"I will tell Mrs. Morton that you are here," the girl said, and went into the next room.

Mrs. Morton came out presently, her face pale and drawn. Duvall knew at once that she had been up all night, watching, no doubt, beside her daughter.

"How is Miss Ruth?" he asked.

"She is better. She had a fairly good night's rest, and her fever has left her."

"I am glad to hear that. I hope there have been no further threats."

"No. Not yet. But I never know at what moment something may happen. It is terrible—terrible, living under a shadow like this."

As she spoke, the telephone bell rang.

"You answer it, Mr. Duvall," she said, turning quickly to the door by which she had entered, and closing it. "I do not think I can stand anything more at present."

Duvall took down the receiver. Someone was asking for Mr. John Bradley.

"This is Mr. Bradley," he said, then suddenly recognized his wife's voice. "Is this you, Richard?" she asked.

"Yes. What is it?"

"If you have time, to-day, come down and see me. I have something I want to tell you. Something important."

"Very well. I will be there in half an hour. Good-by." He hung up the receiver.

"Was it anything—anything more, Mr. Duvall?" asked Mrs. Morton.

"No. Nothing of that sort. Well, I must go along now. I merely looked in to ask after your daughter. There is one thing I want you to do, however, and that is, let me have a key to your apartment on 57th Street."

Mrs. Morton took the key from her purse, and handed it to him.

"Haven't you any good news, yet?" she asked, somewhat pathetically.

"Not yet—at least nothing very definite. I know the woman who is annoying your daughter by sight, however, and I think I can safely assure you that she will be under arrest before very long. Matters of this sort take time, Mrs. Morton. Remember that I have had charge of the case but three days, and these people we are looking for are shrewd, leaving few clues. But I feel that I shall have something definite to report very soon now."

"I hope so, I'm sure. Good day."

"Good day." Duvall left the room, and taking a taxi, drove down to see Grace.

He found her sitting at the writing desk, in the reception room of their suite, apparently busy over a letter. She pushed the sheet of paper aside, when her husband entered, and threw her arms about his neck.

"Richard!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad to see you. It has been ages. What's the matter with you? You look dreadfully blue."

Duvall threw himself into a chair.

"I'm a bit disgusted with myself," he said.

"What about? I may ask you now, may I not? Is it about that wretched Morton case? I must talk to you about that. May I? You see, you rather got me into it, last night, and I got myself into it, too, by coming up to your hotel to see you, and now you've got to tell me how things turned out, after you left the theater, or I shall not know just what to do."

"About what?"

"I'll tell you that, after I hear about last night."

Duvall laughed, although a trifle grimly.

"I'm not particularly proud of last night," he said.

"Wasn't the woman who fainted the one you were after?" asked Grace.

"Yes. I'm sure she was. But unfortunately, she got away from me." He outlined to Grace the circumstances which led up to the woman's escape from the cab.

"You say she was a small, slight woman, with light hair?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Then I may know something about her."

"What?"

"I'll tell you. You remember that, when I came up to see you at the hotel yesterday afternoon, you were greatly put out, because you were afraid that I might have been followed, thus disclosing the name of your hotel to these people you are trying to avoid?"

"Yes. I was afraid of it. And the people in question did find out in some way where I had taken Miss Morton and her mother, as I discovered last night."

"They did not discover it through me."

"How do you know?"

"It came about in a curious way. After you told me, over the telephone, that you feared I might have been followed, I looked up the taxi driver who took me uptown, and asked him if anyone had tried to question him. I thought that possibly this hotel might have been watched, and, if so, the person who was watching it might have noticed the number of my car, or the driver, and later, applied to him for information. I saw him as soon as I returned. No one had done so."

"That is all very well, but they might have asked him, and found out where he drove you, later."

"They did ask him, later. Why is it, Richard, that you seem to forget that I have done detective work before, too? I suspected that he might be approached, and I subsidized him—gave him ten dollars, and instructed him to let me know, in case anyone questioned him about me.

"Well, late yesterday afternoon, a woman, answering the description you give, did apply to the cabman to find out where he had driven me. Naturally he told her nothing. Then, thinking, I suppose, that I might repeat my visit, she gave him five dollars, and told him to let her know in case I drove from here to any other hotel. She figured, no doubt, that being your wife, I was certain to go and see you."

Duvall sat forward in his chair, an eager look upon his face.

"You did splendidly, Grace," he said. "Much better than I have done. But the important point is this. How was the cabman to let her know, and where? Did she give him her name and address?"

"She gave him a name and address. It is about that, that I wanted to see you."

"What was it?"

"Alice Watson. General Delivery. He was to write her a letter."

Duvall sank back in his chair with a disappointed look.

"An assumed name, of course," he said. "I'm afraid it won't be of much service to us."

"But why? I was going to write this woman a letter, giving her the name of some other hotel—any one would do. Then, she would come there to find you, we could have the cabman, Leary, on watch to point her out, and in that way identify her and perhaps follow her to her home." Duvall shook his head.

"It would have worked splendidly, my dear," he said, "except for the fact that in some way the woman has already discovered the name of my hotel. She will not go to the general delivery window at the post office to get it, now, for she already knows it. And if she did, she would realize as soon as she read your letter that you were not telling her the truth. Is that what you have been so busy about?" He glanced at the half-finished letter that lay on his wife's desk.

"Yes." Grace looked at him rather sheepishly. "I am terribly disappointed," she said. "I really hoped that I had discovered something that would help you." She took from the desk the piece of paper that contained Alice Watson's address, and tearing it into bits, dropped them slowly into the waste basket.

Duvall observed her action.

"What are you tearing up?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. Merely the bit of paper that contained the woman's assumed name and address. It is of no use any longer." She glanced at a scrap of the paper, about half an inch square, that remained between her fingers, then started. "There must have been something on the other side," she exclaimed. "There's a part of a name here—printed or engraved. It looks like 'Ford.'"

Duvall sprang from his chair and made a dive for the scrap basket.

"Ford!" he exclaimed. "That's queer! We must get every scrap of that card at once."

It took the two of them several minutes to gather from the basket the tiny pieces into which Grace had torn the bit of paper. Then they fitted them together. Duvall saw at once, as soon as he picked up the first scrap, that the address had been written on a card. When the several pieces had at last been assembled upon the top of the desk, it became quite clear that the Watson name and address had been hastily scrawled upon the torn half of a visiting card. Slowly and carefully Duvall turned the bits over. The words engraved upon the opposite side filled him with delight.

There were first the letters "cia," followed by the name "Ford." Beneath were two figures, a "6" and a "2," and after them, West 57th Street.

Duvall gazed at the result in surprise, then taking from his pocketbook the torn half of the card he had found the night before in the cab, he laid it beside the fragments on the desk. The two fitted exactly. The name and address were both plain. Evidently the woman who had interviewed the cabman, Leary, and the woman who had escaped from the cab were one and the same. She had taken a card from her purse, torn it in half, written the "Alice Watson" address that she gave the cabman on one half, and thrust the other back into her handbag. Later, when Duvall had attempted to examine the contents of the bag, the bit of card had fallen to the floor. All that 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 XIII

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 her confederate. He waited patiently until the waning afternoon light told him that it was time to begin his watch before the house at number 162.

Across the street a residence, closed for the summer, its front entrance boarded up, afforded him a convenient place to wait. He sat down upon the steps, and pretended to be occupied with a newspaper. His eyes, however, sought constantly the doorway opposite.

A number of persons entered the place, during the next two hours, but Marcia Ford was not amongst them. As the darkness began to approach, and lights in the streets and houses flared up, Duvall rose, crossed the street, and stationed himself at a nearer point, from which he might the more certainly identify anyone entering the house. Miss Ford, however, failed to appear.

