the wretches who are annoying you to justice. I feel every confidence in him."Ruth turned toward Duvall a very white and pathetic face."I hope you will succeed, Mr. Duvall," she said, in a weak voice. "I cannot stand much more.""I shall, Miss Morton. And now," he turned to Mr. Baker, "I think we had better go, and let Miss Morton get some rest. I will come here in the morning, Mrs. Morton," he continued, addressing the girl's mother, "and we will consider further the question of your moving to a hotel. Meanwhile I do not think you have anything further to fear this evening. Good night."Before leaving the apartment he made another examination of the marks upon the bedclothes, then closed and fastened both windows, and locked the door of the room.Mr. Baker left him at the corner."You will come to the studio to-morrow, of course.""By all means. I shall come down with Miss Morton and her mother. That will give us an opportunity to investigate further the matter of the missing photograph, and also to talk over that plan I had in mind concerning the new film you are to show at the Grand to-morrow night. It is barely possible that, by means of a plan I have in mind, we may be able to locate the person or persons responsible for all this trouble.""I certainly hope so," said Baker, as he took his leave. "This thing is getting onmynerves, too."Duvall made his way back to his hotel, as much mystified as ever. He had thought for a moment of spending the night on the sidewalk in front of the Mortons' apartment, watching the windows facing on the court, but his experience told him that it would be useless. The alarm which Ruth had made, the closing of the windows of her bedroom, the locking of the door, all made it highly improbable that any further attempt would be made to annoy her during the night. He walked along in a state of intense preoccupation, trying to discover some reasonable explanation of the astonishing events of the day.Once he had an impression, a feeling, that he was being followed, but when he turned around, there was no one in sight but a slightly tipsy man, and a couple of young girls, far down the street. He dismissed the thought from his mind, and proceeded to his hotel.It was not yet eleven o'clock, and Grace was waiting for him in the little parlor of their suite."Well, Richard," she remarked, as he came in, "you've had quite a day of it.""Yes, quite," he replied, throwing himself into a chair. "What haveyoubeen doing with yourself?""Shopping, mostly. I found it rather dull. I went to a moving picture this afternoon. Saw your friend Ruth Morton. She certainly is a very beautiful girl.""Yes—very," Duvall replied, absently."Have you seen her to-day?" Grace went on, with a smile."Yes. Why?""Oh—nothing. I was just thinking."Duvall burst into a laugh, and rising, went over to his wife and kissed her."For heaven's sake, Grace," he said, "don't be silly. I'm not interested in motion picture actresses.""You weren't, I'll admit, nor in motion pictures either, until recently, but perhaps you have changed. I could understand any man being fascinated by a girl like Ruth Morton."Duvall did not pursue the question. It was a hard and fast rule between them not to discuss his professional work. And Mrs. Morton had made it a point that he should confide in no one, not even his wife."Well," he said, picking up an evening paper, "I'm not fascinated yet. No letters for me to-day, I suppose.""None." Grace went on with her sewing.They sat for a while in silence. Presently there came a knock on the door, and a boy appeared, bearing a telegram, Duvall opened it carelessly, thinking it some word from the overseer of his farm. He sat up with sudden astonishment as he read the contents of the message."Keep out," the telegram read, "or you will find that we can strike back."Duvall placed the telegram in his pocket with a frown. So it appeared that in spite of all his care, his connection with the case was known. How this was possible he could not imagine. His first visit to the Morton apartment that day had been in the guise of a workman. His subsequent appearance at the studio, and later, at the apartment, had been in the character of a newspaper man. There was only one explanation. Someone had watched him while he was making his examination of Ruth Morton's room, and, subsequently, had followed him from the apartment to his hotel. He began to realize that he was dealing with a shrewd brain, and one that acted with almost uncanny quickness and precision. He determined that, if Mrs. Morton and her daughter changed their place of residence the following day, he would do the same. He said nothing of his intentions to Grace, however. It was more than ever necessary that he preserve secrecy in this case."No bad news, I hope, Richard," Grace remarked, glancing up from her sewing."No. Nothing serious. Have you heard anything from home?""Yes. Everything is going along quite smoothly. The boy is well and happy, and Mrs. Preston says to stay as long as we want to.""Well," said Duvall, rising and throwing down his newspaper, "if things don't go better than they have been going to-day, I may have to be here sometime. I've got a queer case on, Grace. I'd like to tell you about it, but I can't. But it is quite unusual. Some features to it that I have never met before.""Oh—I wish I might help you," Grace exclaimed. "You know how often I have done so in the past.""I know, dear. But I am bound to secrecy, for the present at least. Suppose we turn in now. I've got to get up early.""All right," Grace said. "But if you need my help, don't hesitate to ask me. To tell you the truth, I'm having an awfully slow time."CHAPTER VIIIDuvall made his appearance at the Morton apartment the following morning in his ordinary guise. It was his intention, when the time came, to disappear from the case in his normal person, to reappear in it, later, in a complete disguise. But that time, he felt, had not yet arrived.Mrs. Morton received him in fairly good spirits. Her daughter, she said, had had a restful night, in spite of her terrible experience. When Ruth rose from the breakfast table to greet him, he was gratified to find that she showed no great traces of the fright of the evening before."I'm feeling almost myself again, Mr. Duvall," she said. "I've made up my mind not to let these people frighten me again.""Nothing further occurred last night, of course," Duvall asked."Nothing," replied Mrs. Morton. "I could almost believe the whole thing a horrible dream." They did not touch on the question of going to a hotel, during the short interval that elapsed before they set out for the studio. Duvall was anxious to see Mr. Baker. He hoped sincerely that by means of the photograph which had been in the company's files, some trace of the persons responsible for the threats might be obtained.The trip to the studio was made most uneventfully, and Ruth started in with her work in very good spirits. Duvall, leaving the girl with her mother, sought out Mr. Baker in the latter's private office."Hello!" Baker cried, grasping the detective's hand warmly. "Anything new?""Not a thing. How about the photograph we were going to trace?"Mr. Baker frowned."It's a curious thing," he replied. "Most curious. The picture in question was, I find, taken from the files by Mr. Moore, our president, and placed on his desk. He always admired it, and kept it there, along with a number of others, to show to persons calling upon him. Now, it seems, it has disappeared. There is not the slightest trace of it." "But," Duvall objected, "who could have taken it?""A dozen people. Half a hundred, I guess. You see, Mr. Moore's office is a big room, just beyond here." He rose, and led the detective through a short corridor. "Here it is," he went on, throwing open the door. "This is where Mr. Moore receives hiscallers. It is his reception room, and no private papers are kept here. Those are all in the smaller office adjoining. This room is open at any time. After Mr. Moore leaves in the evening, and he often leaves early, anyone might come in here. And when the offices are closed, at night, I suppose any employee of the company might look in, if he cared to do so, without anyone objecting. You see, this is a sort of public room. The inner office is always kept locked, but there has never seemed to be any good reason for locking this one.""Still, although you cannot tell who has taken the picture, it seems clear enough that it must have been removed by some one employed in the studio.""Even that is by no means certain. So many people come here every day. All sorts of visitors, writers, actors, and the like. After business hours I don't doubt any number of persons enter this room, to look at the pictures of our great successes that hang on its walls. And then there are the caretakers, the scrub-women, and their friends. I find that they, many of them, bring in outsiders, after working hours, to look at the studio, and the famous offices. Of course it should not be, and it will not be, in the future, but up to now we have rather welcomed people from outside. It seemed good advertising."Duvall followed his companion back to his office."Then this clue, like all the others in this singular case," he remarked, "seems to end in a blind alley.""It seems so," assented Mr. Baker, gloomily. "What was your plan about the new film we're going to show to-night?"Duvall was about to speak, but before he could do so, they heard a slight commotion in the hall outside. Then someone rapped violently on the door.Both he and Baker sprang to their feet."Come in," the latter cried.The door was flung open, and Mr. Edwards, the director, who was making the picture upon which Ruth Morton was working, strode hastily into the room. "Mr. Baker!" he exclaimed, then paused upon seeing Duvall."What is it?" Baker replied."Will you look here a minute, please?"Baker went up to him, his face showing the greatest uneasiness."What's the matter?" he asked. "Anything wrong?""Yes. Miss Morton was going through the scene in the first part, where she gets the telegram, you know, and when she opened the message, and read it, she fainted.""Fainted? What was in the telegram to make her faint?""Well, it ought to have read, 'Will call for you to-night, with marriage license—Jimmy.' That was the prop message we had prepared. But somebody must have substituted another one for it. This is what she read." He handed Baker a yellow slip of paper. "I can't make anything out of it."Baker snatched the telegram from his