Duvall's first move, after leaving Mrs. Morton's apartment that morning, was to enter the taxicab which had been waiting for him at the door and return to his hotel. A light overcoat which he had in the vehicle concealed his workman's disguise sufficiently to enable him to reach his room without exciting comment. Once there, he changed his clothes, putting on a professional looking frock coat, and adjusting a pair of shell-rimmed eyeglasses to complete the slight disguise. Thus equipped, he once more set out.

Grace had left a note for him, saying that she had gone shopping. Beside it lay the photograph of Ruth Morton, which he had, he remembered, left on his chiffonier while putting on his workman's clothes that morning. At the foot of her hastily written note Grace had added a postscript. "Is this the reason for your sudden interest in motion pictures?" it read. "Well, I'll admit she's a raving beauty, Richard, but I'll bet she isn't half as nice as I am." Duvall read the note with a smile. Grace was always such a thoroughly good comrade.

Leaving the hotel, he went to the telegraph office from which the message to Ruth Morton had been delivered that morning. It was on Columbus Avenue, some four blocks from the Mortons' apartment.

"Can you tell me where this telegram was sent from?" he asked. The message showed that it had been filed, as well as delivered, within the city limits.

The man behind the desk looked up his records.

"It was sent from the main office on lower Broadway, at 8.30," he said, briefly.

Duvall thanked him, then turned away. Although he realized that he could scarcely hope to obtain even a scanty description of the sender of the telegram from the main office, he determined to go there. First, however, he walked back toward the Mortons' apartment, and going up the steps of the brownstone house adjoining, rang the doorbell.

A neat maid-servant opened the door. Duvall favored her with a smile, at the same time taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

"I am making some corrections in the city directory," he said. "Will you please give me the names of all the persons living in this house." The girl stared at him for a moment, but his prosperous appearance, his businesslike manner, disarmed any suspicion she may have felt.

"There's—there's Mr. William Perkins," she said, "and Mrs. Perkins, and Mr. Robert, that's Mr. Perkins' son, and—and Miss Elizabeth, although she's away at boarding school, and—and Emily Thompson, the cook, and—and me. My name's Mary. Mary Wickes."

"Thank you, Mary," Duvall replied, entering the names carefully in his notebook. "And Mr. Perkins, the elder Mr. Perkins, I mean, is he the lawyer?"

"No, sir. It's Mr. Robert that's the lawyer, sir. Mr. William Perkins is in the leather business."

"Ah, yes. I see. Thank you very much indeed. And there are no boarders, or other persons whatever living in the house?"

"No, sir. Not any, sir."

Duvall closed his book and put it carefully in his pocket.

"Now, Mary," he continued. "Just one more question. Does any one sleep in the attic?"

"The attic, sir? Why, no sir. Cook and I sleep on the fourth floor, sir, but the attic isn't used, except for storage, sir. Are you going to put that in the directory too, sir?" The girl regarded him with wondering eyes.

"No, Mary. Not in the directory. But we want to be sure not to omit any names, and I thought that if there was anyone living in the attic——" he paused.

"No one, as I've told you. Nobody ever goes up there, so far as I know. Is that all, sir?"

"Yes. That's all. Thank you. Good morning."

Duvall went down the steps, and proceeded to the subway station, somewhat mystified. He had handled many curious cases in the past, many that had been notable for their intricacy, their complexity of motive and detail. But here, he felt, was a case of a very different sort, the peculiarity of which lay in its astonishing lack of clues of any sort. Usually in the past there had been motives, evidence, traces of some kind or other, upon which to build a case. Here there was nothing, except the three mysterious letters, the one equally mysterious telegram. He felt baffled, uncertain which way to turn. In rather a dissatisfied frame of mind he made his way to the telegraph office in lower Broadway. There were several clerks engaged in receiving messages. He approached one of them.

"This telegram," he said, holding out the slip of yellow paper Mrs. Morton had given him, "was sent from this office at half past eight this morning. Can you by any chance give me a description of the person who sent it?" He leaned over and addressed the clerk in a low tone. "I am a detective," he said. "The telegram is part of a blackmailing scheme."