From the sign in the window, to the effect that roomers were wanted, Duvall concluded that the Ford girl did not take her meals in the house. His watch showed him that it was nearly seven. Doubtless she had arranged to dine before returning home. In a flash it came to him that his opportunity to make an examination of her room was now at hand.

To secure entrance to the room by the usual channels was clearly out of the question. The people at the boarding house would, of course, not permit it. But could he discover the means of communication, whatever they were, between Miss Morton's apartment and the girl's room, he might be able to enter the latter unknown and unobserved. He had thought of attempting this during the afternoon, but realized that he could not hope to accomplish it, in broad daylight, without being seen by the occupants of the neighboring buildings, and perhaps arrested as a burglar or sneak thief.

With a last glance down the street, he hastened back to the apartment building and made his way to Mrs. Morton's flat. Passing quickly through Ruth Morton's bedroom, he climbed out upon the fire escape and looked about.

Below him were the rear yards of the houses fronting on the next street. To the right he could see the bulk of the apartment building, blocking his view of the avenue beyond. To the left were the rear buildings of the adjoining houses. It was quite dark, the sky was starless, but all about him gleamed the lights in the windows of the neighboring buildings.

Neither to the right, nor to the left was there any possible way by which access to the point where he now stood could be gained. From below, it was possible, although his previous examination had showed him both the fact that the newly painted surface of the fire escape was unmarred, and that the ladder at the lower floor was drawn up some nine or ten feet from the ground. He felt certain that Miss Ford had not reached Ruth's room in that way.

He glanced upward. The fire escaped stopped at the level of the floor above. To ascend from it to the roof was impossible.

Remembering that the top apartment was vacant, Duvall re-entered the building and hunting up the janitor, told him that he desired to get out on the roof.

The man remembered him, from his first visit, and the inquiries he had then made about the tenants of the apartment above.

"I am making some special inquiries on Mrs. Morton's behalf," he explained. "You can go with me, if you like, to see that I do nothing I shouldn't."

The janitor joined in his laugh.

"I'm not worrying," he rejoined, "but I'll go along, just the same, to show you the way." He led the detective up one flight of stairs and, going to the end of the outer hall, unlocked and opened a small door beside the elevator shaft. A short spiral staircase was disclosed.

Snapping on an electric light, the man ascended the steps, and, after fumbling for a moment with the catch, threw open a trapdoor leading to the roof. In a moment both he and Duvall had climbed out upon the tiled surface. Duvall went to the edge which overlooked the house adjoining, and peered down. He at once saw something that interested him.

The house with the dormer windows consisted, as has been previously mentioned, of four stories and an attic. Its roof rose several feet above the level of the window of Ruth's room, which was on the fourth floor of the apartment building. But Duvall saw at once that this elevation of the adjoining house did not extend all the way back, but, in fact, stopped a little beyond the point where it joined the apartment. From here to the rear of the lot the building had no attic, its rear extension being but four stories high. In this position on the apartment-house roof, the roof of the back building was at least fifteen feet below him.

Another thing that he noticed at once was the fact that the second house, No. 162, was of almost the same design as the first, that is, it consisted of a main building with an attic, and a rear extension, reaching to the same level as that of the house between. It was clear that if anyone living in the second house could obtain access to the roof of the back building, he would be able to walk across that of the first or adjoining house, and reach a point directly beneath where he stood.

But, granting the possibility of this, of what use would it be? A person on the roof below him would in no conceivable way be able to reach either of the windows of Ruth Morton's room. Was it possible that an opening had been made through the wall of the apartment building itself? He thought it unlikely, but determined to investigate.

"I must get down on that roof below," he informed his companion. The janitor grinned.

"How are you going to do it?" he asked.

"Haven't you a ladder—a rope?"

The man thought a moment.

"I've got a short ladder in the cellar, only about eight feet long, I guess. I'm afraid it would not do."

"Yes it would," replied Duvall, pointing to the roof of the attic portion of the house below. "I'll get down to the roof of the main part of the house first, and from there to the roof of the back building. An eight-foot ladder will be long enough for that. Bring it up, will you?"

The man hesitated.

"I don't just like this idea of going on other people's roofs," he said.

"You don't need to go. I've got to. I'm a detective, and I'm working for Mrs. Morton on a most important case." As he spoke, he took a bill from his pocket and pressed it into the man's hand.

The janitor responded at once.

"I'll fetch it up, sir," he said. "Wait for me here."

Duvall occupied the few moments consumed by the janitor's absence in examining, by means of his pocket electric torch, the surface of the roof on which he stood. The smooth flat terra cotta tiles showed no distinguishing marks. Here and there spots of paint, marred by footprints, indicated where the painters at work on the building had set their buckets, no doubt while painting the wooden portions of the trapdoor, and the metal chimney-pots on the roof.

The man returned in a few moments with the ladder, and Duvall, lowering it to the level of the main portion of the adjoining house, saw that it was of sufficient length to permit his descent. In a moment he had slipped off his shoes, and was cautiously descending the ladder.

Once on the surface of the main roof of the house, he had intended to take down the ladder and, by means of it, descend the remaining six or seven feet to the roof of the back building, but he found that means for this descent already existed. A rough but permanent wooden ladder led from the higher level to the lower. Duvall judged that it had been placed there to provide easy communication between the upper roof and the lower. Leaving the ladder where it stood, he made his way down to the roof of the back building. It was covered with tin, and he walked softly in his stockinged feet to avoid being overheard.

His first act was to go to the wall of the apartment house which faced him, and make a thorough examination of it by the light of his electric torch. He judged that in the position in which he now stood he was about on a level with the floor of Ruth's room. The brick wall of the apartment building facing him was blank, that is, it contained no windows. After a minute examination, Duvall was forced to the conclusion that no entrance to the girl's bedroom had been made through it. The bricks were solid, immovable, the cemented joints firm and unbroken. A moment later he turned to the left.

Here the rising wall of the attic story of the house faced him, reaching to a point above his head. Two dusty and long unopened dormer windows, similar to those facing on the court, confronted him. He remembered that the servant of the house next door had informed him, earlier in the week, that the attic was, and long had been, unoccupied.

Whether the attic was tenanted or not, however, had no bearing on the problem which confronted him. The windows might serve as a means whereby anyone could reach the roof of the back building from the house proper, but they did not suggest any means whereby anyone might reach the windows of Ruth's bedroom. And by ascending to the point on the attic roof where his ladder stood, the problem was no nearer a solution, for a person standing there was on the edge of the court between the buildings, seven feet or more above the girl's bedroom window, and as many away from it. He turned away, and approaching the rear edge of the back building, looked over.

To his left, some eight feet away, was the fire escape before the rear window of the girl's bedroom. Standing on that sharp edge, he realized that in no way could he reach the railing of the fire escape, except by jumping, a feat that an expert gymnast might have hesitated to attempt, at that height above the ground. And could it be done successfully, what about the crash, the noise which must inevitably result from such a performance? What about the damage to the paint upon the fire escape's iron surface? And yet it would seem that a young girl had accomplished this feat, without noise, without making the least mark to register her passage. He thought of the tell-tale handkerchief, which he had found on the fire escape earlier in the evening, then turned back with a feeling of annoyance. The thing was, he realized, an impossibility.

A sudden sense of the passage of time made him hurry to the roof of the rear building of the house at No. 162. Like its neighbor, it was built with an attic story, and in the rear were two dormer windows opening in the same way upon the lower roof. Could these windows, by any chance, be those of the room of Marcia Ford? It seemed highly probable, since, if she had operated from the roof, they could afford an easy way to reach it. Very cautiously he crept up to the nearer of the two windows and looked in.