hand with a growl of rage, and read it hastily. Then he passed it over to Duvall."What do you think of that?" he asked. Duvall gazed at the telegram with a feeling of helpless anger."Twenty-six days more," it read. "When you appear in your new picture at the Grand to-night,it will be your last. I shall be there." The grinning death's head seal was appended in lieu of a signature, as before.A feeling of resentment swept over the detective. It seemed that these people acted as they saw fit, with supreme indifference to the fact that he was on their trail. Never before had he felt his skill so flouted, his ability made so light of. And yet, as usual, the message had apparently been delivered in such a way as to make tracing it impossible."Still at it, it seems," Mr. Baker remarked. "This thing has got to stop, and at once. I don't propose to let anybody make a monkey of me."Duvall turned to the director, Mr. Edwards."Who prepared the original telegram?" he asked quickly.Mr. Edwards looked at the detective in surprise, evidently wondering what this stranger had to do with the matter."Answer, Edwards. It's all right," snapped Mr. Baker."I prepared the property telegram," the director answered."When?""Lastnight. I knew it would be needed to-day.""What did you do with it?""I left it on my desk. This morning I took it into the studio, and when the moment arrived, I gave it to the actor who took it to MissMorton.""Was he out of your sight, after you gave him the telegram?""No. He took it and walked right on the scene.""Then he couldn't have substituted another for it?""No. It would have been impossible, unless he used sleight of hand.""Before you gave the man the telegram where was it?""In my coat pocket.""No chance, I suppose, of anyone having taken it out and substituting another.""None.""Then it is clear that the substitution must have been effected between the time you left your office last night, and your arrival here this morning.""Yes.""Was this possible?""Undoubtedly. I left my office last night about six. It is never locked. The caretakers, the women who clean the offices, were in there later, and from seven to nine this morning it would also have been a simple matter for anyone to enter and make the change."Duvall turned to Mr. Baker."It's the same story," he said. "Someone who works in the building is responsible for this thing, or else is able to bribe one or more of your employees to act for them. But we won't get very far looking for the guilty person, with several hundred people to watch and no clues whatever to go on. Suppose we go back to your office, and I will tell you what I had in mind about this evening.""Is Miss Morton able to go on with the scene?" Baker asked, as Edwards started away."No. She seems all broken up. I don't think she is very well. Her mother is going to take her home, as soon as she feels better.""Will you ask Mrs. Morton to wait a little while, Mr. Edwards? Tell her that Mr. Duvall will join her presently, and go back to the city with her." Mr. Edwards nodded, and withdrew, and Duvall and Mr. Baker retired to the latter's private office."What did you have in mind about that new film we're going to release to-night?" Mr. Baker asked."I'll explain that presently. First, tell me how long it will take you to make a short section of film, say enough to show for about ten seconds?""Oh—not long. But what of?""I'll explain that presently. But you could make such a section of film, develop and print it, and insert it in the picture you are going to show to-night, if you had to, couldn't you?""Yes—if we had to. But what's the idea?"Duvall took a bit of paper from his pocket and handed it to Baker."I want you to make a picture of this, and have it inserted in the film at any convenient point—say at the beginning of the second part. And you had better have the cutting and pasting-in done by some trusted person, under your personal supervision.""But," said Baker, gazing in amazement at the bit of paper Duvall had handed him. "What's the idea of putting this in our picture? It wouldn't do at all.""Look at that telegram Mr. Edwards just gave you. The writer says in it, 'I shall be there.' Now if the person who is causing all this trouble is going to be in the audience at the Grand Theater to-night, it is our business to find her. I say her, because I am convinced the guilty person is a woman."A look of comprehension began to dawn upon Mr. Baker's face."By George!" he exclaimed. "You figure out that this will cause her to disclose herself—make some sign?""I feel certain of it.""Then we will put it in." He laid the square of paper on his desk. "I will have the section of film made privately, and at once. I shall not tell even the other officers of the company about it. I suppose they will give me the devil, until after they know the reasons for it, but then, of course, it will be all right."Duvall rose and put out his hand."You will be there to-night, of course?""Of course. And you?""Oh, I'll be on hand all right, although you may not recognize me. Good day." With a quick hand-shake he left the room, and went to look for Ruth and her mother. He found them in the girl's dressing-room, ready to depart. Ruth was pale and terrified, showing the most intense nervousness in every word and movement. Mrs. Morton, scarcely less affected, strove with all her power to remain calm, in order that her daughter might not break down completely. Duvall did his best to cheer them up."You must not let this thing prey on your mind, Miss Morton," he said. "We are going to put a stop to it, and that very soon.""I hope so, Mr. Duvall," the girl replied. "If you don't, I'm afraid I shall break down completely.""I think we had better go home at once," Mrs. Morton said. "Ruth is in no condition to do any more work to-day.""I quite agree with you about going, Mrs. Morton, but not home." He lowered his voice, as though fearing that even at that moment some tool of the woman who was sending the letters might be within earshot. "I suggest that you let me take your daughter to some quiet hotel. You can follow, with her maid and the necessary baggage, later on. But we must be certain to make the change in such a way that our enemies, who are undoubtedly watching us, will not know of it. We will all leave here in your car, giving out that we are going to your home. No one will suspect anything to the contrary. On our arrival in the city, your daughter and I will leave the car, and drive to the hotel in a taxicab. When, later on, you follow with the baggage, take a taxi, sending your own car to the garage. I know your confidence in your chauffeur, but in this affair we can afford to trust no one. Your daughter and yourself can remain quietly in the hotel, under an assumed name, for a few days, until she recovers her strength. Meanwhile, I have every expectation that the persons at the bottom of this shameful affair will have been caught."The plan appealed to Mrs. Morton at once, and she told the detective so."But where shall we go to—what hotel?" she asked.Duvall leaned over and whispered in her ear the name of an exclusive and very quiet hotel in the upper part of the city."Do not mention the name to anyone," he said, "not even to the taxicab driver, when you leave the house. Tell him to put you down at the corner, a block away, and do not proceed to the hotel until you see that he has driven off. And keep your eyes on your maid. I do not suspect her, I admit, but there seems to be a leak somewhere, and we must stop it."Mrs. Morton nodded, and rose."We had better start, then," she said. "I understand perfectly. Have Ruth register in the name of Bradley. And I think, Mr. Duvall, if you can do so, you had better arrange to stop there as well.""I had intended to do so," the detective replied."That will be better." Mrs. Morton led the way to the street."You did not intend to go to the showing of your new film at the Grand to-night, did you?" Duvall asked Ruth, after theyhad started away from the studio.
Duvall's first move, after leaving Mrs. Morton's apartment that morning, was to enter the taxicab which had been waiting for him at the door and return to his hotel. A light overcoat which he had in the vehicle concealed his workman's disguise sufficiently to enable him to reach his room without exciting comment. Once there, he changed his clothes, putting on a professional looking frock coat, and adjusting a pair of shell-rimmed eyeglasses to complete the slight disguise. Thus equipped, he once more set out.
Grace had left a note for him, saying that she had gone shopping. Beside it lay the photograph of Ruth Morton, which he had, he remembered, left on his chiffonier while putting on his workman's clothes that morning. At the foot of her hastily written note Grace had added a postscript. "Isthisthe reason for your sudden interest in motion pictures?" it read. "Well, I'll admit she's a raving beauty, Richard, but I'll bet she isn't half as nice as I am." Duvall read the note with a smile. Grace was always such a thoroughly good comrade.
Leaving the hotel, he went to the telegraph office from which the message to Ruth Morton had been delivered that morning. It was on Columbus Avenue, some four blocks from the Mortons' apartment.
"Can you tell me where this telegram was sent from?" he asked. The message showed that it had been filed, as well as delivered, within the city limits.
The man behind the desk looked up his records.
"It was sent from the main office on lower Broadway, at 8.30," he said, briefly.
Duvall thanked him, then turned away. Although he realized that he could scarcely hope to obtain even a scanty description of the sender of the telegram from the main office, he determined to go there. First, however, he walked back toward the Mortons' apartment, and going up the steps of the brownstone house adjoining, rang the doorbell.
A neat maid-servant opened the door. Duvall favored her with a smile, at the same time taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
"I am making some corrections in the city directory," he said. "Will you please give me the names of all the persons living in this house." The girl stared at him for a moment, but his prosperous appearance, his businesslike manner, disarmed any suspicion she may have felt.
"There's—there's Mr. William Perkins," she said, "and Mrs. Perkins, and Mr. Robert, that's Mr. Perkins' son, and—and Miss Elizabeth, although she's away at boarding school, and—and Emily Thompson, the cook, and—and me. My name's Mary. Mary Wickes."
