a young woman standing near the entrance, apparently watching those who went in and out. As soon as the maid came up to the doorway, the woman stepped up to her, and thrusting a package into her hands, said quickly, 'Give this to Miss Ruth Morton. It is from the studio.' Then she walked away at once.
"Nora, as she tells me, did not know just what to do. You will remember that while she realizes from our presence here under an assumed name, that something is wrong, she knows little or nothing of the circumstances surrounding Ruth's terrible persecution. Hence she foolishly took both the medicine and the package the woman had given her, to my daughter."
"Yes—yes—go on," Duvall exclaimed, seeing Mrs. Morton pause.
"Ruth opened them both. I was in the next room at the moment. Suddenly I heard a cry, and on rushing in, found her standing in the center of the room, holding a small bottle in one hand, and staring at it in the utmost consternation. In her other hand was a sheet of paper, which, as I subsequently found, had been wrapped around the bottle, inside the outer brown-paper cover.
"The bottle was labeled 'carbolic acid.' Here is the sheet of paper." Mrs. Morton, with trembling fingers, extended a half sheet of note-paper toward the detective.
Duvall took it and read the typewritten words upon it.
"We gave you thirty days. Now we give you seven. Drink this, and save yourself from a horrible fate." The death's head signature ended the message. "Ruth has been very ill ever since," Mrs. Morton added drearily. "If she is not better in the morning, I shall call in a doctor. She felt herself absolutely safe, here, and was recovering her cheerfulness. Now all her fears have returned with redoubled force. I am terribly worried about her—terribly worried." Taking out her handkerchief, the poor woman wiped the tears from her eyes. "How could these people have known we were here?" she whispered, in an awed voice. "It seems like the work of fiends."
There was little that the detective could say in reply. Even to his sober judgment, there came a suggestion of the uncanny, the supernatural. The woman in the cab had escaped at half past nine, presumably quite ignorant of the location of Mrs. Morton's retreat. Half an hour later, the campaign of intimidation was renewed with greater vigor than before.
"I'm afraid, Mrs. Morton," he said, "that it will be necessary for you to remain with your daughter every minute of the time, for a day or two. By then, I am convinced that we shall have laid our hands on the guilty parties. Good night."
Duvall rose very early the following morning, and drove at once to the studio, but early as he was, Mr. Baker was there before him.
The latter was seated in his office, poring over a mass of reports, when Duvall entered. He glanced up, rose, shook hands nervously, then motioned to a chair.
"Nothing new yet," he said. "My stenographer, Miss King, is here. Neither Miss Green nor Miss Ford have yet arrived, but it is still a little early. Miss King came before her usual time, as she had some reports to get out that she could not complete last night. We have at least fifteen minutes to wait."
Duvall told him to proceed with his work, and drawing a newspaper from his pocket, made an effort to interest himself in it. In this, however, he was not very successful. Time after time his mind would wander from the printed sheet before him to the strange events of the night before. The thing that puzzled him most was, how did the persecutors of Miss Morton discover her new address so soon? Was the woman who had handed the package to Nora, the maid, the same one that had vanished from the cab? He remembered that it had been about nine o'clock when they left the Grand Theater, and perhaps half-past when he had gone into the drug store in Sixth Avenue to get the aromatic spirits of ammonia. Had the woman gone directly from the cab to the hotel? She must have done so, without much loss of time, in order to reach there by ten o'clock. How had she known the address? He knew very well that he had given it to the cabman, when they started away from the theater. Had the supposedly fainting woman overheard his words? If she had, and had so promptly acted upon them, she was far more clever and determined than her appearance would seem to warrant. He revolved the matter endlessly in his mind, waiting for Mr. Baker to announce that the time had come, when Miss Ford's or Miss Green's arrival or non-arrival would indicate which of the two, if either, was the woman they sought.
Suddenly the bell of the telephone on Mr. Baker's desk ran sharply. He answered it, then turned to Duvall.
"Miss Green, the telephone operator, is at her desk," he said. "Would you like to take a look at her?"
"Yes." The detective arose, and followed Mr. Baker into the corridor. The switchboard of the building was located at the end of the hall, in a small bare room. When they reached it, Mr. Baker spoke to a dark-haired, rather stout, woman who sat at the desk.
"Miss Green," he said, "if any calls come in for Mr. Duvall, he will be in my office." Then he went back along the corridor.
"She certainly isn't the woman we are after," he remarked to Duvall, as soon as they were out of earshot.
"No. It must be Miss Ford," the detective replied.
"Suppose we go to the developing and finishing department," Baker suggested. "It is time all our people were on hand. Mr. Emmett, who is in charge there, can tell us about Miss Ford."
They crossed to the other side of the building, and entered a small office. A bald-headed man sat at a littered desk.
"Mr. Emmett," Baker said, "shake hands with Mr. Duvall. He is looking for a young woman in the finishing department. Miss Marcia Ford. Has she come in yet?"
"No," replied the bald-headed man, gravely shaking hands. "She is not here this morning. It is rather surprising, too, for she usually is on time."
"What sort of a looking woman is she?" Duvall inquired.
"Oh—a rather insignificant looking girl of about twenty-five. Small, slender, not very prepossessing, but clever—enormously clever. One of the best film cutters we have. I should be sorry to lose her."
"Light blue eyes, and light hair," Duvall questioned. "And a thin, rather cruel mouth?"
"Exactly. But why? Has she gotten into any trouble?"
"No—I hope not. I merely wanted to see her."
"Well—of course she may show up later, although as I say she has usually been very punctual. I shouldn't be surprised if she is sick. She's been acting rather peculiarly, the past few days."
"How so?" asked Duvall, quickly.
"I can't say—exactly. I got the impression from her manner that she was nervous, excited, out of sorts. Merely an impression, but such things count."
"Telephone me, Emmett," Mr. Baker said, "if she comes in during the next hour. Come along, Mr. Duvall, you can wait in my office."
They returned to the other side of the immense building, and Duvall sat down to wait. He felt sure that they were on the right track, and was impatient to get back to New York and try to locate the missing woman. The description given by Mr. Emmett left little doubt in his mind that she and Miss Marcia Ford were one and the same. He sat in Mr. Baker's office, reading the paper, waiting anxiously for the hour the latter had specified to pass.
After what seemed an interminable wait, Mr. Baker glanced at his watch, then rose.
"It is ten o'clock, Mr. Duvall," he announced. "Miss Ford has not come, or Mr. Emmett would have notified me. I do not see that there is anything further to be accomplished