The room before him was in total darkness, and the very faint radiance from without was not sufficient to enable him to distinguish anything within it. The window, however, he saw to his delight was open, and the opening, although small, was quite large enough to enable him to crawl in. Holding his electric torch in one hand, he crept into the room.

The beam of light from his torch, although powerful, was, of course, very concentrated. He swept it about the room, to make sure that it was unoccupied. It was a small room, long and narrow, with the single dormer window, by which he had just entered, at one end, and a similar one at the side, in the slanting mansard roof. It contained a small bed, a chiffonier and dresser, a table, some chairs and a trunk. It was a woman's room; one glance at the dresser told him that, and a handkerchief lying crumpled on the latter's top proved to be identical with the one he had found on the fire escape, both in its general character, and in the initial "F" in one of its borders. Beyond any doubt, he was now in Marcia Ford's room.

Had he been inclined to doubt it, two photographs upon the wall would have convinced him. One was a picture of the Ford girl herself. The other was a portrait of the woman of the cab, the one that Duvall fully believed to be the author of the attacks upon Ruth Morton.

He examined the various articles about the room with the utmost care, but nothing of any interest rewarded his search. It had been his hope that he might find something of definite value—the typewriter, perhaps, upon which the threatening letters had been written, the black sealing wax, used in making the death's-head seals, the paper employed by the writer. None of these things was in evidence; there was no typewriter, the table contained a small bottle of ink, a couple of pens, and some cheap envelopes and a writing tablet of linen paper quite different from that upon which the warning letters had been written. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in the place to connect its occupant with the sending of the letters, except the room's location, in such close proximity to that of Ruth Morton, and the photograph of the woman of the cab, hanging upon the wall.

Duvall, greatly disappointed, was about to take his departure, when he observed at the far end of the room a door. Whether it led to another room, or to a bathroom, or merely to a closet, he did not, of course, know. There was danger, he fully realized, that Marcia Ford might return at any moment. There was equal danger that, upon opening the door, he might find himself in another room, possibly an occupied one. He thought at one time that he heard sounds on the far side of the door, but when he paused and stood listening he could distinguish nothing, and concluded that he had been mistaken. Shutting off the light of his pocket torch for the moment, in order that, should the entrance lead to another room, its rays might not betray his presence, Duvall grabbed the door knob, and, turning it softly, opened the door.

For a moment he had a glimpse of a black cavern, and then, with incredible swiftness, something struck him a heavy blow in the face. What it was he was too much surprised and stunned to realize. His electric lamp fell from his hand, and clattered to the floor.

Realizing his helplessness in the almost total darkness, he bent down, groping about in an unsuccessful effort to recover the searchlight. And then, with a loud cry, a heavy body projected itself upon him, grasping wildly at his hair. An arm, clothed in some silken material, encircled his throat. He felt himself choking. And at the same moment a strange and irrational terror seized him. He seemed in the grasp of something uncanny, something inhuman, in spite of its very human cries. With a shudder he sprang to his feet, unable to locate the missing electric torch, and shaking the shrieking figure from him, plunged toward the window by which he had entered. It was not alone the surprise, the nameless terror of the thing, that sent Duvall headlong from the room. He fully realized that the noise of the encounter, the shrieks of his assailant, would quickly bring the other inmates of the house to the room. He had no wish to be discovered there—his entrance had been too irregular, too illegal, for that. With extraordinary rapidity he flung himself through the window and without waiting to observe the results of his intrusion, sped swiftly across the roofs of the two buildings, up the steps to the attic roof, and from there, by means of the ladder, to the roof of the apartment building. The janitor sat where he had left him, smoking a pipe. Duvall looked back. Lights were visible in the room he had just left. He saw a figure, one that closely resembled Marcia Ford, cross the lighted area of the window. There was a second figure with her—smaller, shorter, he thought. Who—what was it that had attacked him? He stood in a daze, unable to grasp the meaning of the experience through which he had just passed.

The janitor took his pipe from his mouth and rose.

"Find what you were looking for?" he asked with a grin. Duvall shook his head.

"No," he said. "Not exactly. But I'm on the track of it."

"Want the ladder any more?"

"No, not to-night." He assisted the man to draw it up to the roof.

A few moments later he had reached the sidewalk. He glanced at his watch. It was just eight o'clock. As he walked toward the entrance of the house at No. 162, the front door opened, and a woman came out.

Duvall quickened his pace, but the woman was also apparently in a great hurry. She ran swiftly across the sidewalk, and sprang into a cab which stood beside the curb. Duvall was able to get but a fleeting glance at her, but that glance was enough to convince him that she was the mysterious prisoner who had so neatly given him the slip while in the cab the night before. He sprang forward with a cry, but before he had come within ten feet of the cab, the vehicle dashed off and proceeded at a rapid rate up the street.

A second cab came along at almost the same moment. Duvall hailed it, but the driver shook his head, indicating that he had a fare. In a moment the second cab had passed, apparently in hot pursuit of the first. There were no other cabs in sight. With a growl of anger and annoyance Duvall turned back to the door of No. 162.

Should he ring the bell and ask for Miss Ford? he wondered. Of what use would it be, to request an interview? Yet there seemed to be nothing else that he could do. Miss Ford had not left the house, although the other woman, apparently her confederate, had done so. He stood in the shadow of the apartment building, trying to decide what move he should make next.



CHAPTER XIV

Grace Duvall, on being left at the hotel by her husband, spent a long and very tiresome afternoon. She had expected Richard back long before, with news, perhaps, of a successful investigation of the woman, Marcia Ford, whose address was so near that of the Mortons. But when six o'clock came, and went, with no news of her husband, Grace came to the conclusion that he had probably struck a long trail, and being a normally healthy person, with an excellent appetite, she went to the dining room and ordered dinner, leaving word at the desk where she would be, in case Richard returned.

Her lonely meal was over by seven, and, not knowing what to do next, Grace went out on the sidewalk, with the intention of looking for her friend of the evening before, the taxicab driver, Leary. It was possible that the man might have something more to report. As she reached the door, she saw him descend from his cab. He came forward at once, tipping his cap.

"Taxi, ma'am," he asked.

"No, I don't think so, Leary. Anything new?"

"Not a thing, ma'am. Haven't seen that party since. Can't I take you for a drive, ma'am?"

Grace was on the point of refusing, when a sudden idea came to her. She hastily opened her pocketbook, tore out the pieces of the visiting card that Duvall had left upon the table, and fitted them together.

"Drive me to 162 W. 57th Street," she directed, and stepped into the cab.

Leary touched his cap, and in a few moments they were speeding up the Avenue.

"Don't go right up to the address," Grace told him through the speaking tube. "Stop a little below, but in a place where I can see the door."

The man nodded, and a little later they turned into 57th Street and drew up alongside the curb.

"Do you think you would recognize the woman who gave you the card, last night?" Grace asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I think I should, ma'am."

"Very well. Watch the doorway of number 162. If she goes in let me know. If she comes out, follow her. I shall probably recognize her myself, if she is the woman I think. I saw her for a few moments at the Grand Theater last night. But she may not be the same one. We'll know that later."

Leary nodded, and they began a long wait. After what seemed to Grace an interminable time, they saw a taxicab come rapidly down the street, execute a turn, and draw up before the door of number 162.

Grace, as soon as she realized the cab's destination, sprang to the sidewalk and strolled carelessly along in the direction of the house. The cab came to a standstill just before she reached it, and two women got out. One of them Grace had never seen before. The other she recognized at once. It was the woman who had fainted in the theater the previous night.

Neither of the women paid any attention to her, but directing the cabman to wait, passed quickly into the house.