"Thank you, Mary," Duvall replied, entering the names carefully in his notebook. "And Mr. Perkins, the elder Mr. Perkins, I mean, is he the lawyer?"
"No, sir. It's Mr. Robert that's the lawyer, sir. Mr. William Perkins is in the leather business."
"Ah, yes. I see. Thank you very much indeed. And there are no boarders, or other persons whatever living in the house?"
"No, sir. Not any, sir."
Duvall closed his book and put it carefully in his pocket.
"Now, Mary," he continued. "Just one more question. Does any one sleep in the attic?"
"The attic, sir? Why, no sir. Cook and I sleep on the fourth floor, sir, but the attic isn't used, except for storage, sir. Are you going to put that in the directory too, sir?" The girl regarded him with wondering eyes.
"No, Mary. Not in the directory. But we want to be sure not to omit any names, and I thought that if there was anyone living in the attic——" he paused.
"No one, as I've told you. Nobody ever goes up there, so far as I know. Is that all, sir?"
"Yes. That's all. Thank you. Good morning."
Duvall went down the steps, and proceeded to the subway station, somewhat mystified. He had handled many curious cases in the past, many that had been notable for their intricacy, their complexity of motive and detail. But here, he felt, was a case of a very different sort, the peculiarity of which lay in its astonishing lack of clues of any sort. Usually in the past there had been motives, evidence, traces of some kind or other, upon which to build a case. Here there was nothing, except the three mysterious letters, the one equally mysterious telegram. He felt baffled, uncertain which way to turn. In rather a dissatisfied frame of mind he made his way to the telegraph office in lower Broadway. There were several clerks engaged in receiving messages. He approached one of them.
"This telegram," he said, holding out the slip of yellow paper Mrs. Morton had given him, "was sent from this office at half past eight this morning. Can you by any chance give me a description of the person who sent it?" He leaned over and addressed the clerk in a low tone. "I am a detective," he said. "The telegram is part of a blackmailing scheme."
The man looked at him for a moment, and then consulted with an older man, evidently his superior. The latter came forward.
"I received this message myself, sir," he said. "I remember it, because of its peculiar wording. What is it you wish to know?"
"I would like a description of the person who sent it," Duvall told him.
The man thought for a moment.
"I'm not able to tell you much," he said. "It was a woman—I didn't notice particularly whether she was young or old. In fact, she didn't give me a chance, just laid the message and the money down and went right out. She evidently knew the rate, for the amount she left was correct. I took the message and read it, without noticing her particularly, and then, when I had finished reading it and looked up, she had gone."
"Then you can't tell me anything about her?" Duvall asked, greatly disappointed.
"Not a thing. I remember it was a woman, and my general impression is that she was rather young and small, but I can't be at all sure. You see, sir, a great many persons come in, during the day, and we haven't time to take note of them particularly. As I say, I read the telegram first, and counted the words. By that time she had left the office."
Duvall thanked the man for his information and made his way to the street. Something at least had been gained. The person who was hounding Ruth Morton was a woman.
By this he was not at all surprised. He had felt for some time that Ruth's enemy was, in all probability, some jealous and envious movie actress who, herself unsuccessful, resented the youth and beauty of her successful rival. He called a taxi and directed the driver to take him out to the studio of the company with which Ruth was connected. Here, in all probability, was to be found the woman he sought.
The journey consumed considerably over an hour, and it was lunch time when he finally drew up before the entrance to the series of studio buildings. Before entering he went to a nearby restaurant to get a bite to eat.
It was a small and rather cheap place, but at this hour was crowded with the employees of the big company. Duvall at first could not find a seat, but presently discovered one at a table not far from the door, at which were seated some young men, apparently stenographers or clerks.
While waiting for his order of sandwiches and milk, the detective occupied himself with a newspaper. He was not reading it, however, although he pretended to be deeply engrossed in its contents. He was in reality listening to the gossip of the studio, which rose in a chorus about him.
From a nearby table came the voice of a woman, evidently a great admirer of Ruth Morton.
"I tell you," she said, "that new film that she finished last week, An American Beauty, is going to be a knockout. She's the swellest thing on the screen. Got 'emallfaded,Ithink."
"Think so?" questioned one of her companions. "I'm pretty strong for Helen Ward, myself."
"Ruth Morton won't last," remarked a third, in a petulant voice.
"Course she'll last. Say—ain't that a bear of a title? An American Beauty. She always seems like a beautiful big rose, to me."
"Well, roses don't last, do they?" asked the petulant voice again. "Not very long, anyway."
Duvall turned suddenly in an effort to see the face of the speaker, but try as he would, he was unable to do so. Two of the girls sat with their backs to him. He could not manage to catch a glimpse of either of them. Almost as he turned, the three rose and made their way to the street. For a moment he thought of following them, but the idea seemed absurd. These twelve dollar a week stenographers or clerks could have no part in the plot against Miss Morton. And yet, there was something startling in the young woman's words. "Roses don't last." The telegram received by Ruth Morton that morning had contained almost the same phrase. "Even the beauty of the rose cannot endure." Then he remembered the title of the new film of which the girls had spoken, and smiled at his own suspicions. "An American Beauty." It would be natural, perfectly natural for anyone to refer to Ruth as a rose, with that title for her latest picture. He dismissed the matter from his mind, and proceeded to make a hasty lunch.
He was watching, not only Ruth, but those about herHe was watching, not only Ruth, but those about her
At the entrance of the studio he explained that he was a writer of special articles for the Sunday papers, and had come to "write up" the life at the studios. He was promptly turned over to one of the officials who, after a few inquiries, seemed delighted at the opportunity to obtain free publicity for his company and its stars.
"I want particularly to give a sketch of Miss Ruth Morton," he said. "She seems to be such a universal favorite."
"A most delightful and charming woman," his companion asserted, with a pleased smile. "Come this way. You may be able to see her at work." He led Duvall down a long corridor, and into one of the big studio rooms.
The first impression Duvall got was that of utter confusion. People were darting here and there, in ordinary clothes, or in all sorts of makeups. Stage carpenters were creating a terrific racket, building a new scene. A tangle of electric light cables, a blinding glare from the arcs, a confusion of voices, a wilderness of scenery and "props" all combined to create an impression quite the reverse of what he had expected. Here, he felt, was something very different from the theater, something bigger, yet more elemental, in which vast sums were expended daily to amuse a vaster indeed, a world-wide, audience. He sat down upon a box, and inspected the scene before him.
"Miss Morton will be on in a few moments," his guide said.
Duvall nodded. His attention was fixed upon the little drama going on before him. He knew nothing of the plot of the play, but the mechanical features of the operation held his interest keenly. The brilliant electric lights, the setting of the little room, the actors in their ghastly greenish makeups, the camera man, grinding stolidly away at his machine, the director, hovering about like a hawk, watching every movement, every gesture, with a superlatively critical eye, all spoke to him of a new world, and one with which he was not in the least familiar.
Suddenly he saw the lovely face of Ruth Morton, as the girl appeared from an open doorway. She did not take part in the picture at once, but stood chatting with the director, awaiting the moment when she would make her entrance. Duvall watched her intently. Her face, he thought, was drawn, nervous, her expression one of fear. She seemed suspicious of every one who came near her, as though she suspected that every stage hand, every electrician or helper, had in his possession a bottle of vitriol, which he only awaited the moment to hurl in her face. That the girl's nervous manner, her strained and tense expression, was evident to others as well as to himself, he realized from a remark his companion made to him.
"Miss Morton doesn't seem herself to-day," he said. "She must have something on her mind. I shouldn't be surprised if she has been working too hard lately."
Duvall made no reply. He was watching, not only Ruth, but those about her. In particular he observed the other women in the cast. It seemed not improbable that among them he would find the one whose envy had led to the sending of the threats Ruth had been receiving.
Presently the scene was finished, and Ruth, in response to a call from Duvall's companion, came toward them.
"Miss Morton," the latter said, "let me present Mr. Richards." This was the name Duvall had given. "He is anxious to meet you, and write you up for one of the newspapers."
Ruth gave him her hand with a smile which Duvall saw clearly enough was forced. The girl was palpably worn,distrait.
"I'm not going to interview you now, Miss Morton," he said. "I can understand that you must be tired, after posing all the morning. Let me come and see you sometime when you are more at leisure."
Come to my house some evening, and I'll tell you all about being a 'movie' star"Come to my house some evening, and I'll tell you all about being a 'movie' star"
She thanked him with a smile, this time quite genuine.
