your daughter any enemy, who might envy her her success, and wish to deprive her of it?" he asked.
"None, that I know of. But since these two letters came, I feel convinced that someone, whom, I cannot imagine, does feel that way toward her, and that on account of it she is in the gravest danger. Don't you think so, Mr. Duvall?"
"I think it highly probable. And what, Mrs. Morton, would you like to have me do in the matter?"
"Why—come to New York, take up the case, and find out who these wretches are, so that they may be prevented from doing my daughter any harm. There is no time to lose. They may carry out their threats at any moment. You will observe that in the first letter they said that her beauty would be destroyed 'within thirty days.' One of those days has already passed. To-day is the second. At most, we have but twenty-eight days left in which to find out who is responsible for this outrage. Investigation may consume a great deal of time. I hope that you will consent to come to New York and take charge of the matter at once. I am returning this afternoon, as soon as I can get a train. Can you not return with me? As for the matter of expense, I place no limit upon it. There is nothing I would not sacrifice, to save my daughter from the fate they have threatened. Think what it would mean, Mr. Duvall. A young, beautiful, innocent girl, scarcely more than a child, to go through life with her beauty taken from her, made hideous by some fiendish device, blinded and scarred by acid, her features crushed—gashed by some sudden blow. Can you imagine anything more terrible?"
Duvall thought for moment of his own lovely child, now almost three years old, and shuddered. Bank burglaries, thefts of jewels, seemed relatively of small importance compared with such a situation as this. His feelings of chivalry rose. He felt a strong desire to help this young girl.
"Here is her picture," Mrs. Morton continued, taking a photograph from her handbag and extending it to Duvall.
The latter gazed at the charming features of the young actress, and nodded.
"She is lovely—exquisite," he murmured. "I don't wonder you feel as you do. I did not intend to take up any detective work at this time, but I have decided to assist you in this matter in any way that I can."
"Oh—thank you, Mr. Duvall." There were tears in Mrs. Morton's anxious eyes. "I can never repay you for your kindness—never. But if you can save Ruth from these scoundrels, I will gladly spend——"
"Never mind about that, Mrs. Morton," Duvall observed, with a friendly smile. "It is scarcely a question of money with me. If I had not felt a keen interest in your daughter's welfare, I should not have agreed to take up the matter at all. As it is, you need not worry about the expense. I am going to take the case largely because it has interested me, and it will be a pleasure to work it out, not only on your daughter's account, but on my own. You know, to me, such matters are of absorbing interest, like the solving of some complex and baffling puzzle."
"Then you will go back to New York with me this evening?"
"I can hardly do that, Mrs. Morton. But I can agree to call on you there to-morrow. It will take me some hours to arrange matters here so that I can leave. I do not think you need worry for a few days at least. If these people had meant to act at once they would not have named the period of thirty days in their threats."
"Very well." Mrs. Morton rose, and held out her hand. "I will expect you to-morrow. Will it be in the morning?"
"Very likely. In any event, I will first telephone to you." He entered the address in his notebook. "By the way, perhaps you had better let me keep that photograph."
"Certainly." Mrs. Morton handed it to him, and he thrust it into his pocket. "The letters you already have?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes. One thing. Do not tell your daughter that you have employed me in this case. It—it might alarm her."
"Certainly not. And that leads me to say that you, on your part, will of course observe the utmost secrecy. Even with Mrs. Duvall."
"That goes without saying, madam. My professional secrets I share with no one. Even between my wife and myself there is an unwritten law which is never broken. Unless we are working on a case together—unless she can be of service to me, she asks no questions. She would not speak to me, or even recognize me, were we to meet, while I am engaged in work of this sort. You need have no fear on that score."
"I am very glad to know that. Were these people to suspect that I have placed the matter in the hands of a detective, they would be instantly on their guard, and all means of tracing them might be lost."
"That is undoubtedly true, and for that reason, I may appear in other characters than my own, from time to time, disguised perhaps, in such a way that even you would not recognize me. Under those circumstances I will suggest a password—one that will not be known to anyone else. Should occasion arise in which I desire to acquaint you with my identity, without making it known to others, I will merely repeat the words—twenty-eight days, or twenty-seven or six or five, as the case may be, on that particular day, and you will know that it is I, and act accordingly. Is that perfectly clear?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Duvall."
"Very well. Then we will leave further details until to-morrow." He shook hands with his caller, escorted her to her automobile, then returned to the library and began a careful study of the two notes which Mrs. Morton had left with him. Here Grace found him, half an hour later.
"Well," she said, coming up to him with a smile. "Shall I begin to pack our things?"
Duvall put his arm about her.
"Yes, dear," he said. "We'll leave on the sleeper to-night. You can get Mrs. Preston to come and take charge of the house while we are gone. It may be two weeks. That is, if you want to go along."
"Want to go along? Why, Richard, I'm just dying for a trip to New York. I haven't been there since before Christmas, as you know, and I've got to get a spring outfit. Of course I'm going." She went gayly toward the hall stairs.
"Then you must be ready right after lunch," he called after her.
"But why so soon, if we are taking the sleeper?"
"Because we are going up to town this afternoon and see a few moving pictures."
"Moving pictures?" Grace paused at the door, an expression of the utmost astonishment upon her face. "Why, Dick, you never go to moving pictures. You've always said they didn't interest you."
"We're going, just the same."
"What's come over you?" Grace asked.
"Nothing. I'm curious to see some of them, that's all. Never too old to learn, you know. If I am not mistaken, I saw a new feature film advertised in the newspaper this morning." He took a paper from the desk and glanced through it. "Here it is. Ruth Morton, in The Miser's Daughter. Have you seen it?"
"No. But I've seen Miss Morton often—in pictures, I mean. She's a lovely creature, and a splendid actress, too."
"Then this film ought to be a good one, don't you think?"
Grace burst into a rippling laugh.
"You're getting positively human, Richard," she exclaimed. "Here I've been telling you for months past what a lot you've been missing,