The man looked at him for a moment, and then consulted with an older man, evidently his superior. The latter came forward.

"I received this message myself, sir," he said. "I remember it, because of its peculiar wording. What is it you wish to know?"

"I would like a description of the person who sent it," Duvall told him.

The man thought for a moment.

"I'm not able to tell you much," he said. "It was a woman—I didn't notice particularly whether she was young or old. In fact, she didn't give me a chance, just laid the message and the money down and went right out. She evidently knew the rate, for the amount she left was correct. I took the message and read it, without noticing her particularly, and then, when I had finished reading it and looked up, she had gone."

"Then you can't tell me anything about her?" Duvall asked, greatly disappointed.

"Not a thing. I remember it was a woman, and my general impression is that she was rather young and small, but I can't be at all sure. You see, sir, a great many persons come in, during the day, and we haven't time to take note of them particularly. As I say, I read the telegram first, and counted the words. By that time she had left the office."

Duvall thanked the man for his information and made his way to the street. Something at least had been gained. The person who was hounding Ruth Morton was a woman.

By this he was not at all surprised. He had felt for some time that Ruth's enemy was, in all probability, some jealous and envious movie actress who, herself unsuccessful, resented the youth and beauty of her successful rival. He called a taxi and directed the driver to take him out to the studio of the company with which Ruth was connected. Here, in all probability, was to be found the woman he sought.

The journey consumed considerably over an hour, and it was lunch time when he finally drew up before the entrance to the series of studio buildings. Before entering he went to a nearby restaurant to get a bite to eat.

It was a small and rather cheap place, but at this hour was crowded with the employees of the big company. Duvall at first could not find a seat, but presently discovered one at a table not far from the door, at which were seated some young men, apparently stenographers or clerks.

While waiting for his order of sandwiches and milk, the detective occupied himself with a newspaper. He was not reading it, however, although he pretended to be deeply engrossed in its contents. He was in reality listening to the gossip of the studio, which rose in a chorus about him.

From a nearby table came the voice of a woman, evidently a great admirer of Ruth Morton.

"I tell you," she said, "that new film that she finished last week, An American Beauty, is going to be a knockout. She's the swellest thing on the screen. Got 'em all faded, I think."

"Think so?" questioned one of her companions. "I'm pretty strong for Helen Ward, myself."

"Ruth Morton won't last," remarked a third, in a petulant voice.

"Course she'll last. Say—ain't that a bear of a title? An American Beauty. She always seems like a beautiful big rose, to me."

"Well, roses don't last, do they?" asked the petulant voice again. "Not very long, anyway."

Duvall turned suddenly in an effort to see the face of the speaker, but try as he would, he was unable to do so. Two of the girls sat with their backs to him. He could not manage to catch a glimpse of either of them. Almost as he turned, the three rose and made their way to the street. For a moment he thought of following them, but the idea seemed absurd. These twelve dollar a week stenographers or clerks could have no part in the plot against Miss Morton. And yet, there was something startling in the young woman's words. "Roses don't last." The telegram received by Ruth Morton that morning had contained almost the same phrase. "Even the beauty of the rose cannot endure." Then he remembered the title of the new film of which the girls had spoken, and smiled at his own suspicions. "An American Beauty." It would be natural, perfectly natural for anyone to refer to Ruth as a rose, with that title for her latest picture. He dismissed the matter from his mind, and proceeded to make a hasty lunch.

At the entrance of the studio he explained that he was a writer of special articles for the Sunday papers, and had come to "write up" the life at the studios. He was promptly turned over to one of the officials who, after a few inquiries, seemed delighted at the opportunity to obtain free publicity for his company and its stars.

"I want particularly to give a sketch of Miss Ruth Morton," he said. "She seems to be such a universal favorite."

"A most delightful and charming woman," his companion asserted, with a pleased smile. "Come this way. You may be able to see her at work." He led Duvall down a long corridor, and into one of the big studio rooms.

