The Film of Fear. Frederic Arnold Kummer

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.

      Chapter 3

       Table of Contents

      Richard Duvall and his wife, Grace, lingered rather later than usual over their breakfast that morning.

      It was a warm and brilliant day in May, and the blossoming beauty of the spring filled them both with a delightful sense of well-being.

      Duvall, however, seemed a trifle restless, and Grace observed it.

      "What's the matter, Richard?" she asked.

      "Oh, nothing." Her husband picked up the morning paper. "They are still looking for the woman in that Marsden case, I see," he remarked.

      "Do you know, my dear," Grace said, "I sometimes think that you made a mistake in coming down here to the country to live. Your heart is really in New York, and every time there is a murder case, or a bank robbery, or a kidnapping up there, you are restless as a hen on a hot griddle until the mystery is solved. Why don't you take up your professional work again?" Duvall laid down his paper and regarded his wife with a look of surprise.

      "Because, Grace," he said, "you especially asked me, after that affair of the missing suffragette, to finally give up my detective work and content myself with a quiet existence here on the farm. You said, on account of the boy, that I ought not to take such risks."

      "Well—suppose I did. You agreed with me, didn't you?"

      "Yes—I guess so." Duvall once more picked up the newspaper. "But, naturally, I can't help feeling a certain interest in any striking and novel case that I may read about."

      "And I haven't a doubt," laughed Grace, "that you wish that you were back in harness again a dozen times a day. Come now—'fess up. Don't you?"

      "Sometimes," granted her husband, with a smile. "You know I loved my work. It always seemed to take me out of the dull routine of existence, and give me a new feeling of interest. I shouldn't mind if I had a novel and interesting case to work on right now."

      "Would you take one, if it were offered to you?" asked Grace quickly.

      "No—I guess not. I haven't forgotten my promise."

      "Well—I've decided to release you from that, Richard. I really think you need a little mental exercise and diversion. All play and no work, you know——" She began to arrange the dogwood blossoms she had gathered before breakfast, in a big vase on the table.

      Duvall laughed.

      "I'm getting along very well," he said. "Don't forget I'm expecting to have that corner lot planted in potatoes to-day." He rose, and coming over to his wife, playfully pinched her cheek. "What's the matter, dear?" he asked. "Are you pining for a little trip to New York yourself? We don't need a murder mystery to make that possible, you know."

      Grace shook her head. As she did so, the telephone bell in the hall began to ring. "That may be your murder mystery now," she said, with a laugh.

      "More likely the Clarks asking us over to dinner this evening," he returned, as he made his way into the hall.

      Grace continued to arrange her flowers. Presently Duvall re-entered the room. There was a curious smile upon his face. "Well," Grace remarked, glancing up. "Which was it? The murder case, or the Clarks?"

      "Neither. A mysterious woman, this time, saying that she must see me at once. I told her to come on out."

      "Ah! This is serious," his wife laughed. "A mysterious woman! I suppose I ought to be jealous. Didn't she say what she wanted with you?"

      "No. But we'll know soon enough. She'll be here at half past nine. Suppose we go and take a look at those Airedale pups." Together they crossed the veranda and made their way toward the barn.

      Richard Duvall had changed but little since the days when he had served on the staff of Monsieur Lefevre, the Prefect of Police of Paris, and had taken part in the stirring adventures of the Million Francs, the Ivory Snuff Box and the Changing Lights. The same delightful spirit of camaraderie existed between his wife, Grace, and himself, a spirit which had enabled them, together, to solve some of the most exciting mysteries in the annals of the French detective service. It had been nearly two years, now, since the affair of the Mysterious Goddess, the last case in which Duvall had been concerned, and he was beginning to feel that he would welcome with outstretched arms a chance to make use once more of his exceptional talents as an investigator of crime. Hence he had received Mrs. Morton's telephone call with more than ordinary interest.

      The latter had told him nothing of her reasons for interviewing him, contenting herself with the bare statement that