style="font-size:15px;"> "Come, then, by all means, at any hour that suits you. Mr. Stapleton is one of my best friends."
Mrs. Morton hung up the receiver, after assuring him that she would start at once. Then she went out and engaging an automobile, set out for Duvall's place.
CHAPTER III
Richard Duvall and his wife, Grace, lingered rather later than usual over their breakfast that morning.
It was a warm and brilliant day in May, and the blossoming beauty of the spring filled them both with a delightful sense of well-being.
Duvall, however, seemed a trifle restless, and Grace observed it.
"What's the matter, Richard?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing." Her husband picked up the morning paper. "They are still looking for the woman in that Marsden case, I see," he remarked.
"Do you know, my dear," Grace said, "I sometimes think that you made a mistake in coming down here to the country to live. Your heart is really in New York, and every time there is a murder case, or a bank robbery, or a kidnapping up there, you are restless as a hen on a hot griddle until the mystery is solved. Why don't you take up your professional work again?" Duvall laid down his paper and regarded his wife with a look of surprise.
"Because, Grace," he said, "you especially asked me, after that affair of the missing suffragette, to finally give up my detective work and content myself with a quiet existence here on the farm. You said, on account of the boy, that I ought not to take such risks."
"Well – suppose I did. You agreed with me, didn't you?"
"Yes – I guess so." Duvall once more picked up the newspaper. "But, naturally, I can't help feeling a certain interest in any striking and novel case that I may read about."
"And I haven't a doubt," laughed Grace, "that you wish that you were back in harness again a dozen times a day. Come now – 'fess up. Don't you?"
"Sometimes," granted her husband, with a smile. "You know I loved my work. It always seemed to take me out of the dull routine of existence, and give me a new feeling of interest. I shouldn't mind if I had a novel and interesting case to work on right now."
"Would you take one, if it were offered to you?" asked Grace quickly.
"No – I guess not. I haven't forgotten my promise."
"Well – I've decided to release you from that, Richard. I really think you need a little mental exercise and diversion. All play and no work, you know – " She began to arrange the dogwood blossoms she had gathered before breakfast, in a big vase on the table.
Duvall laughed.
"I'm getting along very well," he said. "Don't forget I'm expecting to have that corner lot planted in potatoes to-day." He rose, and coming over to his wife, playfully pinched her cheek. "What's the matter, dear?" he asked. "Are you pining for a little trip to New York yourself? We don't need a murder mystery to make that possible, you know."
Grace shook her head. As she did so, the telephone bell in the hall began to ring. "That may be your murder mystery now," she said, with a laugh.
"More likely the Clarks asking us over to dinner this evening," he returned, as he made his way into the hall.
Grace continued to arrange her flowers. Presently Duvall re-entered the room. There was a curious smile upon his face. "Well," Grace remarked, glancing up. "Which was it? The murder case, or the Clarks?"
"Neither. A mysterious woman, this time, saying that she must see me at once. I told her to come on out."
"Ah! This is serious," his wife laughed. "A mysterious woman! I suppose I ought to be jealous. Didn't she say what she wanted with you?"
"No. But we'll know soon enough. She'll be here at half past nine. Suppose we go and take a look at those Airedale pups." Together they crossed the veranda and made their way toward the barn.
Richard Duvall had changed but little since the days when he had served on the staff of Monsieur Lefevre, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and had taken part in the stirring adventures of the Million Francs, the Ivory Snuff Box and the Changing Lights. The same delightful spirit of camaraderie existed between his wife, Grace, and himself, a spirit which had enabled them, together, to solve some of the most exciting mysteries in the annals of the French detective service. It had been nearly two years, now, since the affair of the Mysterious Goddess, the last case in which Duvall had been concerned, and he was beginning to feel that he would welcome with outstretched arms a chance to make use once more of his exceptional talents as an investigator of crime. Hence he had received Mrs. Morton's telephone call with more than ordinary interest.
The latter had told him nothing of her reasons for interviewing him, contenting herself with the bare statement that she had a letter to him from Mr. Stapleton. This, however, had been enough to set Duvall's nerves to tingling and to cause him to conclude that the mysterious woman who desired to interview him in such a hurry came on no ordinary business. Hence he waited with some impatience for the arrival of half past nine.
A few moments after the half hour, a large automobile swept up the drive, and Duvall, with a nod to his wife, went back to the house to receive his guest. She was waiting in the library when he entered.
"I am Mrs. Morton, of New York," his caller began, handing him Mr. Stapleton's letter.
Duvall read it, but it told him little.
"Mr. Stapleton informs me," he said, looking at his visitor, "that you are in some difficulty or other, and asks that, if I can possibly do so, I try to help you out of it. Did he not also say that I have for some time past given up the active practice of my profession?"
Mrs. Morton nodded, then bent eagerly forward.
"Yes, Mr. Duvall. He told me that. But he also said that, when you heard the circumstances, you might be persuaded to assist me. I am in very deep trouble, and I fear that there is not a moment to be lost."
"What is the nature of your difficulty, madam?" Duvall asked.
"It – it concerns my daughter. I am the mother of Ruth Morton." She made this announcement as though she fully expected Duvall to realize its significance at once, but the latter's face remained quite blank.
"Yes?" he replied, vaguely. "And who is Ruth Morton?"
Mrs. Morton looked at him in pained surprise. The thought that anyone could possibly be ignorant of her daughter's fame and success seemed unbelievable to her. Was not Ruth's name a household word among moving picture "fans" from coast to coast? "Why – Ruth Morton – the motion picture star," she replied. "Surely you must have heard of her."
Duvall smiled, but shook his head.
"I never go to motion pictures," he said. "But that is of no importance. What has happened to your daughter?"
"Nothing. At least I hope not – yet. It is what may happen to her that frightens me so." She took the two threatening letters from her handbag and gave them to the detective. "These came yesterday," she said, simply.
Duvall took the letters, and proceeded to read them with the utmost care. When he looked up, his eyes were sparkling with interest.
"The first letter, I observe," he said, "was
