you only made fun of me, and now you actually suggest going yourself. Was the lady who called interested in the motion picture business?"
Duvall laughed, but made no reply.
"What's the mystery?" Grace went on, with an amused smile. "You haven't told me, you know. Has she lost her jewels, or only her husband?"
Duvall raised his hand.
"No questions, my dear. This is a professional matter. But I don't mind telling you this much, if I ever become a motion picture 'fan,' you'll have her to thank for it."
"Really. Then I'm glad she came. I hate going alone. And it seems I shall also have to thank her for a trip to New York. She has my eternal gratitude. Now I'm going up to pack."
Duvall resumed his seat, and once more took up his examination of the letters Mrs. Morton had left with him, but they told him little. There were the usual individual peculiarities in the typewritten characters, but that was about all he could discover. The letter paper, while of excellent quality, was such as might be bought at any first-class stationery store. The death's head seal, of course, was highly individual, but to trace anyone by means of it presented almost insuperable difficulties. To find the seal, one must of necessity first find its owner, and then the chase would be over. He replaced the letters in his pocket book, and went to his room to make ready for their journey.
Chapter 4
Mrs. Morton returned to New York that afternoon, greatly pleased with the results of her trip. That she had been able to enlist the services of Richard Duvall gave her a sense of security. She found Ruth at home, safe and well, with no further threats or warnings to disturb her peace of mind. The girl was absorbed in her new rôle. The picture promised to be the most successful of her career.
The following morning Mrs. Morton rose early, in order to go through the mail before Ruth had an opportunity to do so. The shock caused by the first threatening letter had passed from the girl's mind. The second she knew nothing of. Mrs. Morton was determined that if any more arrived, she should not see those either.
Trembling with eagerness she opened the pile of letters, but found nothing. With a sigh of relief she turned away. Perhaps, after all she had exaggerated the importance of the matter. Half an hour later, while Ruth was eating her breakfast, a messenger boy arrived with a telegram, addressed to Miss Ruth Morton. The maid, seeing no reason to do otherwise, brought it to the girl as she sat at the table. Mrs. Morton, who had been at the rear of the apartment, hurried in as she heard the sound of the doorbell, but by the time she had reached the dining room, Ruth had already opened and read the message. She sat staring at a bit of yellow paper, her face pale and drawn.
"What is it, dear?" Mrs. Morton cried, hurrying to her side.
Ruth picked up the telegram and handed it to her mother.
"Another threat," she said, quietly. "These people, whoever they are, seem to be in deadly earnest."
Mrs. Morton took the telegram and hurriedly read it.
"Even the beauty of the rose," the message said, "cannot endure for twenty-seven days." There was no signature to the telegram.
A look of the deepest apprehension crept into Mrs. Morton's eyes, but she turned away, so that Ruth might not realize her fears.
"Pay no attention to the matter, Ruth," she said, in tones suddenly grown a trifle unsteady. "It is certainly nothing more than a stupid joke."
"Well, mother, of course you may be right, but for my part, I have a feeling that it isn't a joke at all, but a real and very terrible threat. What is to prevent these people, whoever they are, from attacking me—sending me some infernal machine in the disguise of a box or package, which, as soon as I open it, might burn or blind or otherwise disfigure me so that my life would be ruined?" She rose and glanced at herself in the mirror which hung over the mantel. Already there were deep circles of anxiety beneath her eyes, while the lines of her face, usually sweet and placid, were now those of an anxious and frightened woman. The first threat had upset her far more than her mother had realized. The one just received had intensified the effect a hundredfold.
"But you mustn't open any packages, my child. Be very careful about that. And Robert must not stop the car, under any circumstances, in going to or from the studio. There, at least, I believe you are quite safe. I will have a talk with Mr. Edwards to-day, and explain matters to him. And here you cannot possibly be in any danger. Meanwhile, in spite of what you say, I still beg you not to let this matter prey upon your mind. I cannot, will not, take it seriously." Poor Mrs. Morton, herself thoroughly frightened, strove with all her might to convince Ruth that she had nothing to fear. She knew the girl's intense, high-strung nature, and feared that constant worry, ceaseless anxiety, might readily so work upon her as to reduce her to a nervous wreck long before the expiration of the thirty days named in the first threatening letter. She found herself wishing devoutly that Duvall would appear.
As she finished speaking there came a ring at the doorbell, and Nora started to answer it. Mrs. Morton stopped her.
"Nora," she said. "Listen to me. You are not, under any circumstances, to admit anyone—no matter who it is—until I have first seen and talked with them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am. I understand," replied the girl, as she went out into the hall.
A moment later Mrs. Morton, hearing a man's voice, hurried after her. Nora, with the door but slightly open, was speaking with a rough-looking fellow, a workman, apparently, who stood in the hallway outside. He was a man of thirty-five, with a reddish moustache, wearing working clothes and a cap. This he removed, as Mrs. Morton came to the door.
"Is this Mrs. Morton's apartment?" he asked.
"Yes. What do you want?" Mrs. Morton's voice and manner were far from encouraging.
"There seems to be a leak in the plumbing somewhere on this floor," the man went on. "There's trouble with the ceilings in the apartment below. The superintendent wants me to go over the connections and see that everything is all right." He lifted a canvas bag containing his tools from the floor, and made as though to enter. Mrs. Morton, however, did not open the door any wider.
"You can't come in now," she said. "Come back later—in an hour. My daughter is not dressed yet." She seemed ready to close the door entirely, but the man again spoke.
"Can't afford to wait, ma'am," he said, with a significant smile. "I got every apartment in this building to go over before the end of the month, and there are only twenty-seven days left." He emphasized his concluding words, at the same time looking Mrs. Morton squarely in the eye. The words, the man's look, brought sudden recognition. Mrs. Morton drew open the door.
"Very well," she said. "Come in." She realized that the supposed workman was no other than Duvall.
The latter went quietly toward the kitchen at the rear of the apartment, and occupied himself by examining the connections of the sink. He seemed to work slowly, unconcernedly, whistling softly to himself as he moved about. His eyes, however, were very bright and keen, and no detail of the room, the negro cook who occupied it, or the buildings in the rear, escaped his attention.
Mrs. Morton came back presently and addressed him.
"My daughter