"I'm not feeling very well this afternoon," she said. "Come to my home some evening, or better still, on Sunday, and I'll tell you all I know about being a 'movie' star. So glad to have met you." She was just about to turn away, when a small boy came up, carrying in his hand a flat package, wrapped in brown paper. Duvall observed that the package had upon it a typewritten address.
"Something for you, Miss Morton," he said, and placed the package in Ruth's hand.
The girl looked at it for a moment in dismay. Then realizing that the eyes of the two men werebent curiously upon her, she recovered herself and tore open the brown paper envelope. Duvall, with one eye on the boy, saw that he had disappeared through the door leading to the company's executive offices.
Suddenly Ruth, who had been examining the contents of the package, gave a faint cry, and swayed backward, as though about to fall. Duvall's companion sprang to her assistance, while Duvall himself snatched the object which had so affected her from her hand and hastily examined it.
It was a photograph of Ruth Morton herself, but Duvall, as he gazed at it, comprehended instantly the effect it had produced upon the girl's over-wrought nerves. Some clever hand had been at work upon the photograph, retouching it, changing its lovely expression, until the portrait, instead of being a thing of beauty, grinned up at him in frightful hideousness. The blank, sightless eyes, the haggard cheeks, the thin wasted lips, the protruding and jagged teeth, all created an impression shocking beyond belief. And yet, the result had been obtained by the addition of but a few simple lines and shadows.
Along the blank space at the bottom of the picture a line of typewritten characters had been placed. Duvall glanced at them. "As you will look soon," the words read. Below them was fixed the grinning Death's head seal. Unobserved in the confusion, Duvall thrust the photograph into his pocket, and turned to Ruth and the others.
The girl had recovered herself by now, and was being conducted to her dressing room by a solicitous crowd. So far as Duvall would see, she had said nothing to those about her as to the cause of her sudden indisposition, and with the exception of the man who had been Duvall's guide, none of them had observed the opening of the package containing the photograph, nor its immediate effect upon her.
The latter, however, whose name was Baker, came over to Duvall and addressed him.
"What was it about that photograph that upset Miss Morton so?" he asked. "And what has become of it?"
Duvall drew him to one side.
"Let us go to your office, Mr. Baker," he said. "I have a most important matter to discuss with you."
Baker regarded the detective for a moment in surprise, then, seeing that Duvall was very much in earnest, he led the way to his private office.
"I am not a newspaper writer, Mr. Baker," Duvall said, as soon as they were seated. "As a matter of fact, I am a detective, in the employ of Mrs. Morton, Ruth Morton's mother."
"A detective?" he questioned. "Why has Miss Morton's mother employed a detective?"
"Because someone is persecuting the girl, by sending her threatening letters, saying that her beauty is to be destroyed. This photograph"—he drew the hideous picture from his pocket—"is a sample of their work."
Mr. Baker regarded the photograph for a moment in silence, then rose with a growl of rage and struck his clenched fist upon the desk.
"This is outrageous—damnable!" he cried. "It cannot go on. No wonder the poor girl looked tired out. We will put the matter in the hands of the police. We will spend any amount of money——"
"Wait a moment, Mr. Baker," Duvall interrupted, urging the angry man back into his chair. "Nothing is to be gained by giving any publicity to this matter. The scoundrels who are at the bottom of it will at once be warned, and then our chance of catching them will be small indeed. So far, not a soul knows that I am working on this case, outside of Mrs. Morton, and yourself. Even Miss Ruth does not know it. I have already unearthed some very surprising things connected with the case, although I have been occupied with it only since this morning. Within a few days, I have no doubt, I shall be able to place my hands upon the person or persons responsible for the trouble, but I must insist that I be given a free hand."
"But," Mr. Baker expostulated, "she may be in immediate danger. At any moment something may happen that would ruin her beauty, and incidentally, ruin us as well. She is our star attraction."
"I do not think the danger is immediate," Duvall replied gravely. "All the threats so far received set thirty days as the period within which the attack is to be made. Only three days have passed, so far. And in addition, Miss Morton is being very carefully guarded."
"She certainly shall be while she is here at the studio," Mr. Baker exclaimed. "But, man, something ought to be done—at once."
"The first thing to be done is to find out how that photograph got here—who brought it—and when. It was not delivered by mail. Look here." He handed the angry official the torn manilla envelope, which Ruth, in her excitement, had dropped upon the floor.
Mr. Baker regarded it for a moment in angry silence, then pressed an electric button upon his desk. A young woman responded.
"Send Jim here," he said. The girl nodded and withdrew.
A few moments later a freckled-faced boy of twelve or fourteen came in. Duvall saw that it was the same boy who had brought in the photograph.
"You sent for me, sir?" he asked.
"Yes. Where did you get the package you delivered to Miss Morton a little while ago?"
"From Mr. Curry, sir."
"Good." Mr. Baker rose and went toward the door. "Come with me," he said to Duvall, "and you too, Jim." The three of them went along the corridor, arriving presently at the main entrance to the building. An elderly man sat at a high desk behind a wire grating.
"Curry," Mr. Baker burst out, "this boy tells me you gave him a package for Miss Morton a while ago."
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you get it?"
The man looked up in surprise.
"Why, sir, someone left it here—on my desk. I don't know who, sir. Right after lunch, it was. You know people deliver things here all the time. I didn't take any particular notice how it got here. It was just pushed through the window, I guess, same as usual. There was a lot of mail in the rack, after lunch, and everybody asking for theirs as they came in. In fact, I don't remember seeing the package handed in at all. Just found it lying on my desk, along with a lot of letters and things. Why,sir? Is anything wrong?"
Baker turned to Duvall in disgust.
"No system here at all," he grumbled. "The trail is lost, of course. Half a hundred people come through here every hour. That's all, Jim," he said, turning to the boy, who disappeared at once. Accompanied by Duvall, Baker returned to the private office.
"Well?" Mr. Baker asked. "What next?"
"How many typewriters have you in your offices, Mr. Baker? Machines, I mean, not operators."
"About thirty, I guess. Or maybe thirty-five. Why?"
"I want you to get me a sample of the writing of each machine, without letting anyone know about it. Put each one on a separate sheet of paper, with a note added, stating whose machine it is—that is, in whose office."
Mr. Baker nodded. "I'll do it to-night," he said. "Attend to it myself. I see your idea. You think this thing is the work of someone inside the studio."
"It may be, I don't know. But I mean to find out."
"All right. Anything else?"
"Yes. Tell me something about this new film you've just gotten out. 'An American Beauty,' I think it is called."
Mr. Baker's manner became enthusiastic.
"Greatest film Ruth Morton ever did," he exclaimed. "A knockout. It is to be shown at the Grand, on Broadway, to-morrow night. First time on the screen. You'd better look it over."
"I probably shall. Now, tell me this. If I wanted to add anything to that picture, put in an insert, I believe you call it, could I do so, if I told you about it to-morrow?"
"Well—it might be done," Mr. Baker replied, dubiously. "But we wouldn't want to change the film any. It's perfect as it is."
"I don't doubt that. I have no idea of improving it in any way. But it is just possible that I may have a scheme that will help us to catch these people who are threatening Miss Morton. I'll tell you more about it, to-morrow. Meanwhile, don't forget about the typewriter samples. I'll see you in the morning." He rose. "And for the present, I think it would be best for you to keep what I have told you to yourself."
Mr. Baker nodded.
"I'll do that," he said, putting out his hand. "For the present, at least. But don't forget, Mr. Duvall, that this is a very vital matter to our company, and we can't afford to take any chances."
"I realize that fully. You can depend on me. I intend to save Miss Morton from any harm, not primarily on your company's account, but on her own. Good day."
"Good day, and the best of luck."
Duvall went toward the entrance, and in the corridor met Mrs. Morton. She was about to pass him, but he detained her.
"Twenty-seven days more," he whispered to her. She turned sharply, a look of fear upon her face, but as she recognized Duvall, her expression changed.
"Oh—it's you," she exclaimed. "I've just come down in the car, to take Ruth home. Is everything all right?"
"Yes, so far. At least no harm has come to your daughter. But I am sorry to say that she has received another warning."
"Here?" Mrs. Morton started, and glanced about in alarm.
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"A photograph." Duvall explained the contents of the mysterious package, but did not show the hideous picture to the girl's mother.
"And you haven't found out anything yet?"
"Nothing definite. There has scarcely been time. But we will. You may be sure of that."
"Have you seen Ruth?" Mrs. Morton asked.
"Yes. Mr. Baker introduced me to her. She thinks I am a newspaper man, who wants to write a special article about her for one of the Sunday papers. She suggested that I call at your house some evening, or possibly Sunday. If you are going back to town soon, I think it might be a good idea for me to drive back with you."
