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Mrs. Harriet Morton was a courageous woman, but when she read the second threat against her daughter, she was filled with instant indignation and horror. The thing was so appallingly mysterious, so utterly without reasonable explanation.

Ruth had left the room but a few moments before. Certainly the letter was not upon the floor then. The maid, Nora, had gone with her. That removed her from any suspicion, even had such a thought been reasonable or possible, and Mrs. Morton felt it was not. The only other person in the apartment was Mary, their old cook, a negro from the south, who had been a faithful and patient member of the Morton household for over ten years. That she could have had a hand in placing this mysterious message in Ruth's bedroom seemed incredible, not to be entertained for a moment. And yet, there was the message, appallingly simple, direct, threatening. "Only twenty-nine days more!" Mrs. Morton shuddered.

She glanced about the room. How had the letter come there? Certainly not by means of the door. Yet it seemed equally out of the question that it could have been brought in through one of the windows.

There were two in the room, one facing to the front, and opening upon a court, the other in the rear, overlooking the yards of the houses on the next street. She went to the front window, which was raised only a few inches, and gazed out.

Below her stretched the wide court, flanked on one hand by the side of the apartment building, on the other by the blank wall of an adjoining house. The latter was some ten feet from where she stood, and there were no windows in it! She turned to the window at the other side of the room.

Here a fire escape led down to an alley at the rear of the building. Could it have been in this way that the letter had been delivered? The thing seemed impossible. Not only was the window closed, but she knew that the ladders did not reach all the way to the ground, the last section being pulled up, to be dropped only in case of fire. With a mystified look she returned to the center of the room.

The letter grinned at her from the dresser, on which she had left it. Ruth must never hear of the matter, she knew. Taking it up, she placed it in the bosom of her dress along with the one which had arrived earlier in the day. Then she sat down to decide what she had best do next.

To trifle with so dangerous a situation was no longer to be thought of. One message, the first, might have been a foolish joke. The second proved that the danger threatening her daughter was real, imminent.

At first she thought of placing the matter in the hands of the postal authorities, but would they, she wondered, concern themselves with threats delivered in other ways than by mail? This second message had not come through any such channels. In desperation she put on her hat, placed the two letters in her handbag and set out to seek the advice of one of her oldest and best friends.

Her purpose took her to a private banking house in Broad Street, upon the wide entrance doors of which was inscribed the name John Stapleton & Co. She asked to see Mr. Stapleton. John Stapleton was a man of wealth and influence in the financial world, and Mrs. Morton's husband had at one time been one of his most trusted employees. Now that Ruth had become to some extent a capitalist, it was to Mr. Stapleton that the care of her savings had been entrusted. Mrs. Morton felt the utmost confidence in both his sincerity and his judgment.

Mr. Stapleton received her almost at once, in his simply yet richly furnished private office, and rising from his huge flat-topped rosewood desk, welcomed her warmly, and asked what he could do for her.

Mrs. Morton felt confused. Her mission seemed, after all, a strange one with which to come to a leader of finance.

"I—I am in great trouble, Mr. Stapleton," she began.

"Yes?" He took her hand in his and led her to a chair. "Tell me all about it."

Mrs. Morton explained the circumstances surrounding the receiving of the two letters in detail, and then handed the documents to Mr. Stapleton.

"Do you think I had better place the matter in the hands of the postal authorities?" she said. Mr. Stapleton examined the two letters carefully then he shook his head.

"No. At least not at present. It seems to me that your daughter may be in grave danger, and under those circumstances, I think your wisest course would be to employ a private detective, an investigator of matters of this character, not only to ferret out those who are responsible for these threats, but to take steps to protect your daughter from harm."

"You think, then, that she is really in danger?" Mrs. Morton gasped.

"I do not wish to alarm you, but I very much fear that she is."

"But I don't know any private detectives," Mrs. Morton began.

Stapleton looked up from the letter.

"When I spoke," he said, "I had a certain man in mind. He is not a detective, in the usual sense of the word. You can find plenty of those, of course, but, while they are useful enough in the detection of criminals of the ordinary sort, they would probably have very little success in an affair such as this. The man I had in mind is a brilliant criminal investigator, one whose services I have more than once been obliged to make use of in matters of a personal nature. Some two years ago, for instance, my child was kidnapped, in Paris, and held for ransom. The entire police force of the French capital seemed powerless to discover his whereabouts. At last I called in Richard Duvall, and within a few days my boy was returned to me, and the criminals who had abducted him placed under arrest. It was a marvellous, a brilliant piece of work. I am not likely to forget very soon the mystery of the changing lights." He paused, and Mrs. Morton spoke up eagerly.

"Give me Mr. Duvall's address," she said, "and I will see him at once."

"That," Mr. Stapleton smiled, "is, of course, the great difficulty. Duvall, who is married, lives with his wife on their farm near Washington. They both have plenty of money, and he has practically retired from professional work."

"Then of what use is it to suggest his name?" asked Mrs. Morton, quickly.

"He had already retired," Stapleton rejoined, "at the time of my boy's kidnapping, but I prevailed on him to take up the case. His retirement merely means that he is not in the active practice of his profession. But exceptional cases, cases which by reason of their novelty interest him, he may be persuaded to undertake. I fancy this matter of your daughter's would prove attractive to him. It is unusual—bizarre. I strongly advise you to see him."

"To do that, I must go to Washington?"

"Yes. I will give you a letter which will insure you an interview, and, I hope, enlist his services in your behalf." He pressed a button on his desk, summoning a stenographer. "I sincerely hope that you will be successful."

Mrs. Morton sat in silence while the letter of introduction to Richard Duvall was being written. Then she rose to go.

"I will leave for Washington this afternoon," she announced. "I feel that there is no time to waste."

"You are quite right. And be sure to tell Mr. Duvall that you are a close personal friend of mine, and that anything he can do for you I shall appreciate to the utmost."

Mrs. Morton went back to the apartment, and made her preparations to start. She determined to take a train leaving at half past three, and as Ruth would not return from the studio until later, she called her up on the telephone, and told her of her sudden determination.

"It is a matter of business, dear," she explained. "I will be back to-morrow. Good-by." The girl's cheerful voice reassured her. At least nothing had happened up to now, to give cause for alarm.

It was only when Mrs. Morton was about to leave for the train that her nerves were once more subjected to a severe shock.

The telephone bell rang, and she went to answer it, thinking that Ruth might for some reason have called her up.

Over the wire came a thin, queer voice.

"Beauty is only skin deep," it said. "A breath may destroy it." After that, silence.

Mrs. Morton made a frantic effort to learn the number of the station from which she had been called, but without success. In a rather depressed state of mind, she made her way to the train.

It was half past eight at night when she arrived in Washington, and she at once called up Richard Duvall on the telephone.

To her disappointment, she learned that he was out, and was not expected back until late. There was nothing to do but wait until morning. She retired to her room, full of hope that the following day would bring an end to her fears.

Immediately after breakfast she called again, and this time was more successful. Duvall himself answered the telephone.

"I am Mrs. Morton, from New York," she said, eagerly. "I would like to come out and see you."

"What do you wish to see me about?" the detective inquired.

"It is a personal matter. I will explain when I arrive. I prefer not to do so over the telephone. I have a letter to you from Mr. Stapleton."

"Mr. John Stapleton, the banker?"

"Yes."

"Come, then, by all means, at any hour that suits you. Mr. Stapleton is one of my best friends."

Mrs. Morton hung up the receiver, after assuring him that she would start at once. Then she went out and engaging an automobile, set out for Duvall's place.