the women's names, in which the first name begins with 'Mar,'" Duvall said. "I will put them down on a sheet of paper." He drew a pad toward him, took out his pencil, and the two set to work.
When they had at last reached the end of the book, both Duvall and Mr. Baker were surprised to find that the names they had picked out were so few. In all there were but eight, as follows:
Miss Mary Sollenberger,
Miss Mary Green,
Miss Margaret Schwartz,
Miss Maria Rosenheim,
Miss Martha Simmons,
Miss Marcia Ford,
Miss Marian Greenberg,
Miss Mary King.
Duvall ran his pencil down the list of names. "There is but one that fulfills the requirements," he announced. "The sixth name, that of Miss Marcia Ford, contains in all fourteen letters. None of the others do. Two, those of Miss King and Miss Green, come the nearest. Miss King's full name contains twelve letters, Miss Green's, thirteen. Any one of the three might be the one we seek."
"I can answer for Miss King at once," said Mr. Baker, quietly. "She is my stenographer, and most certainly not the woman who was in the theater to-night."
"That leaves then, Miss Green and Miss Ford. What do they do, and what are their addresses?"
Mr. Baker referred to his book.
"Miss Green is a telephone operator. Her address is given here as 310 Gold Street, Brooklyn. Miss Ford is a film cutter, and lives at 122 West 9th Street, New York."
"Neither sounds particularly promising," Duvall remarked, with a frown.
"No. But of course we are assuming that the woman in question works in the studio. If she does not, our whole fabric falls to pieces." Duvall took the torn piece of card from his pocket and glanced at it.
"The address given here begins with the number 1," he said, significantly. "It may be that Miss Marcia Ford, of 122 West Ninth Street, is the woman we are looking for, although I confess I should have suspected some rival motion picture star, rather than a film cutter."
"By George, I forgot the fact that the card had an address on it," Baker exclaimed. "I think we had better look up Miss Ford at once."
"I agree with you," Duvall said. A few moments later they were driving at top speed back toward New York.
It was five minutes to twelve when they reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and Ninth Street and turned west. Duvall realized that they were following a very slim clue, but it seemed for the moment the only promising one they had.
The house, No. 122, proved to be a typical high stooped, brownstone boarding house of this section of the city. It was for the most part dark, although one or two of the upper windows showed lights.
Accompanied by Baker, Duvall quickly mounted the steps and rang the bell. At first there was no answer, although they could hear the sound of the bell tinkling mournfully inside. A second summons brought no greater response. At the third, a woman's head appeared in one of the upper windows, and they heard a shrill and not over pleasant voice asking them what they wanted.
"I have an important message for Miss Marcia Ford," Duvall replied pleasantly. "I must see her at once."
"Miss Ford moved away from here three months ago," the woman snapped.
"Will you please give me her present address?" the detective exclaimed, somewhat taken aback.
"I don't know it. She didn't say where she was going. Good night!" A moment later the window above them was closed with a slam.
The two men stood staring at each other in the utmost disappointment. They had expected a more favorable outcome of their expedition.
"How long has she been with you?" Duvall asked, turning to his companion.
"I don't know. Certainly over three months, or we shouldn't have this address on our books. I suppose, when she changed it, she omitted to notify us. What are we going to do now?"
"There isn't anything we can do, until morning. If Miss Marcia Ford reports for work to-morrow, and you see that she is the woman who fainted in the theater to-night, have her arrested at once. If she doesn't report for work, at least we shall know that she is the woman we are after."
"That isn't much consolation," Mr. Baker grumbled.
"I don't agree with you. Having the woman's name, knowing her appearance, we are certain to catch her, sooner or later. And in the meanwhile, I do not think that she will attempt anything further so far as Miss Morton is concerned. We are too close on her trail, for that."
"I hope you are right," said the motion picture man. "Well, I guess I'll go along home. I'll be at the studio first thing in the morning, however, and I suppose you will be there too."
"By all means. I am most curious to see whether our reasoning to-night has been correct."
"Shall I take you to your hotel in my car?"
"No, thanks. I'll take a taxi. Good night."
"Good night."
A few moments later, Duvall was speeding up Fifth Avenue, his brain still puzzling over the curious contradictions which the events of the night had developed. On one point he felt secure, however. He was certain that the woman who had so narrowly escaped him earlier in the evening would not soon again attempt anything against Ruth Morton.
Arrived at his hotel, he asked for his key. The man behind the desk, with a queer look, handed him along with it a slip of paper. On it was written: "Mrs. Bradley wishes Mr. John Bradley to come to her room at the moment he returns."
"When was this message left?" the detective asked.
"Oh—nearly two hours ago. The time is stamped on the back of it, sir."
Duvall turned the card over, and saw from the stamp on the other side that Mrs. Morton had sent for him at half past ten.
"The message was phoned down by the lady herself," the clerk added, by way of explanation.
Duvall went up in the elevator, and a few moments later, was knocking at the door of Mrs. Morton's suite.
The latter herself appeared in the doorway. She was pale and agitated. "Come in, Mr. Duvall," she said.
The detective entered, closing the door behind him.
"What is wrong, Mrs. Morton?" he asked.
"There has been another warning—a dreadful one," the older woman exclaimed, her voice trembling. "It came a little after ten."
"What was it?" Duvall's voice was almost as strained as that of the woman before him. Her words came to him as a complete surprise. Had all the work of the evening, then, been wasted?
"At a little after ten," Mrs. Morton said slowly, "I sent my maid Nora out for some medicine for my daughter. She went to a drug store some three blocks away. As she returned to the