"By all means. I shall feel much safer. Suppose you wait for us at the entrance. I shall not be long."
Duvall nodded, and strolled toward the street, his mind busy with the events of the day. He stood for quite a while near the door, watching the people who came in and out. Many of them were women. He wondered if among them was the woman who was responsible for the threats of the past three days. It seemed improbable, and yet, there were indications that it was within the studio, rather than outside it, that the guilty person was to be found.
Mrs. Morton came out presently, accompanied by Ruth. The girl looked pale and troubled. Duvall went up to her.
"I have met your mother, Miss Morton," he said, "and she has very kindly suggested that I ride back to the city with you."
The girl nodded, without particular interest.
"We shall be very glad to have you," she said, "but you will excuse me, I know, if I do not talk to you about my work. I am feeling rather bad to-day, and I'm sure I couldn't tell you anything interesting."
"I'm sure I would not expect it, under the circumstances," Duvall replied, as Miss Morton, accompanied by her mother, went toward the automobile that stood near the entrance. "I don't doubt your work is full of trying incidents."
"Oh, it isn't my work," the girl replied, as he assisted her into the car. "I love my work. But there are other things." She glanced toward her mother with a tired smile, then sank back upon the cushions.
A moment later they were whirling toward the city.
Duvall's ride back to town with Mrs. Morton and Ruth was quite uneventful. The latter, as she had explained, was ill, weak, indisposed to talk. Duvall and Mrs. Morton kept up a brisk conversation upon topics of the day, but both knew that it was of the girl they were thinking, and their interest in the subjects they discussed was clearly forced. Both were glad when the car at last stopped before the apartment building, and the long ride was over.
Mrs. Morton invited Duvall to come in and dine with them, and he promptly accepted. Ruth seemed indifferent. Assisted by her maid, she left the car and on reaching the apartment, at once went to her room.
"You will excuse me, I know," she said to Duvall. "I am tired out, and think I had better lie down at once.Nora will bring me some dinner," she said, turning to her mother.
Duvall and Mrs. Morton ate their dinner in silence. Some sense of oppression, of impending evil, hung over them both. Mrs. Morton left the table toward the close of the meal, and went to her daughter's room. With the solicitude of the typical mother she arranged the windows. That opening to the fire escape she raised to its full height. The one facing upon the court she left as it was, raised some six or eight inches. Then, having kissed her daughter good night, she returned to the library, where Duvall sat smoking a cigar.
"Ruth has gone to bed," she told him. "Both the windows in her room are open, the one on the fire-escape wide, the other partly raised."
Duvall looked at her with an expression of doubt.
"I think it would be better, for the present," he said, "to close and fasten the one opening on the fire escape. We cannot tell to what danger your daughter may be exposed."
Mrs. Morton rose and left the room.
"I will do as you advise," she said. Going to Ruth's bedroom she closed and fastened the window in question, then she went back to the library.
"Have you hit upon any theory to account for the sending of these letters?" she asked.
Duvall shook his head. "The whole thing is very mysterious," he said. "Of course it was easy enough for anyone to leave the photograph at the studio this afternoon. In fact it might readily have been done by one of the other actresses, who might be jealous of your daughter's success. But if the thing was done by anyone employed at the studio, how can we account for the message left in the bedroom at half-past nine this morning, the one we found on the floor? If the woman who is responsible for these threats was at the studio this morning, how could she arrange to have the note left in your daughter's bedroom here at the same hour? That would seem to imply a confederate. I confess that the entire matter is for the moment beyond me."
"Were you able to find out anything concerning the telegram which came this morning?"
"Nothing, except that it was sent by a woman. I was not surprised to learn that. Naturally I should expect that a woman was responsible for these threats. But what woman? That is the question." He sat for a long time, thinking, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
Suddenly there came a ring at the doorbell. Mrs. Morton, without waiting for the maid, sprang to the hall, with Duvall close at her heels. As she threw it open, they saw a man standing in the doorway. Duvall was the first to recognize their caller.
"How do you do, Mr. Baker," he said, holding out his hand.
Mr. Baker came in, and greeted Mrs. Morton.
"I didn't expect to find Mr. Duvall here," he said. "In fact, I came to you to get his hotel address. Luckily I won't need it, now."
"Anything new?" Duvall asked, as they returned to the library.
"Nothing much. I got those samples of the writing of the various typewriters, as you requested," Baker replied, "and I thought that instead of waiting until to-morrow, it would be better to bring them to you to-night." He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket. "There are thirty-two in all. What are you going to do with them?" He placed the papers in Duvall's hand.
The latter sat down at the library table and placed the sheets of paper before him.
"Of course you know," he said to Baker, "that every typewriting machine has its unmistakable peculiarities. It is almost impossible to find a machine that has been used at all, that has not developed certain individual defects, or qualities, found in no other machine. Now let us take for instance the letters that Miss Morton has received during the past few days. They have all been written on the same machine, and I am of the opinion that it is a fairly old one. While going down to the studio this afternoon, I worked out and wrote down in my notebook the particular features which appear in all these letters." He took a small leather-covered book from his pocket.
"In the first place," he said, "the letter 'a' throughout the several communications is always found to be out of line. The key bar is doubtless a trifle bent. Let us, therefore, see if, in any of the samples you have brought me, there exists a similar defect."
He took the samples of writing, one by one, and after scrutinizing them carefully, passed them over to Baker, who likewise subjected them to a critical examination. When their work was completed, it was found that of the thirty-two samples, the displacement of the letter "a" occurred in but three, and in one of these it was so slight as to be scarcely noticeable. Duvall laid the three pages to one side. "A second fault shown in the typewriting of the letters," he said, "is to be found in the capital 'W.' Its lower right-hand corner has been worn or broken off, so that it invariably fails to register." He handed one of the letters to Baker. "See here, and here. The corner of the 'W' instead of being clear and distinct, is blunt and defective. Let us see whether a similar fault is to be found in any one of these three samples." He picked up the three sheets of paper that he had placed to one side.
As he examined them, Mr. Baker and Mrs. Morton saw a shadow of disappointment cross his face. He handed the three pages to Baker.
"The threatening letters were not written on any machine at your studio," he said.
Baker took the pages and looked them over carefully.
"No," he said at length. "You are right. None of these show the second defect you have named."
"Well," observed Duvall cheerfully, "we have accomplished something, at least. We know that these letters were not written at the studio, and it seems reasonably certain that the woman we are looking for has a typewriter in her rooms, or wherever she may live. Of course she might have had the typewriting done by some public stenographer, but I consider it unlikely. A person sending threats of this character would not be apt to entrust so dangerous a secret to a third person. We must therefore make up our minds to find a woman who has a typewriting machine, and knows how to use it."
"There are probably a hundred thousand such women in New York," Baker observed, gloomily.
"No doubt. But we have more information than that about the person who sent these letters."
"What, for instance?" asked Baker and Mrs. Morton in a breath.
"Well, in the first place, this woman was able to secure possession of a photograph of Miss Morton." He took the hideously distorted picture from his pocket. "Do either of you know where this photograph was made?"
Mrs. Morton examined the picture with a shudder. Then she rose, went to a cabinet at the other end of the room, and took out an album. Returning to the table, she placed the book before her, and began to turn the pages. In a few moments she found what she was looking for, a duplicate of the likeness which lay before them, with the exception, of course, of its frightful distortions.
"This picture was made by Gibson, on Fifth Avenue," she said, referring to the photograph in the book. Both Baker and Duvall saw at once that on the retouched picture, the name of the photographer had been scratched off.
"How many of them were made, and what became of them?" Duvall asked quickly.
"Ordinarily I could not answer such a question," Mrs. Morton replied, "for Ruth has had many photographs taken, and we have not of course kept a record of them, or what has become of them, but in this particular case I happen to remember that she did not like the pose particularly, and ordered but half a dozen. I do not think that she gave any of them away. If I am right in my supposition, there should be five more here in the apartment." Closing the book, Mrs. Morton went to the cabinet again, and took out a portfolio containing numberless photographs of her daughter in all sorts of poses.
After some searching, she produced a brown-paper envelope, containing a number of pictures, all taken by the same photographer, at the same time. There were in the envelope four copies of the photograph, the fifth of which was contained in the album.
"Evidently one has been given away," Duvall exclaimed. "Now if we can only find out to whom, our search for the writer of these letters may be very quickly ended."
Mr. Baker regarded them both with a puzzled look.
