Duvall made his appearance at the Morton apartment the following morning in his ordinary guise. It was his intention, when the time came, to disappear from the case in his normal person, to reappear in it, later, in a complete disguise. But that time, he felt, had not yet arrived.

Mrs. Morton received him in fairly good spirits. Her daughter, she said, had had a restful night, in spite of her terrible experience. When Ruth rose from the breakfast table to greet him, he was gratified to find that she showed no great traces of the fright of the evening before.

“I’m feeling almost myself again, Mr. Duvall,” she said. “I’ve made up my mind not to let these people frighten me again.”

“Nothing further occurred last night, of course,” Duvall asked.

“Nothing,” replied Mrs. Morton. “I could almost believe the whole thing a horrible dream.” They did not touch on the question of going to a hotel, during the short interval that elapsed before they set out for the studio. Duvall was anxious to see Mr. Baker. He hoped sincerely that by means of the photograph which had been in the company’s files, some trace of the persons responsible for the threats might be obtained.

The trip to the studio was made most uneventfully, and Ruth started in with her work in very good spirits. Duvall, leaving the girl with her mother, sought out Mr. Baker in the latter’s private office.

“Hello!” Baker cried, grasping the detective’s hand warmly. “Anything new?”

“Not a thing. How about the photograph we were going to trace?”

Mr. Baker frowned.

“It’s a curious thing,” he replied. “Most curious. The picture in question was, I find, taken from the files by Mr. Moore, our president, and placed on his desk. He always admired it, and kept it there, along with a number of others, to show to persons calling upon him. Now, it seems, it has disappeared. There is not the slightest trace of it.” “But,” Duvall objected, “who could have taken it?”

“A dozen people. Half a hundred, I guess. You see, Mr. Moore’s office is a big room, just beyond here.” He rose, and led the detective through a short corridor. “Here it is,” he went on, throwing open the door. “This is where Mr. Moore receives his callers. It is his reception room, and no private papers are kept here. Those are all in the smaller office adjoining. This room is open at any time. After Mr. Moore leaves in the evening, and he often leaves early, anyone might come in here. And when the offices are closed, at night, I suppose any employee of the company might look in, if he cared to do so, without anyone objecting. You see, this is a sort of public room. The inner office is always kept locked, but there has never seemed to be any good reason for locking this one.”

“Still, although you cannot tell who has taken the picture, it seems clear enough that it must have been removed by some one employed in the studio.”

“Even that is by no means certain. So many people come here every day. All sorts of visitors, writers, actors, and the like. After business hours I don’t doubt any number of persons enter this room, to look at the pictures of our great successes that hang on its walls. And then there are the caretakers, the scrub-women, and their friends. I find that they, many of them, bring in outsiders, after working hours, to look at the studio, and the famous offices. Of course it should not be, and it will not be, in the future, but up to now we have rather welcomed people from outside. It seemed good advertising.”

Duvall followed his companion back to his office.

“Then this clue, like all the others in this singular case,” he remarked, “seems to end in a blind alley.”

“It seems so,” assented Mr. Baker, gloomily. “What was your plan about the new film we’re going to show to-night?”

Duvall was about to speak, but before he could do so, they heard a slight commotion in the hall outside. Then someone rapped violently on the door.

Both he and Baker sprang to their feet.

“Come in,” the latter cried.

The door was flung open, and Mr. Edwards, the director, who was making the picture upon which Ruth Morton was working, strode hastily into the room. “Mr. Baker!” he exclaimed, then paused upon seeing Duvall.

“What is it?” Baker replied.

“Will you look here a minute, please?”

Baker went up to him, his face showing the greatest uneasiness.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Anything wrong?”

“Yes. Miss Morton was going through the scene in the first part, where she gets the telegram, you know, and when she opened the message, and read it, she fainted.”

“Fainted? What was in the telegram to make her faint?”

“Well, it ought to have read, ’Will call for you to-night, with marriage license Jimmy.’ That was the prop message we had prepared. But somebody must have substituted another one for it. This is what she read.” He handed Baker a yellow slip of paper. “I can’t make anything out of it.”

Baker snatched the telegram from his hand with a growl of rage, and read it hastily. Then he passed it over to Duvall.

“What do you think of that?” he asked. Duvall gazed at the telegram with a feeling of helpless anger.

“Twenty-six days more,” it read. “When you appear in your new picture at the Grand to-night, it will be your last. I shall be there.” The grinning death’s head seal was appended in lieu of a signature, as before.

