purposes, and I am positive that this one was among them. I
remember distinctly the pose of the head, the unusual arrangement of the
hair. That photograph should be in our files. The fact that it has been
taken out shows that the person who has been writing these letters is a
member of our own staff, or at least has access to our files."

"That does not necessarily follow," observed Duvall.

"Why not?"

"Because the picture might have been obtained from the photographer."

"But they are not allowed to dispose of the portraits of others, without
the sitter's permission."

"I know that, but they sometimes do so, especially in the case of anyone
so well known as Miss Morton. She has become a sort of public character.

"Well," remarked Duvall, "we can readily find out, in the morning. You,
Mr. Baker, can go through your files, and should you find the photograph
to be there, I will take the matter up with the photographer. If, on the
contrary, the picture is missing, it will be fairly conclusive evidence
that the person or persons we are looking for are in some way connected
with the studio."

"I will make an investigation the first thing in the morning," Mr. Baker
announced, rising. "Do you expect to be at the studio early, Mr.
Duvall?"

"Yes. Quite early."

"Then we had best leave matters until then. Good night. Good night, Mrs.
Morton." He turned and started toward the door.

He had proceeded but a few steps, when the three occupants of the room
were startled by a series of sudden and agonizing cries. From the rear
of the apartment came a succession of screams so piercing in their
intensity, so filled with horror, that they found themselves for a
moment unable to stir. Then Mrs. Morton gave a cry of anguish, and
darted out into the hall, closely followed by Duvall and Mr. Baker.

The screams continued, filling the entire apartment with their clamor.
That the voice which uttered them was that of Ruth Morton none of the
three doubted for a moment. With sinking hearts they went on, prepared
for the worst. Duvall found himself dreading the moment when they should
reach the bedroom door, and face the girl, her beauty, perhaps,
disfigured beyond all recognition.

There was a sharp turn, at the end of the hall, into a shorter cross
hall, at the end of which was the door of Ruth's bedroom. It was closed,
but as though in response to Mrs. Morton's agonized appeals, it suddenly
opened as they reached it, and Ruth Mort