r some reasonable explanation of
the astonishing events of the day.

Once he had an impression, a feeling, that he was being followed, but
when he turned around, there was no one in sight but a slightly tipsy
man, and a couple of young girls, far down the street. He dismissed the
thought from his mind, and proceeded to his hotel.

It was not yet eleven o'clock, and Grace was waiting for him in the
little parlor of their suite.

"Well, Richard," she remarked, as he came in, "you've had quite a day of
it."

"Yes, quite," he replied, throwing himself into a chair. "What have
_you_ been doing with yourself?"

"Shopping, mostly. I found it rather dull. I went to a moving picture
this afternoon. Saw your friend Ruth Morton. She certainly is a very
beautiful girl."

"Yes--very," Duvall replied, absently.

"Have you seen her to-day?" Grace went on, with a smile.

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh--nothing. I was just thinking."

Duvall burst into a laugh, and rising, went over to his wife and kissed
her.

"For heaven's sake, Grace," he said, "don't be silly. I'm not interested
in motion picture actresses."

"You weren't, I'll admit, nor in motion pictures either, until recently,
but perhaps you have changed. I could understand any man being
fascinated by a girl like Ruth Morton."

Duvall did not pursue the question. It was a hard and fast rule between
them not to discuss his professional work. And Mrs. Morton had made it a
point that he should confide in no one, not even his wife.

"Well," he said, picking up an evening paper, "I'm not fascinated yet.
No letters for me to-day, I suppose."

"None." Grace went on with her sewing.

They sat for a while in silence. Presently there came a knock on the
door, and a boy appeared, bearing a telegram, Duvall opened it
carelessly, thinking it some word from the overseer of his farm. He sat
up with sudden astonishment as he read the contents of the message.

"Keep out," the telegram read, "or you will find that we can strike
back."

Duvall placed the telegram in his pocket with a frown. So it appeared
that in spite of all his care, his connection with the case was known.
How this was possible he could not imagine. His first visit to the
Morton apartment that day had been in the guise of a workman. His
subsequent appearance at the studio, and later, at the apartment, had
been in the character of a newspaper man. There was only one
explanation. Someone had watched him while he was ma