"I have seen that picture before," he said, "and of course I could not have done so, had I not seen the one that is missing." He sat for a while in silence, searching his recollection for a solution of the problem. Suddenly he spoke. "There was a picture like that in my office, at one time," he exclaimed. "Miss Morton sent a number down, for advertising purposes, and I am positive that this one was among them. I remember distinctly the pose of the head, the unusual arrangement of the hair. That photograph should be in our files. The fact that it has been taken out shows that the person who has been writing these letters is a member of our own staff, or at least has access to our files."
"That does not necessarily follow," observed Duvall.
"Why not?"
"Because the picture might have been obtained from the photographer."
"But they are not allowed to dispose of the portraits of others, without the sitter's permission."
"I know that, but they sometimes do so, especially in the case of anyone so well known as Miss Morton. She has become a sort of publiccharacter.
"Well," remarked Duvall, "we can readily find out, in the morning. You, Mr. Baker, can go through your files, and should you find the photograph to be there, I will take the matter up with the photographer. If, on the contrary, the picture is missing, it will be fairly conclusive evidence that the person or persons we are looking for are in some way connected with the studio."
"I will make an investigation the first thing in the morning," Mr. Baker announced, rising. "Do you expect to be at the studio early, Mr. Duvall?"
"Yes. Quite early."
"Then we had best leave matters until then. Good night. Good night, Mrs. Morton." He turned and started toward the door.
He had proceeded but a few steps, when the three occupants of the room were startled by a series of sudden and agonizing cries. From the rear of the apartment came a succession of screams so piercing in their intensity, so filled with horror, that they found themselves for a moment unable to stir. Then Mrs. Morton gave a cry of anguish, and darted out into the hall, closely followed by Duvall and Mr. Baker.
The screams continued, filling the entire apartment with their clamor. That the voice which uttered them was that of Ruth Morton none of the three doubted for a moment. With sinking hearts they went on, prepared for the worst. Duvall found himself dreading the moment when they should reach the bedroom door, and face the girl, her beauty, perhaps, disfigured beyond all recognition.
There was a sharp turn, at the end of the hall, into a shorter cross hall, at the end of which was the door of Ruth's bedroom. It was closed, but as though in response to Mrs. Morton's agonized appeals, it suddenly opened as they reached it, and Ruth Morton, pale as death, appeared.
With wide open eyes staring straight ahead, she half stepped, half fell through the doorway, her slender figure clothed only in her night dress. "Ruth," Mrs. Morton screamed, as she caught sight of her daughter.
The girl tried to say something, but her tongue failed her. Then, with a faint moan, she lurched forward and fell limply into her mother's arms.
When Duvall, Mr. Baker, of the motion picture company, and Mrs. Morton rushed down the hallway of the latter's apartment in response to the screams from Ruth's bedroom, they were one and all convinced that the girl had suffered some terrible injury—that the mysterious threats to destroy her beauty which had been made during the past few days had been converted into some frightful reality.
One glance at the girl's white face as she fell fainting into her mother's arms told the detective that their fears had been, to that extent at least, groundless. The girl's lovely features, although drawn and contorted by fear, showed no signs of the disfigurement they feared.
Leaving the girl to her mother's care, Duvall, closely followed by Baker, dashed into the bedroom, and at once switched on the lights. The place, to the intense surprise of both, presented a picture of perfect quiet and order. The bed clothing was slightly disarranged, but this of course was but natural, since Ruth had sprung up under the influence of some terrible fear, and rushed from the room. Everything else seemed in its place.
Duvall's first act was to examine the window. The one fronting on the fire escape was closed and tightly fastened. It was perfectly clear that no one had entered the room in that way.
The other window, facing on the court, was raised a few inches, just as Mrs. Morton had left it half an hour before. Duvall turned to his companion with apuzzled frown.
"I had supposed, Mr. Baker," he said, "that someone had entered this room, and frightened Miss Morton while she was asleep, but that is impossible. The windows have not been disturbed."
Baker glanced at the one which faced the court.
"That one may have been," he said, indicating it with a nod. "Someone may have come in that way, raising the window to effect an entrance, and lowering it again after leaving."
"I admit that what you say would be possible, were there any way in which the window might be reached from outside," Duvall replied, "but if you will look out, and tell me how anyone could make an entrance from the court, I will agree to the possibility you suggest."
Baker raised the window, and glanced out.
"The apartment above," Duvall went on, "is unoccupied, and the window above is closed and fastened. The little attic in the adjoining house is unused, although that is not important, since no one could reach this window from it, in any event. Can you suggest any other way?"
Mr. Baker shook his head.
"She must have been frightened by some terrible nightmare," he said. "I do not wonder at it. She has gone through enough to upset anybody's nerves. Suppose we go back and question her."
"Just a moment," exclaimed Duvall. Then he dropped upon his knees beside the disordered bed, and began to examine the surface of the counterpane with minute care.
"What is it?" Baker asked, joining him.
"I don't know—yet," returned Duvall, as he took a magnifying glass from his pocket and proceeded to scrutinize with the greatest interest some marks upon the counterpane's surface. Presently he rose, replaced the glass in his pocket, and turned to his companion.
"There is something very astonishing about this whole affair," he exclaimed. "What do you make of those?" He indicated a series of dark smudges upon the bedspread, arranged in little groups.
Baker bent over and examined the marks with an exclamation of surprise.
"Why—they look like finger prints," he cried. "Large finger prints."
"It is impossible to say whether they are finger prints or not," Duvall replied. "As you see, there are a great many of them, very confusingly arranged. But there is something else, that you have not noticed. What do you suppose could have made a mark like this?" He pointed to a long straight dark line, which extended half way across the counterpane, and pointed directly toward the window which faced upon the court. The line was very faint, but clearly defined, as though someone had laid a thin dusty stick across the bed.
"I can't make anything of it," Baker exclaimed, gazing toward the window.
"Nor can I," said Duvall. "At one time, because of certain indentations on the letters found in this room, I had thought that they might have been introduced through the partly opened window by means of a long rod, a fishing pole, perhaps. This mark on the counterpane appears to bear out that theory. The smudges which look like finger prints may have been merely the points at which the end of the pole, or whatever was attached to the end of the pole, came in contact with the bed. All that is perfectly supposable. But you can see for yourself that if a long pole were thrust through the window, raised as the latter was but a trifle above the level of the bed, the other end of such a pole must of necessity have been held at approximately the same level, and the only point outside the window from which it could have been so held isin the air, forty feet above the bottom of the court! The thing is absurd."
"There is, of course, the window of the apartment below," Baker suggested. "Might not it have been used?"
"I thought of that," Duvall replied. "You can see for yourself that even a tall man standing on the window sill below, would find not only his hands, but even his head, far below the sill of thiswindow, nor could anyone so support themselves, without something to hold on to. But all that is beside the question. The people in the apartment below are friends of Mrs. Morton's, a middle-aged man and his wife, with two young children. They are eminently respectable people, and quite above suspicion."
"Then I give the thing up," exclaimed Baker. "Suppose we have a talk with Miss Morton."
They found the girl lying on a couch in the library, with her mother sitting beside her. She seemed very weak and quiet, but in full possession of her faculties. Duvall drew up a chair, and asked her if she felt able to tell them what had occurred.
"Yes," she replied in a faint voice, her face still showing evidences of her fright. "I will try to tell you exactly what happened."
"I had taken some medicine to make me sleep, before I got into bed, because I was very nervous and upset. When mother came back to fix the windows I was already drowsy, and just remember that she turned out the lights, and then I must have dozed.
"All of a sudden I heard a strange rasping noise, and I woke up, with the feeling that there was someone in the room. I don't know just why I felt so sure of that, whether it was merely a sense of someone's presence, or the sound of someone moving about near my bed. I think, however, that it was the latter.
"The room was dark, of course, but enough light came through the windows to make a moving object distinguishable. I looked about, terribly frightened, but for a moment I saw nothing. The noise I had heard at first continued. Then without the least warning, a hand seemed to clutch at the bedclothes, and I saw above me, bending over me, a terrible dark face, exactly like the grinning death's head on those letters I've been getting.
"I lay perfectly still, frozen with horror, and in a moment the face had disappeared, and then I began to scream. Right after that I sprang from the bed and threw open the door, and found mother and Mr. Baker and yourself standing in the hall. That is all I know."
Duvall looked at her for a moment, puzzled.
"Are you sure you really saw someone leaning over you? Might it not have been an illusion, the result of your nervous condition?"
"No. I am certain someone was there—someone quite tall, I should say, and with a terrible, evil face."
"It might have been a mask, of course," Duvall suggested. "Someone wearing a mask."