The first impression Duvall got was that of utter confusion. People were darting here and there, in ordinary clothes, or in all sorts of makeups. Stage carpenters were creating a terrific racket, building a new scene. A tangle of electric light cables, a blinding glare from the arcs, a confusion of voices, a wilderness of scenery and "props" all combined to create an impression quite the reverse of what he had expected. Here, he felt, was something very different from the theater, something bigger, yet more elemental, in which vast sums were expended daily to amuse a vaster indeed, a world-wide, audience. He sat down upon a box, and inspected the scene before him.

"Miss Morton will be on in a few moments," his guide said.

Duvall nodded. His attention was fixed upon the little drama going on before him. He knew nothing of the plot of the play, but the mechanical features of the operation held his interest keenly. The brilliant electric lights, the setting of the little room, the actors in their ghastly greenish makeups, the camera man, grinding stolidly away at his machine, the director, hovering about like a hawk, watching every movement, every gesture, with a superlatively critical eye, all spoke to him of a new world, and one with which he was not in the least familiar.

Suddenly he saw the lovely face of Ruth Morton, as the girl appeared from an open doorway. She did not take part in the picture at once, but stood chatting with the director, awaiting the moment when she would make her entrance. Duvall watched her intently. Her face, he thought, was drawn, nervous, her expression one of fear. She seemed suspicious of every one who came near her, as though she suspected that every stage hand, every electrician or helper, had in his possession a bottle of vitriol, which he only awaited the moment to hurl in her face. That the girl's nervous manner, her strained and tense expression, was evident to others as well as to himself, he realized from a remark his companion made to him.

"Miss Morton doesn't seem herself to-day," he said. "She must have something on her mind. I shouldn't be surprised if she has been working too hard lately."

Duvall made no reply. He was watching, not only Ruth, but those about her. In particular he observed the other women in the cast. It seemed not improbable that among them he would find the one whose envy had led to the sending of the threats Ruth had been receiving.

Presently the scene was finished, and Ruth, in response to a call from Duvall's companion, came toward them.

"Miss Morton," the latter said, "let me present Mr. Richards." This was the name Duvall had given. "He is anxious to meet you, and write you up for one of the newspapers."

Ruth gave him her hand with a smile which Duvall saw clearly enough was forced. The girl was palpably worn, distrait.

"I'm not going to interview you now, Miss Morton," he said. "I can understand that you must be tired, after posing all the morning. Let me come and see you sometime when you are more at leisure."

She thanked him with a smile, this time quite genuine.

"I'm not feeling very well this afternoon," she said. "Come to my home some evening, or better still, on Sunday, and I'll tell you all I know about being a 'movie' star. So glad to have met you." She was just about to turn away, when a small boy came up, carrying in his hand a flat package, wrapped in brown paper. Duvall observed that the package had upon it a typewritten address.

"Something for you, Miss Morton," he said, and placed the package in Ruth's hand.

The girl looked at it for a moment in dismay. Then realizing that the eyes of the two men were bent curiously upon her, she recovered herself and tore open the brown paper envelope. Duvall, with one eye on the boy, saw that he had disappeared through the door leading to the company's executive offices.

Suddenly Ruth, who had been examining the contents of the package, gave a faint cry, and swayed backward, as though about to fall. Duvall's companion sprang to her assistance, while Duvall himself snatched the object which had so affected her from her hand and hastily examined it.

It was a photograph of Ruth Morton herself, but Duvall, as he gazed at it, comprehended instantly the effect it had produced upon the girl's over-wrought nerves. Some clever hand had been at work upon the photograph, retouching it, changing its lovely expression, until the portrait, instead of being a thing of beauty, grinned up at him in frightful hideousness. The blank, sightless eyes, the haggard cheeks, the thin wasted lips, the protruding and jagged teeth, all created an impression shocking beyond belief. And yet, the result had been obtained by the addition of but a few simple lines and shadows.

Along the blank space at the bottom of the picture a line of typewritten characters had been placed. Duvall glanced at them. "As you will look soon," the words read. Below them was fixed the grinning Death's head seal. Unobserved in the confusion, Duvall thrust the photograph into his pocket, and turned to Ruth and the others.

The girl had recovered herself by now, and was being conducted to her dressing room by a solicitous crowd. So far as Duvall would see, she had said nothing to those about her as to the cause of her sudden indisposition, and with the exception of the man who had been Duvall's guide, none of them had observed the opening of the package containing the photograph, nor its immediate effect upon her.