Grace went back to her cab and got in.

"The woman I am looking for has just driven up in that cab," she said. "She has gone into the house. The cab is to wait. When she comes out again, follow her." Leary nodded, and the two of them settled down for what they supposed would be a long wait. To their surprise, scarcely ten minutes had passed before the door of No. 162 was suddenly opened, and the woman whom Grace had recognized dashed down the steps and sprang into the waiting cab. At almost the same moment Grace saw her husband start forward from the direction of the apartment building, as though in pursuit of her.

There was no time, however, to wait for him. The cab ahead had already started off, and Leary, true to his instructions, was speeding after it. In a moment both vehicles had turned into Seventh Avenue and were driving rapidly uptown.

As minute after minute sped by, Grace began to realize that the chase might prove a long one. They had already crossed to Central Park West, and were now speeding northward again in the neighborhood of 72nd Street. Then, to Grace's surprise, the cab ahead swerved into a side street, and drew up before the entrance of the hotel at which Ruth Morton and her mother were stopping. The cab had no sooner stopped than the woman sprang out and entered the lobby.

Grace followed her without a moment's hesitation, ordering Leary to wait. The woman hurried up to the desk and, taking a blank card from it, scribbled a few words upon it in pencil, and handed it to the clerk. Grace was unable to hear what she said to him, but the man nodded, and handed the card to a bellboy. The woman sat down in a nearby chair.

Grace, having nothing else to do, and being somewhat afraid that the woman might recognize her, crossed at once to the opposite side of the lobby and, going to the news stand, spent some time in selecting and purchasing a magazine. She stood with her back to the woman, screened by a large palm, but at the same time managed to keep a fairly close watch upon her.

It was several minutes before anything happened. Then an elderly lady emerged from one of the elevators, and under the guidance of a bellboy approached the woman Grace had been following. Grace did not remember having ever seen the older woman before, but she had a distinct impression that it might be Mrs. Morton. She strolled over to the desk, and addressed the clerk in a low voice.

"Is that Mrs. Morton—the elderly lady in black?" she asked. The clerk stared at her, but his reserve melted before her charming smile.

"No, Miss," he said. "That is Mrs. Bradley."

"Thank you." Grace gave a sigh of relief, and turned away.

Looking once more toward the two women, she saw that the older one was addressing her companion with something of reserve, as though she had never met her before. The younger woman spoke quickly, smilingly, for a few moments, shook hands with her companion, and turned away. Grace saw that she was about to leave, and at once followed her, although at a little distance, so as not to excite her suspicions. When she reached the sidewalk the other woman had already entered her cab, and seemed about to drive off.

The cab, however, merely moved to a position a little further down the street, and by the time Grace had entered her own vehicle the other had again become stationary.

This maneuver struck Grace as extremely peculiar. She told Leary to remain where he was, and with some misgivings, awaited the woman's next move.

After a time she saw Mrs. Bradley, who had gone toward the elevators as Grace left the lobby, come out, signal for a taxicab, and drive quickly off. Leary was obliged to draw up with his machine, in order to leave a clear space before the door.

A few seconds later Grace saw the woman she had been following spring from her cab, come rapidly along the sidewalk, and once more enter the lobby. Grace again followed her, just in time to see that instead of applying at the desk, as before, she went directly to one of the elevators, entered, and was whisked out of sight.

Grace's heart almost stood still with fear. She had not appreciated the meaning of the woman's actions before. Now they were only too clear. She had evidently gotten Mrs. Morton, whom Grace suddenly remembered had been registered under an assumed name, out of the way on some pretext or other, and had gone to Ruth's room, with the intention, no doubt, of carrying out her previous threats. The situation was frightful. It would admit of no delay. Grace dashed to the desk and began to speak rapidly, in a frightened voice, to the clerk.

"That woman"—she exclaimed—"the one who just went up in the elevator—she is going to Miss Ruth Morton's room—you must stop her—there is no telling what she may not do—send up, quick—quick! Miss Morton is in the greatest danger."

The clerk looked at her, his mouth half open with surprise.

"I—what do you mean, Miss? I don't understand you. We have no Miss Morton here." He regarded Grace apprehensively, and out of the corner of his eye looked toward the cashier, as though he contemplated calling on him for assistance in case this apparently mad woman became violent.

Grace gave a groan of despair.

"The daughter of the elderly lady, about whom I asked you before. Her name is Morton. Her daughter Ruth is staying here under an assumed name—Bradley, you say it is. Oh—please be quick. I know what I am talking about. That woman who came here a while ago is a dangerous character. She gave Mrs. Morton some message or other to get her out of the way, and as soon as she had gone came back into the hotel and went upstairs in the elevator. Didn't you see her?"

"Yes, Miss, I saw her. She was a friend of Mrs. Bradley's, she said, and I supposed Mrs. Bradley had told her to go upstairs."

"I tell you, that woman who just went upstairs means harm—terrible harm, to Miss Bradley—Miss Morton. Oh—don't stand there wasting time. Come up with me at once, and you will see that I am right——"

"But—who are you, Miss? What have you to do with the matter?"

"What difference does that make, if what I say is true? If you must know, I am a detective employed by Mrs. Morton——"

"Employed by Mrs. Morton! And yet you didn't know her when you saw her! My dear woman, your story does not hang together——"

"It is my husband, Mr. Duvall, who is employed by her. He was registered here under the name of Bradley, too. I am trying to help him."

"Oh!" The clerk seemed somewhat more inclined to accord her serious attention. "Very well. I will go to the room with you, and see if everything is all right."

"And hurry, please—hurry." Grace started toward the elevators.

Then a sudden thought came to her. Suppose the woman was to make her escape, coming down in one of the elevators, while she and the clerk were going up in another. There had been ample time, she knew, for her to have murdered Ruth, were that her plan, and have already left the room.

"Wait just a moment," she cried to the clerk, who had said a few words to one of his assistants and was leaving the desk to join her. "I must speak to my cabman, but I'll be back in a moment." She dashed through the entrance doors and hurried to the point where Leary sat at his steering wheel.

"Wait here," she whispered to him, "until I come back, unless the woman we have been following comes out. If she does come out, and drive away, follow her, and find out where she goes. Then telephone me here. I will leave my name at the desk, and wait until I hear from you."

Leary nodded, and Grace quickly re-entered the lobby and joined the waiting clerk.

"Instruct your telephone operators," she said to him, "to let me know, in case anyone calls up Mrs. Duvall."

The clerk gave the necessary instructions, and the two then entered one of the elevators and quickly made their way to the seventh floor, upon which Mrs. Morton's apartment was located.

There was no one in the corridor when they left the elevator, and the clerk, who knew the location of the suite, hastened to it at once.

They reached the door. Grace was conscious of a feeling of apprehension, a sense of impending disaster. Her heart pounded violently as she waited for the answer to the clerk's knocks. She waited in vain. Only silence, grim, terrible, rewarded his efforts.

"Something has happened," Grace whispered, as the clerk again rapped upon the door, this time more loudly than before.

Again there was no reply, no evidence of the presence of anyone in the girl's rooms.

"Open the door!" Grace cried. "Something terrible must have occurred!"

The clerk took the pass key with which he had provided himself, and inserted it in the lock. A moment later the door swung open, and the two of them entered the room.

It was in total darkness. Grace clutched at her heart, fearing what she believed the switching on of the lights would reveal. The clerk, without loss of time, pressed the push button near the door. The room was at once flooded with light.

Grace glanced about, then gave a momentary sigh of relief. The room, the small parlor of the suite, was quite vacant. At its further end the door to Ruth Morton's bedroom stood ajar.