"Yes. It might have been. It was too dark for me to tell, of course. But I remember the eyes, for I saw them distinctly. They were only a few inches from my own." She put her hands to her face and shuddered. "It was terrible, terrible. I shall never sleep in that room again."
"There—there, dearie," Mrs. Morton whispered in a soothing voice. "You need not sleep there. You can lie right here, for the rest of the night, and I will stay with you and see that no one harms you."
"That would be best, Mrs. Morton," Duvall remarked. "And to-morrow I suggest that you and your daughter move, temporarily at least, to another location. Some quiet hotel, where you will not be subject to these terrible annoyances. I cannot imagine how it is done, but in some way, some almost superhuman way, it seems, someone can apparently either enter your daughter's room, or at least reach it from without, at will."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Ruth, somewhat mystified.
"I mean this, Miss Morton. I do not believe that there was anyone in your room to-night. I do not believe that there has ever been anyone there. But Idobelieve that the two letters we found there were introduced from without, in some mysterious way, at the end of a long pole, or rod. And I think that what frightened you so to-night was merely a mask, a grotesque representation of the seal used on the letters, and pushed toward you in some way, as you lay in bed for the purpose of terrifying you."
"But—why—why?" the girl cried.
"I cannot say. But it has occurred to me that these people, whoever they are, that are trying to injure you, may not intend any physical violence at all, at least for the present, but may be depending solely upon the terrible and insidious power of suggestion. You must bear this possibility in mind, and try to control your fears. I can readily believe that thirty days of this sort of persecution, and you would be a physical and mental wreck. But we shall stop it. You need have no fears on that score." Mrs. Morton turned to her daughter with a few words of explanation.
"Mr. Richards, or rather, Mr. Duvall, is not a newspaper man, Ruth, but a detective, who is trying to bring the wretches who are annoying you to justice. I feel every confidence in him."
Ruth turned toward Duvall a very white and pathetic face.
"I hope you will succeed, Mr. Duvall," she said, in a weak voice. "I cannot stand much more."
"I shall, Miss Morton. And now," he turned to Mr. Baker, "I think we had better go, and let Miss Morton get some rest. I will come here in the morning, Mrs. Morton," he continued, addressing the girl's mother, "and we will consider further the question of your moving to a hotel. Meanwhile I do not think you have anything further to fear this evening. Good night."
Before leaving the apartment he made another examination of the marks upon the bedclothes, then closed and fastened both windows, and locked the door of the room.
Mr. Baker left him at the corner.
"You will come to the studio to-morrow, of course."
"By all means. I shall come down with Miss Morton and her mother. That will give us an opportunity to investigate further the matter of the missing photograph, and also to talk over that plan I had in mind concerning the new film you are to show at the Grand to-morrow night. It is barely possible that, by means of a plan I have in mind, we may be able to locate the person or persons responsible for all this trouble."
"I certainly hope so," said Baker, as he took his leave. "This thing is getting onmynerves, too."
Duvall made his way back to his hotel, as much mystified as ever. He had thought for a moment of spending the night on the sidewalk in front of the Mortons' apartment, watching the windows facing on the court, but his experience told him that it would be useless. The alarm which Ruth had made, the closing of the windows of her bedroom, the locking of the door, all made it highly improbable that any further attempt would be made to annoy her during the night. He walked along in a state of intense preoccupation, trying to discover some reasonable explanation of the astonishing events of the day.
Once he had an impression, a feeling, that he was being followed, but when he turned around, there was no one in sight but a slightly tipsy man, and a couple of young girls, far down the street. He dismissed the thought from his mind, and proceeded to his hotel.
It was not yet eleven o'clock, and Grace was waiting for him in the little parlor of their suite.
"Well, Richard," she remarked, as he came in, "you've had quite a day of it."
"Yes, quite," he replied, throwing himself into a chair. "What haveyoubeen doing with yourself?"
"Shopping, mostly. I found it rather dull. I went to a moving picture this afternoon. Saw your friend Ruth Morton. She certainly is a very beautiful girl."
"Yes—very," Duvall replied, absently.
"Have you seen her to-day?" Grace went on, with a smile.
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh—nothing. I was just thinking."
Duvall burst into a laugh, and rising, went over to his wife and kissed her.
"For heaven's sake, Grace," he said, "don't be silly. I'm not interested in motion picture actresses."
"You weren't, I'll admit, nor in motion pictures either, until recently, but perhaps you have changed. I could understand any man being fascinated by a girl like Ruth Morton."
Duvall did not pursue the question. It was a hard and fast rule between them not to discuss his professional work. And Mrs. Morton had made it a point that he should confide in no one, not even his wife.
"Well," he said, picking up an evening paper, "I'm not fascinated yet. No letters for me to-day, I suppose."
"None." Grace went on with her sewing.
They sat for a while in silence. Presently there came a knock on the door, and a boy appeared, bearing a telegram, Duvall opened it carelessly, thinking it some word from the overseer of his farm. He sat up with sudden astonishment as he read the contents of the message.
"Keep out," the telegram read, "or you will find that we can strike back."
Duvall placed the telegram in his pocket with a frown. So it appeared that in spite of all his care, his connection with the case was known. How this was possible he could not imagine. His first visit to the Morton apartment that day had been in the guise of a workman. His subsequent appearance at the studio, and later, at the apartment, had been in the character of a newspaper man. There was only one explanation. Someone had watched him while he was making his examination of Ruth Morton's room, and, subsequently, had followed him from the apartment to his hotel. He began to realize that he was dealing with a shrewd brain, and one that acted with almost uncanny quickness and precision. He determined that, if Mrs. Morton and her daughter changed their place of residence the following day, he would do the same. He said nothing of his intentions to Grace, however. It was more than ever necessary that he preserve secrecy in this case.
"No bad news, I hope, Richard," Grace remarked, glancing up from her sewing.
"No. Nothing serious. Have you heard anything from home?"
"Yes. Everything is going along quite smoothly. The boy is well and happy, and Mrs. Preston says to stay as long as we want to."
"Well," said Duvall, rising and throwing down his newspaper, "if things don't go better than they have been going to-day, I may have to be here sometime. I've got a queer case on, Grace. I'd like to tell you about it, but I can't. But it is quite unusual. Some features to it that I have never met before."
"Oh—I wish I might help you," Grace exclaimed. "You know how often I have done so in the past."
"I know, dear. But I am bound to secrecy, for the present at least. Suppose we turn in now. I've got to get up early."
"All right," Grace said. "But if you need my help, don't hesitate to ask me. To tell you the truth, I'm having an awfully slow time."
Duvall made his appearance at the Morton apartment the following morning in his ordinary guise. It was his intention, when the time came, to disappear from the case in his normal person, to reappear in it, later, in a complete disguise. But that time, he felt, had not yet arrived.
Mrs. Morton received him in fairly good spirits. Her daughter, she said, had had a restful night, in spite of her terrible experience. When Ruth rose from the breakfast table to greet him, he was gratified to find that she showed no great traces of the fright of the evening before.
"I'm feeling almost myself again, Mr. Duvall," she said. "I've made up my mind not to let these people frighten me again."
"Nothing further occurred last night, of course," Duvall asked.
"Nothing," replied Mrs. Morton. "I could almost believe the whole thing a horrible dream." They did not touch on the question of going to a hotel, during the short interval that elapsed before they set out for the studio. Duvall was anxious to see Mr. Baker. He hoped sincerely that by means of the photograph which had been in the company's files, some trace of the persons responsible for the threats might be obtained.
The trip to the studio was made most uneventfully, and Ruth started in with her work in very good spirits. Duvall, leaving the girl with her mother, sought out Mr. Baker in the latter's private office.
"Hello!" Baker cried, grasping the detective's hand warmly. "Anything new?"
"Not a thing. How about the photograph we were going to trace?"
Mr. Baker frowned.
"It's a curious thing," he replied. "Most curious. The picture in question was, I find, taken from the files by Mr. Moore, our president, and placed on his desk. He always admired it, and kept it there, along with a number of others, to show to persons calling upon him. Now, it seems, it has disappeared. There is not the slightest trace of it." "But," Duvall objected, "who could have taken it?"
"A dozen people. Half a hundred, I guess. You see, Mr. Moore's office is a big room, just beyond here." He rose, and led the detective through a short corridor. "Here it is," he went on, throwing open the door. "This is where Mr. Moore receives hiscallers. It is his reception room, and no private papers are kept here. Those are all in the smaller office adjoining. This room is open at any time. After Mr. Moore leaves in the evening, and he often leaves early, anyone might come in here. And when the offices are closed, at night, I suppose any employee of the company might look in, if he cared to do so, without anyone objecting. You see, this is a sort of public room. The inner office is always kept locked, but there has never seemed to be any good reason for locking this one."