The latter, however, whose name was Baker, came over to Duvall and addressed him.

"What was it about that photograph that upset Miss Morton so?" he asked. "And what has become of it?"

Duvall drew him to one side.

"Let us go to your office, Mr. Baker," he said. "I have a most important matter to discuss with you."

Baker regarded the detective for a moment in surprise, then, seeing that Duvall was very much in earnest, he led the way to his private office.

"I am not a newspaper writer, Mr. Baker," Duvall said, as soon as they were seated. "As a matter of fact, I am a detective, in the employ of Mrs. Morton, Ruth Morton's mother."

"A detective?" he questioned. "Why has Miss Morton's mother employed a detective?"

"Because someone is persecuting the girl, by sending her threatening letters, saying that her beauty is to be destroyed. This photograph"—he drew the hideous picture from his pocket—"is a sample of their work."

Mr. Baker regarded the photograph for a moment in silence, then rose with a growl of rage and struck his clenched fist upon the desk.

"This is outrageous—damnable!" he cried. "It cannot go on. No wonder the poor girl looked tired out. We will put the matter in the hands of the police. We will spend any amount of money——"

"Wait a moment, Mr. Baker," Duvall interrupted, urging the angry man back into his chair. "Nothing is to be gained by giving any publicity to this matter. The scoundrels who are at the bottom of it will at once be warned, and then our chance of catching them will be small indeed. So far, not a soul knows that I am working on this case, outside of Mrs. Morton, and yourself. Even Miss Ruth does not know it. I have already unearthed some very surprising things connected with the case, although I have been occupied with it only since this morning. Within a few days, I have no doubt, I shall be able to place my hands upon the person or persons responsible for the trouble, but I must insist that I be given a free hand."

"But," Mr. Baker expostulated, "she may be in immediate danger. At any moment something may happen that would ruin her beauty, and incidentally, ruin us as well. She is our star attraction."

"I do not think the danger is immediate," Duvall replied gravely. "All the threats so far received set thirty days as the period within which the attack is to be made. Only three days have passed, so far. And in addition, Miss Morton is being very carefully guarded."

"She certainly shall be while she is here at the studio," Mr. Baker exclaimed. "But, man, something ought to be done—at once."

"The first thing to be done is to find out how that photograph got here—who brought it—and when. It was not delivered by mail. Look here." He handed the angry official the torn manilla envelope, which Ruth, in her excitement, had dropped upon the floor.

Mr. Baker regarded it for a moment in angry silence, then pressed an electric button upon his desk. A young woman responded.

"Send Jim here," he said. The girl nodded and withdrew.

A few moments later a freckled-faced boy of twelve or fourteen came in. Duvall saw that it was the same boy who had brought in the photograph.

"You sent for me, sir?" he asked.

"Yes. Where did you get the package you delivered to Miss Morton a little while ago?"

"From Mr. Curry, sir."

"Good." Mr. Baker rose and went toward the door. "Come with me," he said to Duvall, "and you too, Jim." The three of them went along the corridor, arriving presently at the main entrance to the building. An elderly man sat at a high desk behind a wire grating.

"Curry," Mr. Baker burst out, "this boy tells me you gave him a package for Miss Morton a while ago."

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you get it?"

The man looked up in surprise.

"Why, sir, someone left it here—on my desk. I don't know who, sir. Right after lunch, it was. You know people deliver things here all the time. I didn't take any particular notice how it got here. It was just pushed through the window, I guess, same as usual. There was a lot of mail in the rack, after lunch, and everybody asking for theirs as they came in. In fact, I don't remember seeing the package handed in at all. Just found it lying on my desk, along with a lot of letters and things. Why, sir? Is anything wrong?"

Baker turned to Duvall in disgust.

"No system here at all," he grumbled. "The trail is lost, of course. Half a hundred people come through here every hour. That's all, Jim," he said, turning to the boy, who disappeared at once. Accompanied by Duvall, Baker returned to the private office.

"Well?" Mr. Baker asked. "What next?"