With the clerk beside her, Grace hurriedly crossed the room. With a prayer in her heart she pushed open the bedroom door. Her companion at the same moment felt along the door-jamb for the electric switch. In an instant the bedroom lights were turned on.

Then Grace saw that her fears had been fully justified. On the floor, halfway between the door and the bed, lay Ruth Morton, apparently lifeless. Her face was the color of chalk, her eyes were closed. With a cry, Grace fell on her knees beside the unconscious girl and with trembling fingers felt her heart. The clerk, a weak-faced young man, stood gazing at the scene before him in amazed horror.

"She isn't dead!" Grace exclaimed, turning an excited face to him. "Her heart is still beating. Send for a doctor, quick!" Then, taking the unconscious girl in her arms, she lifted her to the bed.



CHAPTER XV

Richard Duvall, realizing that the woman he sought had once more eluded him, was for the moment unable to decide what to do next. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. Apparently this enemy of Ruth Morton's was far more resourceful than he had supposed. She had gotten clear away, and there appeared no means by which he could trace her. That the second cab, the one he had hailed, contained Grace, did not of course occur to him. The trail appeared to be hopelessly lost.

Still, his investigations in Miss Ford's room had not been entirely fruitless, although they had also added a startlingly new element to the mystery of the case. Who was the person who had attacked him from the closet? Was it the woman who had just left the house? He did not think so. Nor was it Miss Ford herself. There had been something uncanny about the whole experience; he was by no means certain that his assailant had been a human being at all. And yet, its cries—its fingers, tearing at his throat. He was unable to account for the experience at all, and determined, as soon as possible, to repeat his visit, and sift the matter to the bottom.

He remembered that he had seen two persons in the Ford girl's room, after his hasty retreat. Two women, he thought, outlined against the lighted square of the window. One of these had already left the house. The other, Miss Ford herself, was still there. He determined to interview her at once.

Of course, he told himself, to do so would put her on her guard, but his visit to her room had already done that, and doubtless accounted for her companion's hasty flight. And there was something to be gained, by letting her realize that she was under suspicion. She would at once try to communicate with, to warn, her confederate, and it was in just such ways as this, Duvall's experience told him, that criminals so often betrayed themselves. If, by frightening Miss Ford, he could cause her to flee—to join her companion—the tracing of the latter would become comparatively simple. He went up to the door of No. 162 and rang the bell.

The same woman answered his summons as had answered before. She seemed somewhat uneasy—disturbed.

"I want to see Miss Marcia Ford," Duvall told her.

"Very well, sir. Come in. I will tell Miss Ford. What name, please?"

"Say that Mr. Bradley is calling."

The girl ushered him into a dark parlor, lighted by a single lowered gas jet, and suggestive of the gloom of ages, in its walnut furniture, its dismal pictures and ornaments. He took a seat, and waited for the appearance of Miss Ford.

She arrived in a few moments, a slender, ordinary-looking girl, in white shirtwaist and black skirt.

"You are Mr. Bradley?" she asked, regarding the detective with a look of inquiry.

"Yes. I came to see you about a matter of importance."

"What is it?"

"Who was the woman who just left here—the woman who had just come in with you?" Miss Ford favored the detective with a glassy stare.

"I do not understand you," she exclaimed. "I came home alone. What is the purpose of these questions?"

Duvall felt that he had a shrewd opponent to deal with.

"Are you acquainted with Miss Ruth Morton?" he asked.

"Why—certainly—that is, I know her by reputation, She works for the same company as I do. Why do you ask?"

"Miss Morton has recently been the subject of a shameful persecution. The woman who just left this house is concerned in it. Who is she?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," the girl exclaimed, angrily. "I know nothing about any woman. You must pardon me, Mr. Bradley, if I decline to be questioned in this way any further." She moved toward the door.

"Then you wish me to understand that the woman who just left this house did not come here with you?"

"Understand anything you please. I decline to be questioned any further." With a look of anger she left the room.

Duvall made his way back to the sidewalk, thoroughly satisfied with the results of his visit. The Ford woman, in the first place, had lied. The other woman had been with her, beyond a doubt. Duvall thought of her picture on the wall of Miss Ford's room. The latter's reason for lying was equally clear. She and the woman with her were guilty.

In the second place, Miss Ford now realized fully that she was under direct suspicion. If, this being the case, she failed to take some step that would be fatal to both her confederate and herself, Duvall felt that he would be very much surprised. He made up his mind to keep close watch upon the house.

Suddenly it occurred to him that Grace might be of immense service to him at this juncture. She could follow the Ford girl, unknown, unrecognized, while he himself could not. He decided to call her up at once, and ask her to join him.

At the corner, the lights of a saloon glowed brilliantly. With a final glance at the dark doorway of No. 162, he walked quickly down the street He felt that, if he hurried, he need not be away from his post more than a few moments.

The call to his hotel developed the fact that Grace was not in. There was a lady asking for him, however, the clerk said, an elderly woman, who gave her name as Mrs. Morton. She had just come in, and seemed greatly agitated at not having found him.

The name, Mrs. Morton, filled Duvall with sudden apprehension.

"I'll speak to her, please," he said. A moment later, he recognized the voice of Mrs. Morton over the 'phone.

"Is this Mr. Duvall?"

"Yes."

"This is Mrs. Morton. Your wife came to me, a little while ago, and said that you wanted to see me at your hotel at once. She explained that it was of the utmost importance. Why are you not here?"

"I sent no such message."

"No such message! Then who did?"

"I do not know. You left your daughter alone?"

"Yes."

"Then, Mrs. Morton, I am afraid you have been imposed upon. Wait where you are. I will join you at once."

"Hurry, then, Mr. Duvall. If what you say is true, we do not know what may have happened."

"I will be with you in fifteen minutes."

The astonishing news given to him by Mrs. Morton filled Duvall with alarm. Clearly the supposed message from him had been part of a scheme to get her away from the hotel, to leave Ruth there alone. He scarcely dared think of the consequences. The following of Miss Ford now became a matter of secondary importance. Fearing the worst, he signaled to a passing taxicab, and drove as rapidly as possible to his hotel.

Mrs. Morton awaited him in the lobby. She was in a state of the utmost excitement.

"We must go back to the hotel at once," she cried. "Ruth is there all alone."

"Where is her maid, Nora?"

"I let her go out, this evening."

"Then you should not have left the hotel."

"I would not have done so, but for this imperative message from you."

"What was the message?"

"Your wife, or at least a woman claiming to be your wife, came to see me a little after eight o'clock. She said you had arrested the woman who has been sending these threats to my daughter, and that you needed me at once, to make a charge against her at the police station. I naturally came here immediately."

"The woman who told you this—she couldn't have been my wife. Describe her."

"She was slight, small, neatly but not expensively dressed, with light eyes and hair."

"That was not Mrs. Duvall, but it answers very well the description of the woman we are seeking. What did she do, when you left the hotel?"

"I thought she also left."

"You are not sure of this?"

"No."

"Then we have no time to lose. Come." He escorted Mrs. Morton to a taxicab, and instructed the chauffeur to drive to her hotel at top speed.

Mrs. Morton had very little to say on the way uptown. She was naturally in a state of greatest excitement. Duvall, too, was greatly concerned. He knew that the false message had not been given by Grace. What purpose had the woman in mind, in getting rid of Mrs. Morton? The realization of what might have happened to Ruth alarmed him beyond measure.

The drive to the hotel occupied but a few moments, but to Duvall it seemed hours. When they at last drew up before the hotel door, he sprang to the sidewalk, ordered the chauffeur to wait, and with Mrs. Morton at his side, hurried into the lobby.

"Give me my key," Mrs. Morton cried, pausing for a moment at the desk. Then, with Duvall at her heels, she rushed to the elevator.

