was sufficiently clear.
Grace, looking over her husband's shoulder, read the completed name and address.
"Miss Marcia Ford," she exclaimed. "162 West 57th Street. Why, Richard, there is the name and address of the woman you want."
"It may be her address," her husband remarked, gloomily, "but it certainly isn't her name."
"But—Why not?"
"Because I saw Marcia Ford this morning, and she isn't the woman!"
Grace looked at him in astonishment. "Are you sure?" she cried.
"Perfectly. Marcia Ford is not the one we are after."
"Then how do you explain the woman having a card with that name on it?"
"I don't explain it—unless," he paused for a moment in thought. "Unless this Ford woman, and the other one, are in league with each other, which might account for the latter having her card in her purse."
"And the address! Is that where Marcia Ford lives?"
"I don't know. It may be where they both live, for all I can tell. I only hope it is." He rose and took up his hat.
"Where are you going?" Grace asked.
"To 162 West 57th Street." Suddenly he took his wallet from his pocket, snatched a second card from it, and after looking at it for a moment, gave an exclamation of delighted surprise.
"What is it?" Grace asked quickly.
He thrust the card into her hand. Grace glanced at it, without quite understanding what it meant.
"I don't see what you mean," she exclaimed. "The thing is clear enough. The card I have just given you belongs to Miss Ruth Morton."
"I see that, but——"
"Then surely you must see that Miss Morton's apartment also is on Fifty-seventh Street, and just two doors from the address of Miss Marcia Ford!"
Chapter 2
Duvall, upon discovering that the address of Miss Marcia Ford was on West 57th Street, but two doors from the building in which the Morton apartment was located, began to feel that he was on the right track. He had known, ever since his first day upon the case, that the mysterious messages found in Ruth Morton's bedroom had been placed there by some ingenious but perfectly natural means. The apparition that had so startled the girl upon her last night at the flat was capable, of course, of some reasonable explanation. When he left Mr. Baker in the morning his plan had been to go to Mrs. Morton's apartment and once more investigate all possible means of entrance, hoping that, by finding out how the messages were delivered, he might also be able to find out by whom. It was for this reason that he had asked Mrs. Morton for the key to the apartment.
Now the question seemed in a fair way to being answered for him. The fact that this girl's room was located so near to the Mortons' apartment could not be a mere coincidence. There must be, between her room and the Morton flat some means of communication, although of what nature he could not now surmise. Fully convinced, however, that he might very soon find out, he hurried up to Fifty-seventh Street and walked along until he reached No. 162.
The house was, like that which immediately adjoined the apartment building, an old-fashioned one, of brown stone, with a high front stoop. It presented an appearance which, if not exactly dilapidated, was yet in strong contrast to the neat appearance of its neighbors. A printed card in one of the lower front windows indicated that roomers were wanted.
It was just the sort of place that Duvall had expected to find—just the sort of place in which a working girl like Marcia Ford would live. Located in a very excellent neighborhood, surrounded by apartment buildings and houses of the best type, it still could afford to rent rooms at the moderate figure that one of her class could pay. He went up the front steps and rang the bell. "Is Miss Ford in? Miss Marcia Ford?" he asked.
The servant who came to the door, a neatly dressed German girl, shook her head.
"No, Miss Ford is not in. She usually gets back about half past six."
Duvall glanced at his watch. It was not yet three o'clock. He realized that he had a long wait before him.
"Will you leave any message?" the girl asked.
"No. It is not important. I will come back." Descending the steps he walked slowly in the direction of the apartment building, two doors away.
Entering, he made his way to Mrs. Morton's apartment. The place was just as they had left it, two days before. The windows had all been tightly closed and fastened, and there were no further mysterious messages lying about. Once more Duvall went to Ruth Morton's room, and opening the two windows looked out.
His investigations, however, told him no more than he had learned before. The three dormer windows in the home next door gazed vacantly down at him, their windows covered with cobwebs and dust. The impossibility of anyone making their way from even the nearest of them, to the window where he stood, was manifest. And that a long rod or pole could have been utilized to introduce the letters into the girl's room was even more impossible. He shook his head, then turned to the other window, that facing upon the fire escape.
Here, as on the occasion of his previous examination, the smooth glossy surface of the freshly dried paint showed no marks, except those he had himself made during his former visit. And yet, as his eyes searched the grated surface, he saw that there was something there, something that had not been there before. He reached out and picked it up.
It was a woman's handkerchief, a tiny square of lace-edged linen, of an inexpensive variety. But it was not the mere presence of the handkerchief that so interested him. It might readily have belonged to Miss Morton herself, and have been accidentally dropped from the window. There were two things about this particular handkerchief, however, that marked it as a clue of the utmost value. One was the fact that in its corner was embroidered an initial, the letter "F." The other was that two of the corners of the handkerchief were knotted together, as though it had been tied about someone's wrist, for what reason, he could not imagine.
The latter feature puzzled the detective greatly. He could not form any hypothesis to account for it. If the Ford woman, as indicated by the presence of the handkerchief, marked with an "F," had been on the fire-escape, why were there no tell-tale marks to indicate it? And if she had not been there, why was her handkerchief found there, knotted in this peculiar way? Had it formed part of some apparatus, some device, made of a pole and a cord, for inserting the threatening letters through the window? If so, it might, of course, have become detached while the device was being used. Duvall remembered that he had not examined the fire escape on the night when the astonishing apparition had appeared beside Ruth Morton's bed, because the window opening on the fire escape had been closed and locked. Had the handkerchief been left there then? He sat for a long time in the deserted library, trying to hit upon some reasonable theory to explain the matter, but his efforts resulted in failure. Not the least confusing feature of the affair was the fact that the woman, Marcia Ford, was not the woman he was seeking. He had seen her at the studio that morning, and knew that she was not the one who had escaped from the cab the night before. Were there then two working together? If so, he would, through the Ford girl, in all probability be able to trace