"How many typewriters have you in your offices, Mr. Baker? Machines, I mean, not operators."

"About thirty, I guess. Or maybe thirty-five. Why?"

"I want you to get me a sample of the writing of each machine, without letting anyone know about it. Put each one on a separate sheet of paper, with a note added, stating whose machine it is—that is, in whose office."

Mr. Baker nodded. "I'll do it to-night," he said. "Attend to it myself. I see your idea. You think this thing is the work of someone inside the studio."

"It may be, I don't know. But I mean to find out."

"All right. Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell me something about this new film you've just gotten out. 'An American Beauty,' I think it is called."

Mr. Baker's manner became enthusiastic.

"Greatest film Ruth Morton ever did," he exclaimed. "A knockout. It is to be shown at the Grand, on Broadway, to-morrow night. First time on the screen. You'd better look it over."

"I probably shall. Now, tell me this. If I wanted to add anything to that picture, put in an insert, I believe you call it, could I do so, if I told you about it to-morrow?"

"Well—it might be done," Mr. Baker replied, dubiously. "But we wouldn't want to change the film any. It's perfect as it is."

"I don't doubt that. I have no idea of improving it in any way. But it is just possible that I may have a scheme that will help us to catch these people who are threatening Miss Morton. I'll tell you more about it, to-morrow. Meanwhile, don't forget about the typewriter samples. I'll see you in the morning." He rose. "And for the present, I think it would be best for you to keep what I have told you to yourself."

Mr. Baker nodded.

"I'll do that," he said, putting out his hand. "For the present, at least. But don't forget, Mr. Duvall, that this is a very vital matter to our company, and we can't afford to take any chances."

"I realize that fully. You can depend on me. I intend to save Miss Morton from any harm, not primarily on your company's account, but on her own. Good day."

"Good day, and the best of luck."

Duvall went toward the entrance, and in the corridor met Mrs. Morton. She was about to pass him, but he detained her.

"Twenty-seven days more," he whispered to her. She turned sharply, a look of fear upon her face, but as she recognized Duvall, her expression changed.

"Oh—it's you," she exclaimed. "I've just come down in the car, to take Ruth home. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, so far. At least no harm has come to your daughter. But I am sorry to say that she has received another warning."

"Here?" Mrs. Morton started, and glanced about in alarm.

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"A photograph." Duvall explained the contents of the mysterious package, but did not show the hideous picture to the girl's mother.

"And you haven't found out anything yet?"

"Nothing definite. There has scarcely been time. But we will. You may be sure of that."

"Have you seen Ruth?" Mrs. Morton asked.

"Yes. Mr. Baker introduced me to her. She thinks I am a newspaper man, who wants to write a special article about her for one of the Sunday papers. She suggested that I call at your house some evening, or possibly Sunday. If you are going back to town soon, I think it might be a good idea for me to drive back with you."

"By all means. I shall feel much safer. Suppose you wait for us at the entrance. I shall not be long."

Duvall nodded, and strolled toward the street, his mind busy with the events of the day. He stood for quite a while near the door, watching the people who came in and out. Many of them were women. He wondered if among them was the woman who was responsible for the threats of the past three days. It seemed improbable, and yet, there were indications that it was within the studio, rather than outside it, that the guilty person was to be found.

Mrs. Morton came out presently, accompanied by Ruth. The girl looked pale and troubled. Duvall went up to her.

"I have met your mother, Miss Morton," he said, "and she has very kindly suggested that I ride back to the city with you."

The girl nodded, without particular interest.

"We shall be very glad to have you," she said, "but you will excuse me, I know, if I do not talk to you about my work. I am feeling rather bad to-day, and I'm sure I couldn't tell you anything interesting."

"I'm sure I would not expect it, under the circumstances," Duvall replied, as Miss Morton, accompanied by her mother, went toward the automobile that stood near the entrance. "I don't doubt your work is full of trying incidents."

"Oh, it isn't my work," the girl replied, as he assisted her into the car. "I love my work. But there are other things." She glanced toward her mother with a tired smile, then sank back upon the cushions.

A moment later they were whirling toward the city.