As soon as they arrived at the door of the suite, it was apparent that something was wrong. The door stood open. The clerk, with one of the maids, occupied the little parlor. Through the open door of the bedroom Duvall caught a glimpse of Ruth, lying in bed, the figure of a heavily-set, bearded man bending over her.

"Mrs. Bradley!" the clerk exclaimed, as soon as he caught sight of Mrs. Morton. "I'm so glad you have come. Your daughter has had an—an accident!"

Mrs. Morton paid scant attention to his words. She, too, had seen through the doorway the figure of her daughter lying in the bed. With a cry, she passed the clerk unnoticing, and went toward the bedroom door.

"Ruth!" she exclaimed, in an agonized voice, then rushed into the room beyond.



CHAPTER XVI

When Grace Duvall, accompanied by the hotel clerk, found Ruth Morton lying on the floor in the parlor of her suite, her first act had been to call for a doctor.

Her second was to gather the unconscious girl in her arms, and carry her into the adjoining bedroom.

That Ruth was alive, filled Grace with joy. She had feared something far worse might have befallen the girl. Yet it was clear that some terrible shock had operated to reduce her to the condition in which she had been found. What this shock was, Grace could only surmise.

She placed the girl upon the bed, and proceeded to remove her clothing. By the time she had gotten her beneath the sheets, the clerk came in, accompanied by the hotel physician.

The latter, after a hasty examination, turned to Grace with a grave look. "The young woman has experienced a terrible shock of some sort," he said. "She is very weak, and her heart action is bad." He took some tablets from a bottle in his medicine case, and called for a glass of water. "Severe nerve-shock of this sort is a serious matter," he exclaimed. "Sometimes it is fatal, at others the mind may be permanently affected. The young lady must be kept absolutely quiet, of course. We will hope for the best. Give her a tablespoonful of this solution every hour. Force her to take it, even if she does not regain consciousness. I will look in again in an hour or two. But be sure that she is kept absolutely quiet."

Grace sat beside the unconscious girl for a long time in silence. Once she went into the next room and called up her hotel, thinking that Richard might have returned, but he had not. She felt that she could only wait where she was, until some word came from Leary.

The clerk, as soon as Ruth was attended to, had hastened down to the lobby, only to learn that the woman who had gone to Miss Bradley's room had not been seen.

It must have been almost an hour before Grace was informed by one of the bellboys that someone wished to speak to her on the telephone. She did not take the message in Ruth's room, the management having given instructions that no calls were to be transmitted there for fear of arousing the unconscious girl. She went quickly downstairs in the elevator, and repaired to a booth in the lobby. One of the maids had been left to watch over Ruth.

The message was from Leary, as Grace had anticipated.

"Is this you, Mrs. Duvall?" the cabman asked.

"Yes. What have you discovered?"

"The lady got into her cab a little while after you left me, and drove away. I followed, as you told me to do. She drove to an apartment on 96th Street, left her taxicab, and entered. The cab drove away. I'm waiting across the street, in a drug store. The apartment is on the corner, 96th Street and Columbus Avenue. Shall I stay here?"

"Yes. Wait until I come." Grace left the booth, and hunting up the clerk, told him that she was obliged to go out at once.

"Mrs. Morton should be back very soon," she said. "One of the maids is sitting with Miss Ruth. Hadn't you better stay with her, as well?"

The clerk nodded, then saw the doctor coming through the lobby.

"Here's Dr. Benson," he said. "I'll send him up. The young lady will be quite safe, until her mother comes."

Grace bowed to the doctor, then hurried out of the hotel, and jumping into a taxi, ordered the driver to take her to Columbus Avenue and 96th Street. She felt overjoyed, to know that the woman Duvall had been seeking had at last been run to earth. She should, Grace determined, not escape a second time.

At 96th Street, she found Leary, impatiently waiting for her in the doorway of the corner drug store from which he had telephoned. He saw her as soon as she left the cab and, tipping his cap, came forward and joined her.

"She's in there yet, Miss," he whispered, jerking his thumb toward the building on the opposite corner.

Grace glanced in the direction indicated. A somewhat dingy-looking apartment house stood upon the corner; its lower floor occupied by a florist's shop. The entrance was on 96th Street. Leaving Leary on the opposite corner, she crossed the street and entered the vestibule of the building.

The mail boxes on either side contained five names each, indicating that there were ten apartments in the building. Grace looked over the addresses in them carefully, but none of them meant anything to her. None was at all familiar. The name on the torn card had been Ford, but there was no such name among those before her. How was she to tell to which apartment the woman had gone? The situation presented an interesting problem.

Making a list of the names upon a visiting card, Grace determined to try them each in turn. She had observed that the building contained no elevator. She rang one of the bells, and almost at once the clicking of the catch told her that the front door was unlocked. She turned the knob and entered.

The occupants of the two ground floor apartments were named Weinberg and Scully, respectively. Grace tried both doors in succession, asking for Mrs. Weinberg at the one, and for Mrs. Scully at the other. In each case the woman who appeared bore no resemblance to the one she sought, and she was obliged to pretend that she had made a mistake. The doors were at once closed in her face.

It was not until she reached the fourth floor that success rewarded her efforts. The left-hand apartment on this floor had as its tenant a Miss Norman. To Grace's delight, she had scarcely rung the bell, when the woman she had been following appeared, wearing a flowered kimono.

She looked at Grace keenly, suspiciously, but with no sign of recognition. Whether she did not know her, or merely pretended not to do so, Grace was unable to say. After all, it made little difference. Having now located the woman, it was only necessary to get away, upon some pretense or other, and telephone to Richard. She felt highly elated.

"What do you want?" the woman asked, quickly.

"Are you Miss Norman?"

"I am."

"Miss Norman, I have come to try to interest you in the work we are doing on behalf of the suffering people of Poland. The war, as you know——" Grace reeled off this appeal, feeling quite certain that the woman would reject it at once, and thus leave her free to go. But as it turned out, Miss Norman did nothing of the sort.

"I am always interested in worthy charities," she remarked, with a peculiar smile. "Won't you come in?" She held wide the door.

Grace found herself in a quandary. Was this a plot to get her inside the apartment, or was the woman in earnest? It seemed unlikely, and yet, Grace feared the danger, now that she had gone so far, of arousing the other's suspicions by a refusal.

"I—I will come in for a moment," she said, and an instant later found herself in a small, rather poorly furnished living room. The woman closed the door, and followed her. Grace braced herself for a possible attack, but none came.

"Sit down," her hostess said, indicating a chair.

"No. It is too late for that. If you care to subscribe anything——"

"But you must tell me more about your work."

"It is very simple. The money is expended by the Polish Relief Committee, to relieve the starving and destitute sufferers in the war zone."

"I see. It seems a worthy charity. I will think the matter over. Suppose you call again."

Grace began to breathe more freely.

"I will do so, of course," she said, moving toward the door.

The woman preceded her.

"Let me open it," she said. "The catch has a habit of sticking." She fumbled with the lock.

Grace was so completely deceived by the woman's actions that she momentarily relaxed her guard. As her companion drew the door open, Grace bade her good night and started to go. The instant her back was turned, she felt a slender but muscular arm slide about her neck, and she was instantly dragged backward, unable, on account of the pressure upon her throat, to utter a sound.

Her attempt at a cry for help was smothered before it became audible. She saw, as in a dream, the woman before her drive the door to with her shoulder. Then she was whirled backward and thrown violently upon a low couch.