A feeling of resentment swept over the detective. It seemed that these people acted as they saw fit, with supreme indifference to the fact that he was on their trail. Never before had he felt his skill so flouted, his ability made so light of. And yet, as usual, the message had apparently been delivered in such a way as to make tracing it impossible.

“Still at it, it seems,” Mr. Baker remarked. “This thing has got to stop, and at once. I don’t propose to let anybody make a monkey of me.”

Duvall turned to the director, Mr. Edwards.

“Who prepared the original telegram?” he asked quickly.

Mr. Edwards looked at the detective in surprise, evidently wondering what this stranger had to do with the matter.

“Answer, Edwards. It’s all right,” snapped Mr. Baker.

“I prepared the property telegram,” the director answered.

“When?”

“Last night. I knew it would be needed to-day.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I left it on my desk. This morning I took it into the studio, and when the moment arrived, I gave it to the actor who took it to Miss Morton.”

“Was he out of your sight, after you gave him the telegram?”

“No. He took it and walked right on the scene.”

“Then he couldn’t have substituted another for it?”

“No. It would have been impossible, unless he used sleight of hand.”

“Before you gave the man the telegram where was it?”

“In my coat pocket.”

“No chance, I suppose, of anyone having taken it out and substituting another.”

“None.”

“Then it is clear that the substitution must have been effected between the time you left your office last night, and your arrival here this morning.”

“Yes.”

“Was this possible?”

“Undoubtedly. I left my office last night about six. It is never locked. The caretakers, the women who clean the offices, were in there later, and from seven to nine this morning it would also have been a simple matter for anyone to enter and make the change.”

Duvall turned to Mr. Baker.

“It’s the same story,” he said. “Someone who works in the building is responsible for this thing, or else is able to bribe one or more of your employees to act for them. But we won’t get very far looking for the guilty person, with several hundred people to watch and no clues whatever to go on. Suppose we go back to your office, and I will tell you what I had in mind about this evening.”

“Is Miss Morton able to go on with the scene?” Baker asked, as Edwards started away.

“No. She seems all broken up. I don’t think she is very well. Her mother is going to take her home, as soon as she feels better.”

“Will you ask Mrs. Morton to wait a little while, Mr. Edwards? Tell her that Mr. Duvall will join her presently, and go back to the city with her.” Mr. Edwards nodded, and withdrew, and Duvall and Mr. Baker retired to the latter’s private office.

“What did you have in mind about that new film we’re going to release to-night?” Mr. Baker asked.

“I’ll explain that presently. First, tell me how long it will take you to make a short section of film, say enough to show for about ten seconds?”

“Oh not long. But what of?”

“I’ll explain that presently. But you could make such a section of film, develop and print it, and insert it in the picture you are going to show to-night, if you had to, couldn’t you?”

“Yes if we had to. But what’s the idea?”

Duvall took a bit of paper from his pocket and handed it to Baker.

“I want you to make a picture of this, and have it inserted in the film at any convenient point say at the beginning of the second part. And you had better have the cutting and pasting-in done by some trusted person, under your personal supervision.”

“But,” said Baker, gazing in amazement at the bit of paper Duvall had handed him. “What’s the idea of putting this in our picture? It wouldn’t do at all.”

“Look at that telegram Mr. Edwards just gave you. The writer says in it, ‘I shall be there.’ Now if the person who is causing all this trouble is going to be in the audience at the Grand Theater to-night, it is our business to find her. I say her, because I am convinced the guilty person is a woman.”

A look of comprehension began to dawn upon Mr. Baker’s face.

“By George!” he exclaimed. “You figure out that this will cause her to disclose herself make some sign?”

“I feel certain of it.”

“Then we will put it in.” He laid the square of paper on his desk. “I will have the section of film made privately, and at once. I shall not tell even the other officers of the company about it. I suppose they will give me the devil, until after they know the reasons for it, but then, of course, it will be all right.”

Duvall rose and put out his hand.

“You will be there to-night, of course?”

“Of course. And you?”

“Oh, I’ll be on hand all right, although you may not recognize me. Good day.” With a quick hand-shake he left the room, and went to look for Ruth and her mother. He found them in the girl’s dressing-room, ready to depart. Ruth was pale and terrified, showing the most intense nervousness in every word and movement. Mrs. Morton, scarcely less affected, strove with all her power to remain calm, in order that her daughter might not break down completely. Duvall did his best to cheer them up.

