ave the photograph at the
studio this afternoon. In fact it might readily have been done by one of
the other actresses, who might be jealous of your daughter's success.
But if the thing was done by anyone employed at the studio, how can we
account for the message left in the bedroom at half-past nine this
morning, the one we found on the floor? If the woman who is responsible
for these threats was at the studio this morning, how could she arrange
to have the note left in your daughter's bedroom here at the same hour?
That would seem to imply a confederate. I confess that the entire matter
is for the moment beyond me."

"Were you able to find out anything concerning the telegram which came
this morning?"

"Nothing, except that it was sent by a woman. I was not surprised to
learn that. Naturally I should expect that a woman was responsible for
these threats. But what woman? That is the question." He sat for a long
time, thinking, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

Suddenly there came a ring at the doorbell. Mrs. Morton, without waiting
for the maid, sprang to the hall, with Duvall close at her heels. As she
threw it open, they saw a man standing in the doorway. Duvall was the
first to recognize their caller.

"How do you do, Mr. Baker," he said, holding out his hand.

Mr. Baker came in, and greeted Mrs. Morton.

"I didn't expect to find Mr. Duvall here," he said. "In fact, I came to
you to get his hotel address. Luckily I won't need it, now."

"Anything new?" Duvall asked, as they returned to the library.

"Nothing much. I got those samples of the writing of the various
typewriters, as you requested," Baker replied, "and I thought that
instead of waiting until to-morrow, it would be better to bring them to
you to-night." He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket. "There are
thirty-two in all. What are you going to do with them?" He placed the
papers in Duvall's hand.

The latter sat down at the library table and placed the sheets of paper
before him.

"Of course you know," he said to Baker, "that every typewriting machine
has its unmistakable peculiarities. It is almost impossible to find a
machine that has been used at all, that has not developed certain
individual defects, or qualities, found in no other machine. Now let us
take for instance the letters that Miss Morton has received during the
past few days. They have all been written on the same machine, and I am
of the opinion that it is a fairly old one. Whi