"Still, although you cannot tell who has taken the picture, it seems clear enough that it must have been removed by some one employed in the studio."
"Even that is by no means certain. So many people come here every day. All sorts of visitors, writers, actors, and the like. After business hours I don't doubt any number of persons enter this room, to look at the pictures of our great successes that hang on its walls. And then there are the caretakers, the scrub-women, and their friends. I find that they, many of them, bring in outsiders, after working hours, to look at the studio, and the famous offices. Of course it should not be, and it will not be, in the future, but up to now we have rather welcomed people from outside. It seemed good advertising."
Duvall followed his companion back to his office.
"Then this clue, like all the others in this singular case," he remarked, "seems to end in a blind alley."
"It seems so," assented Mr. Baker, gloomily. "What was your plan about the new film we're going to show to-night?"
Duvall was about to speak, but before he could do so, they heard a slight commotion in the hall outside. Then someone rapped violently on the door.
Both he and Baker sprang to their feet.
"Come in," the latter cried.
The door was flung open, and Mr. Edwards, the director, who was making the picture upon which Ruth Morton was working, strode hastily into the room. "Mr. Baker!" he exclaimed, then paused upon seeing Duvall.
"What is it?" Baker replied.
"Will you look here a minute, please?"
Baker went up to him, his face showing the greatest uneasiness.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Anything wrong?"
"Yes. Miss Morton was going through the scene in the first part, where she gets the telegram, you know, and when she opened the message, and read it, she fainted."
"Fainted? What was in the telegram to make her faint?"
"Well, it ought to have read, 'Will call for you to-night, with marriage license—Jimmy.' That was the prop message we had prepared. But somebody must have substituted another one for it. This is what she read." He handed Baker a yellow slip of paper. "I can't make anything out of it."
Baker snatched the telegram from his hand with a growl of rage, and read it hastily. Then he passed it over to Duvall.
"What do you think of that?" he asked. Duvall gazed at the telegram with a feeling of helpless anger.
"Twenty-six days more," it read. "When you appear in your new picture at the Grand to-night,it will be your last. I shall be there." The grinning death's head seal was appended in lieu of a signature, as before.
A feeling of resentment swept over the detective. It seemed that these people acted as they saw fit, with supreme indifference to the fact that he was on their trail. Never before had he felt his skill so flouted, his ability made so light of. And yet, as usual, the message had apparently been delivered in such a way as to make tracing it impossible.
"Still at it, it seems," Mr. Baker remarked. "This thing has got to stop, and at once. I don't propose to let anybody make a monkey of me."
Duvall turned to the director, Mr. Edwards.
"Who prepared the original telegram?" he asked quickly.
Mr. Edwards looked at the detective in surprise, evidently wondering what this stranger had to do with the matter.
"Answer, Edwards. It's all right," snapped Mr. Baker.
"I prepared the property telegram," the director answered.
"When?"
"Lastnight. I knew it would be needed to-day."
"What did you do with it?"
"I left it on my desk. This morning I took it into the studio, and when the moment arrived, I gave it to the actor who took it to MissMorton."
"Was he out of your sight, after you gave him the telegram?"
"No. He took it and walked right on the scene."
"Then he couldn't have substituted another for it?"
"No. It would have been impossible, unless he used sleight of hand."
"Before you gave the man the telegram where was it?"
"In my coat pocket."
"No chance, I suppose, of anyone having taken it out and substituting another."
"None."
"Then it is clear that the substitution must have been effected between the time you left your office last night, and your arrival here this morning."
"Yes."
"Was this possible?"
"Undoubtedly. I left my office last night about six. It is never locked. The caretakers, the women who clean the offices, were in there later, and from seven to nine this morning it would also have been a simple matter for anyone to enter and make the change."
Duvall turned to Mr. Baker.
"It's the same story," he said. "Someone who works in the building is responsible for this thing, or else is able to bribe one or more of your employees to act for them. But we won't get very far looking for the guilty person, with several hundred people to watch and no clues whatever to go on. Suppose we go back to your office, and I will tell you what I had in mind about this evening."
"Is Miss Morton able to go on with the scene?" Baker asked, as Edwards started away.
"No. She seems all broken up. I don't think she is very well. Her mother is going to take her home, as soon as she feels better."
"Will you ask Mrs. Morton to wait a little while, Mr. Edwards? Tell her that Mr. Duvall will join her presently, and go back to the city with her." Mr. Edwards nodded, and withdrew, and Duvall and Mr. Baker retired to the latter's private office.
"What did you have in mind about that new film we're going to release to-night?" Mr. Baker asked.
"I'll explain that presently. First, tell me how long it will take you to make a short section of film, say enough to show for about ten seconds?"
"Oh—not long. But what of?"
"I'll explain that presently. But you could make such a section of film, develop and print it, and insert it in the picture you are going to show to-night, if you had to, couldn't you?"
"Yes—if we had to. But what's the idea?"
Duvall took a bit of paper from his pocket and handed it to Baker.
"I want you to make a picture of this, and have it inserted in the film at any convenient point—say at the beginning of the second part. And you had better have the cutting and pasting-in done by some trusted person, under your personal supervision."
"But," said Baker, gazing in amazement at the bit of paper Duvall had handed him. "What's the idea of putting this in our picture? It wouldn't do at all."
"Look at that telegram Mr. Edwards just gave you. The writer says in it, 'I shall be there.' Now if the person who is causing all this trouble is going to be in the audience at the Grand Theater to-night, it is our business to find her. I say her, because I am convinced the guilty person is a woman."
A look of comprehension began to dawn upon Mr. Baker's face.
"By George!" he exclaimed. "You figure out that this will cause her to disclose herself—make some sign?"
"I feel certain of it."
"Then we will put it in." He laid the square of paper on his desk. "I will have the section of film made privately, and at once. I shall not tell even the other officers of the company about it. I suppose they will give me the devil, until after they know the reasons for it, but then, of course, it will be all right."
Duvall rose and put out his hand.
"You will be there to-night, of course?"
"Of course. And you?"
"Oh, I'll be on hand all right, although you may not recognize me. Good day." With a quick hand-shake he left the room, and went to look for Ruth and her mother. He found them in the girl's dressing-room, ready to depart. Ruth was pale and terrified, showing the most intense nervousness in every word and movement. Mrs. Morton, scarcely less affected, strove with all her power to remain calm, in order that her daughter might not break down completely. Duvall did his best to cheer them up.
"You must not let this thing prey on your mind, Miss Morton," he said. "We are going to put a stop to it, and that very soon."
"I hope so, Mr. Duvall," the girl replied. "If you don't, I'm afraid I shall break down completely."
"I think we had better go home at once," Mrs. Morton said. "Ruth is in no condition to do any more work to-day."
"I quite agree with you about going, Mrs. Morton, but not home." He lowered his voice, as though fearing that even at that moment some tool of the woman who was sending the letters might be within earshot. "I suggest that you let me take your daughter to some quiet hotel. You can follow, with her maid and the necessary baggage, later on. But we must be certain to make the change in such a way that our enemies, who are undoubtedly watching us, will not know of it. We will all leave here in your car, giving out that we are going to your home. No one will suspect anything to the contrary. On our arrival in the city, your daughter and I will leave the car, and drive to the hotel in a taxicab. When, later on, you follow with the baggage, take a taxi, sending your own car to the garage. I know your confidence in your chauffeur, but in this affair we can afford to trust no one. Your daughter and yourself can remain quietly in the hotel, under an assumed name, for a few days, until she recovers her strength. Meanwhile, I have every expectation that the persons at the bottom of this shameful affair will have been caught."
The plan appealed to Mrs. Morton at once, and she told the detective so.
"But where shall we go to—what hotel?" she asked.
Duvall leaned over and whispered in her ear the name of an exclusive and very quiet hotel in the upper part of the city.
"Do not mention the name to anyone," he said, "not even to the taxicab driver, when you leave the house. Tell him to put you down at the corner, a block away, and do not proceed to the hotel until you see that he has driven off. And keep your eyes on your maid. I do not suspect her, I admit, but there seems to be a leak somewhere, and we must stop it."
Mrs. Morton nodded, and rose.
"We had better start, then," she said. "I understand perfectly. Have Ruth register in the name of Bradley. And I think, Mr. Duvall, if you can do so, you had better arrange to stop there as well."
"I had intended to do so," the detective replied.
"That will be better." Mrs. Morton led the way to the street.
"You did not intend to go to the showing of your new film at the Grand to-night, did you?" Duvall asked Ruth, after theyhad started away from the studio.