She grasped the arm of her assailant and struggled with all her might, but to no purpose. The woman bent over her, her hands at her throat. Grace's brain reeled. Everything seemed black before her eyes. She gasped, trying in vain to breathe, but the fingers upon her throat were momentarily tightening. Then, almost before she realized it, the objects in the room swam vaguely before her eyes, and she lost consciousness.



PART IV



CHAPTER XVII

Duvall, on his arrival with Mrs. Morton at her apartment, lost no time in finding out from the clerk just what had happened. The story, pieced together, confirmed his worst suspicions.

The woman, after escaping from the house at 162 West 57th Street, had gone at once to Ruth's hotel, followed by Grace. Here she had interviewed Mrs. Morton, represented herself as Grace Duvall, and induced Mrs. Morton to leave the hotel by giving her a fictitious message purporting to be from himself.

Returning, later, to the hotel, she had gone to Ruth Morton's room and attacked her. The nature of that attack, the effect upon the girl, were as yet uncertain. Ruth Morton was still unconscious.

Meanwhile, as he learned from the clerk, Grace had received a telephone message and hurriedly left the hotel. The clerk did not know from whom the message had come.

Duvall went to Ruth Morton's bedroom, and called the doctor aside.

"What is the exact nature of Miss Morton's injuries?" he asked.

"She has no injuries, at least in the sense I think you mean. She is suffering solely from the effects of shock."

"What sort of shock?"

"I do not know, of course. Fright, of some sort, terrible fright, I should say. I am informed that some woman, some enemy of hers, came to this room, and was alone with her."

"There is no evidence of any violence?"

"None whatever. But the effects of shock are often worse than those of actual physical violence. They have frequently been known to cause death."

"You do not, I hope, anticipate anything of the sort in this case."

"I cannot say." The doctor shook his head. "She must have been very weak. Her system is responding very slowly."

Duvall glanced over to where Mrs. Morton hung in agonized silence over her daughter's bed, then went out into the sitting room. It seemed to him well nigh incredible that the woman responsible for all this had been able to move about, to elude pursuit, to carry out her threats, apparently without the least hesitation or fear of capture. His professional pride had received severe shock.

Two means of finding the woman, he felt, were still open to him. One was to trace her through Miss Ford. He did not doubt that, after what he had said to the latter, she would make an immediate attempt to warn her confederate of the danger that threatened her. Of course, the Ford girl might communicate with her companion by telephone, in which event the tracing would be difficult, if not impossible.

The other hope of tracing the woman lay in Grace. Why had she left the hotel so suddenly? He did not of course know the source of the telephone message, and could only surmise that Grace had in some way been able to pick up the woman's trail.

Leaving Mrs. Morton with a few words of encouragement, he made his way to his hotel. There was no news there of Grace, however, and he realized that it was now too late to accomplish anything by returning to the house on 57th Street. Marcia Ford would either have long since retired, or else would have left the house to communicate with the woman who had been with her earlier in the evening. Considerably upset by the events of the past three hours, Duvall retired to his room, and sat down to think the whole matter over.

Proceeding on the assumption that the woman in question, and Miss Ford were acting together, all the events at the studio, the fake telegram, the missing photograph, became intelligible. But the delivery of the letters in Ruth Morton's apartment, the strange attack upon him while searching the Ford girl's room, were by no means so clear. Once more his thoughts reverted to the attic room, the roof of the adjoining house, the problem of effecting an entrance to the Morton apartment through either of the two windows.

And then, as he revolved the problem in his mind, a sudden light came to him. He sprang from his chair with an exclamation of satisfaction. A solution of the whole matter flashed through his brain, a solution at once so simple, and so ingenious, that he wondered he had not thought of it before.

He glanced at his watch. It was midnight. Too late, perhaps, to test the accuracy of his deductions. Nor did he feel at all easy in his mind regarding Grace. Something must have happened to her, he feared, to keep her out so late, with no word to him concerning her movements. He went to the 'phone, and calling up the office, inquired whether anything had been heard of Mrs. Duvall.

"No," the night clerk informed him. Mrs. Duvall had not been heard from, nor had she sent any message. But a note had just been left for her. He would send it up.

Duvall awaited the arrival of the note with the utmost impatience. A message for Grace. From whom? What could it mean? A few moments later one of the bellboys thrust into his hand a letter, written on the note paper of the hotel.

He regarded the scrawling and ill-written superscription with apprehension, then tore open the envelope and proceeded to read the contents of the note.

"Dear Madam," it said. "I waited till nearly midnight. When you did not come, I thought you must have gone out some other way, so came back to the hotel. I hope I did right. Respectfully yours, Martin Leary." Duvall stared at the words before him with a look of alarm. Who was Martin Leary? And where had he waited for Grace until nearly midnight? And, above all, why had she not returned? Had some accident, some danger befallen her? The circumstances made it seem highly probable.

There was but one thing to do—to question the night clerk, and find out, if possible, who Leary was. He rushed to the elevator and made his way to the lobby with all speed.

"Who left this note for Mrs. Duvall?" he asked of the clerk.

"Why,"—the man paused for a moment—"one of the cabmen, I believe."

"Is his name Leary—Martin Leary?"

"Yes. It was Leary, come to think of it. Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Duvall."

"I'll know later. Where is Leary now?"

"Couldn't say, sir. You might ask the cab starter?"

Almost before the clerk had finished speaking, Duvall had darted across the lobby and made his way to the taxicab office at the door.

"Taxi, sir?" the man asked. "Do you know a chauffeur named Martin Leary?" exclaimed Duvall.

"Yes, sir. One of our regular men, sir."

"Where is he?"

The starter glanced along the row of taxicabs.

"He's turned in for the night, sir. Left for the garage some time ago. He's been on duty since early this morning."

"Where is the garage?"

"On Lexington Avenue, sir, near 30th Street."

"Does Leary sleep there?"

"No, sir. I don't think so, sir. They would know at the garage, I guess."

"Very well. Get me a cab. I want to be taken there at once."

The starter called to one of the drivers, and a few moments later Duvall was being driven at a rapid rate toward the garage.

His inquiries, on his arrival there, developed the fact that Leary had left for his home, on Second Avenue, some little time before. Duvall secured the address, and once more set out.

He felt greatly alarmed at Grace's failure to put in an appearance. Something must have happened to her. Clearly the case was going very much against him—the woman's second escape—the attack on Ruth Morton—now the disappearance of Grace. He felt that the time had come for action of a quick and drastic nature.

Leary lived with his wife and two children on the third floor of a Second Avenue tenement. Hastily climbing the two flights of dark steps, Duvall rapped on the door. He was overjoyed when it was opened by a man whom he judged to be the chauffeur himself.

"Are you Martin Leary?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, choking down a bit of cold supper he had been eating, before turning in.

"I am Richard Duvall. You drove my wife uptown, somewhere, did you not?"

"Yes, sir. To Columbus Avenue and Ninety-sixth Street, sir. Won't you come in?"

"No. There isn't time. I want you to put on your coat and come along with me. Mrs. Duvall has not returned, and I am afraid something has happened to her."

The man turned and called to someone inside the flat.

"Gimme my hat and coat, Kitty," he said, then turned again to Duvall. "I suppose I should have waited, sir, but after two hours went by, I made up my mind that Mrs. Duvall didn't need me any longer."

"What is the building at Columbus Avenue and 96th Street?" Duvall asked, as the man, pulling on the coat his wife handed him, strode down the hall.

"An apartment building, sir."

"And why did Mrs. Duvall go there?"

"Well, sir, we was following a woman, sir. She went to a hotel on Seventy-second Street, and Mrs. Duvall told me to watch for her. I did, and tracked her to the place at 96th Street. Then I telephoned to Mrs. Duvall to come, and she did."

"What time was that?"

"About half-past nine, sir."