“You must not let this thing prey on your mind, Miss Morton,” he said. “We are going to put a stop to it, and that very soon.”

“I hope so, Mr. Duvall,” the girl replied. “If you don’t, I’m afraid I shall break down completely.”

“I think we had better go home at once,” Mrs. Morton said. “Ruth is in no condition to do any more work to-day.”

“I quite agree with you about going, Mrs. Morton, but not home.” He lowered his voice, as though fearing that even at that moment some tool of the woman who was sending the letters might be within earshot. “I suggest that you let me take your daughter to some quiet hotel. You can follow, with her maid and the necessary baggage, later on. But we must be certain to make the change in such a way that our enemies, who are undoubtedly watching us, will not know of it. We will all leave here in your car, giving out that we are going to your home. No one will suspect anything to the contrary. On our arrival in the city, your daughter and I will leave the car, and drive to the hotel in a taxicab. When, later on, you follow with the baggage, take a taxi, sending your own car to the garage. I know your confidence in your chauffeur, but in this affair we can afford to trust no one. Your daughter and yourself can remain quietly in the hotel, under an assumed name, for a few days, until she recovers her strength. Meanwhile, I have every expectation that the persons at the bottom of this shameful affair will have been caught.”

The plan appealed to Mrs. Morton at once, and she told the detective so.

“But where shall we go to what hotel?” she asked.

Duvall leaned over and whispered in her ear the name of an exclusive and very quiet hotel in the upper part of the city.

“Do not mention the name to anyone,” he said, “not even to the taxicab driver, when you leave the house. Tell him to put you down at the corner, a block away, and do not proceed to the hotel until you see that he has driven off. And keep your eyes on your maid. I do not suspect her, I admit, but there seems to be a leak somewhere, and we must stop it.”

Mrs. Morton nodded, and rose.

“We had better start, then,” she said. “I understand perfectly. Have Ruth register in the name of Bradley. And I think, Mr. Duvall, if you can do so, you had better arrange to stop there as well.”

“I had intended to do so,” the detective replied.

“That will be better.” Mrs. Morton led the way to the street.

“You did not intend to go to the showing of your new film at the Grand to-night, did you?” Duvall asked Ruth, after they had started away from the studio.

“Yes, I had intended to go,” she replied. “I always go to my first releases. But to-night I do not feel able to do so.”

“I think it is just as well. What you need most now is rest.”

The girl looked at herself in a small mirror affixed to the side of the car.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “I look terrible. These people are right, it seems. Three more weeks of this persecution and my looks would be quite gone. Mr. Edwards told me only this morning that he had never seen me look so bad.” There were tears in her eyes.

Duvall realized that she spoke the truth. The effect of the strain upon her nervous system, the brutal shocks of the past two days, the horror of the experience of the night before, had wrought havoc with the girl’s beauty. Her face, gray, lined, haggard, her eyes, heavy and drawn, made her the very opposite of the radiant creature that had created such a furore in motion picture circles. The methods of her persecutors, if unchecked, would beyond doubt wreck her strength and health in a short time, and in addition, there was the danger that at any moment a physical attack, a swiftly thrown acid bomb, an explosive mixture concealed in an innocent-looking package, might destroy both her beauty and her reason in one blinding flash. With the fear in her great brown eyes constantly before him, Duvall determined more than ever to free her from this terrible persecution.

They separated in the neighborhood of 30th Street, Duvall and Miss Morton taking a taxicab that stood before one of the smaller Fifth Avenue hotels. He made a pretense of entering the hotel, and did not summon the taxi until Mrs. Morton’s car was well out of sight up the Avenue. Then he instructed the driver to proceed first to his hotel.

Their stop here was but momentary. Duvall went to his room, threw a few articles of clothing into his grip, left a note for Grace, telling her that he would be absent for several days, then rejoined his companion and drove uptown to the hotel opposite the park, the name of which he had mentioned to Mrs. Morton. He felt perfectly certain that they had not been followed.

Upon arriving at the hotel, he entered their names, including that of Mrs. Morton, upon the register, using the pseudonym which that latter had suggested. Then, sending Ruth to her room, he asked to see the manager, and had a brief conference with him in private. Immediately thereafter, he went up to his own apartment.

As he had arranged, it adjoined the suite selected for the Mortons. He tapped lightly on the communicating door.

“Are you all right, Miss Morton?” he called.

“Yes,” came the girl’s voice from the opposite side. “All right, thank you.”