"All right. Go on."

"Mrs. Duvall came, sir, in another taxi. I pointed out the place where the woman went in, and Mrs. Duvall went in after her. She didn't say I was to wait, but I guess she expected me to, because she had sent the other cab away. I waited over two hours, and then, when she didn't come out, I supposed she had returned to her hotel, so I came back, too. She wasn't there, though. That's why I left the note."

"How did you think Mrs. Duvall could have gotten back to her hotel, if you were watching the door of the apartment house all the time?"

"I wasn't watching it all the time, sir. I went into the drug store once, sir, and got a cigar. And then, later on, I went to a saloon a piece down the Avenue and got a glass of beer. Mrs. Duvall didn't say I was to watch the place, sir. I thought when she got through what she had to do, she would come back to the cab. But she didn't. Do you think I ought to have waited, sir?" The man seemed greatly distressed.

"No use talking about that now," Duvall remarked, shortly. "I want to drive there at once. Get on the box, with the chauffeur, and point out the place to him."

"Yes, sir." A moment later they had started on their way uptown.

Knowing as he did Grace's impetuous nature, Duvall could only conclude that her pursuit of the woman had led her into some trap. What danger she might at this moment be facing, he could only surmise. The apartment building, when they finally reached it, presented a grim and forbidding appearance. Not a light broke the darkness of any of its windows. The drug store on the opposite corner, too, was closed for the night. The whole locality was dark and silent.

"There's the place, sir," Leary exclaimed, as they drew up to the corner.

"Tell the driver to stop a few doors up the block—not right in front of the building."

Leary nodded. Presently the cab stopped, and he and Duvall got out.

The detective's first move was to ascertain whether or not the building had any rear exit, by which Grace might have left, without being seen by Leary. He walked down the avenue to its rear wall, only to find that it abutted against the wall of the next building. There was no rear entrance.

If, then, Grace had not left the place during the past hour, she must still be in one of the ten flats that formed the five floors of the building. But which one? That, apparently, was the problem he had to solve.

It would be useless, he felt, to inquire at the doors of the various apartments at this hour of the morning. Admission, at least on the part of those he sought, would certainly be refused. Yet he felt that there was no time to be lost.

Stationing Leary before the front door, with instructions to keep a careful watch, Duvall went into the vestibule, and by means of his pocket light, inspected the names of the occupants of the building, as Grace had done a short time before. The hallway inside was dark, with the exception of a dim light at the foot of the stairs. Apparently the place boasted no elevator or hall-boy service.

The ten names on the boxes in the vestibule meant nothing to him. How was it possible to determine which one was that of the woman he sought? Weinberg—Scully—Martin—Stone—he ran down the list, trying to find some distinguishing mark, some clue, that would guide him.

Suddenly he paused, allowing the light from his torch to rest upon the card bearing the name of one of the tenants on the fourth floor.

This card had attracted his attention, because it was different from any of the others in the two racks. They were either engraved or printed visiting cards, stuck inside the brass frames provided for them, or the names were written or printed by hand upon blank cards. But this card, bearing simply the inscription E. W. Norman, was neither engraved nor printed, nor written by hand. On the contrary, it was typewritten.

This in itself at once attracted Duvall's attention, owing to the fact that the various letters received by Ruth Morton had also all been typewritten. If the name, Norman, was an assumed one, as Duvall concluded it to be, what more natural than that it should be typewritten on a blank card, especially when a regular printed or engraved card was not available; when to have it written in long hand would have been a disclosure of identity, and when, above all, the woman in question possessed, and knew how to operate, a typewriter.

There was more than this, however, about the name on the card, to convince Duvall that E. W. Norman was the woman he sought. He recalled with distinctness the two salient features of the typewriting in all the letters sent to Miss Morton, the misplaced "a," and the broken lower right-hand corner of the capital "W." He looked closely at the two letters in the name before him. The "a" was misplaced, the "W" minus its lower right-hand corner. The evidence seemed to be complete.

The next thing to be considered was, how could he first obtain entrance to the apartment building, and, subsequently, to the flat of the woman posing as E. W. Norman? Were he to ring the latter's bell, he felt quite sure she would not respond by unfastening the front door, but she would on the contrary be warned, and even if unable to escape, might destroy the evidence he hoped to find in her possession.

On the other hand, to ring the bell of one of the other apartments might result in the unlatching of the front door, but might involve explanations, difficult, in the circumstances, to make. There was no help for it, however. Duvall pressed the bell belonging to the family named Scully.

It was a long time before there was any response. Duvall had almost begun to despair of getting one, when he heard the clicking of the electric latch, and found that he could turn the knob and enter the hallway.

He had barely done so, when at big, burly-looking man, who might have been a bartender, or a head waiter, appeared in the door of one of the ground floor apartments, clad only in his night clothes.

"Well—whatcha want?" he growled.

Duvall stepped up to him quickly, and spoke in a pleasant voice.

"I'm mighty sorry," he said. "I rang your bell by mistake. Pardon me."

The man glared at him, suspicion blazing from his eyes.

"That's an old one," he retorted. "How do I know you ain't a burglar?"

"Do I look like one?" Duvall asked.

The man ignored this question.

"Rang my bell by mistake, did you? Who do you want to see?"

"I have some business with a lady on the fourth floor." He went closer to the man, and lowered his voice. "I'm a detective, my friend," he whispered confidentially. "I'm here on a very important case."

The big man's eyes widened.

"Th' hell you are!" he exclaimed. "Central office?"

"No. Private."

"H—m." The man nodded slowly. "All right. But I guess I'll keep my eye on you, just the same." He leaned against the door jamb and watched Duvall as he ascended the stairs.

The detective reached the fourth floor at top speed. He was panting, when he arrived opposite the door of the apartment he sought. Once there, he paused for a moment, listening intently. Not a sound came from the interior of the flat.

The problem of obtaining access to the place now confronted him. The door was of oak of stout construction. He doubted his ability to break it in, nor did he wish to attempt to do so, if it could be avoided. Breaking into private apartments, without a warrant, was a serious matter. There was a chance that this might not be the right place, after all. He hesitated. Yet Grace might be within, in danger, perhaps, of her life. It was imperative that he should find out the truth at once.

Stepping up to the door, he knocked sharply upon it, then waited for a reply. He scarcely expected one, but felt that he should at least give the persons within a chance.

A long silence ensued. Duvall was about to rap again, when, to his amazement, the door slowly and noiselessly swung inward, as though impelled by some unseen hand.

The room beyond was shrouded in darkness. Duvall could see no one. Whoever had opened the door must now be concealed behind it. No one either greeted or challenged him. The door swung three-quarters open, and stood still. Not a sound was to be heard. The room was as silent as a tomb.

Duvall stood on the threshold for a few seconds, listening intently. He was greatly astonished by what had occurred. Why had the door been so silently opened? Was someone waiting within, ready to attack him the moment he made a step forward?

Whether this was the case or not, nothing, he reflected, was to be gained by remaining where he was. Drawing an automatic pistol from his pocket, he held it in readiness in his right hand, then, raising his left arm, he flung his entire weight against the partly opened door.

The door yielded to his attack. Then there came a dull thud, as though some heavy body had fallen to the floor, and immediately after the hallway resounded with a series of unearthly screams. Duvall still moved forward. Then, to his utter surprise, there appeared in the darkness a grotesque figure, which immediately hurled itself upon him and began to clutch frantically at his throat.



CHAPTER XVIII

It would be difficult to describe the feelings of Grace Duvall when, after having traced the mysterious woman who had attacked Ruth Morton, to the flat at Columbus Avenue and Ninety-sixth Street, she had foolishly entered the place, and allowed herself to be attacked.