Mrs. Morton returned to New York that afternoon, greatly pleased with the results of her trip. That she had been able to enlist the services of Richard Duvall gave her a sense of security. She found Ruth at home, safe and well, with no further threats or warnings to disturb her peace of mind. The girl was absorbed in her new role. The picture promised to be the most successful of her career. The following morning Mrs. Morton rose early, in order to go through the mail before Ruth had an opportunity to do so. The shock caused by the first threatening letter had passed from the girl's mind. The second she knew nothing of. Mrs. Morton was determined that if any more arrived, she should not see those either. Trembling with eagerness she opened the pile of letters, but found nothing. With a sigh of relief she turned away. Perhaps, after all she had exaggerated the importance of the matter. Half an hour later, while Ruth was eating her breakfast, a messenger boy arrived with a telegram, addressed to Miss Ruth Morton. The maid, seeing no reason to do otherwise, brought it to the girl as she sat at the table. Mrs. Morton, who had been at the rear of the apartment, hurried in as she heard the sound of the doorbell, but by the time she had reached the dining room, Ruth had already opened and read the message. She sat staring at a bit of yellow paper, her face pale and drawn. "What is it, dear?" Mrs. Morton cried, hurrying to her side. Ruth picked up the telegram and handed it to her mother. "Another threat," she said, quietly. "These people, whoever they are, seem to be in deadly earnest." Mrs. Morton took the telegram and hurriedly read it. "Even the beauty of the rose," the message said, "cannot endure for twenty-seven days." There was no signature to the telegram. A look of the deepest apprehension crept into Mrs. Morton's eyes, but she turned away, so that Ruth might not realize her fears. "Pay no attention to the matter, Ruth," she said, in tones suddenly grown a trifle unsteady. "It is certainly nothing more than a stupid joke." "Well, mother, of course you may be right, but for my part, I have a feeling that it isn't a joke at all, but a real and very terrible threat. What is to prevent these people, whoever they are, from attacking me--sending me some infernal machine in the disguise of a box or package, which, as soon as I open it, might burn or blind or otherwise disfigure me so that my life would be ruined?" She rose and glanced at herself in the mirror which hung over the mantel. Already there were deep circles of anxiety beneath her eyes, while the lines of her face, usually sweet and placid, were now those of an anxious and frightened woman. The first threat had upset her far more than her mother had realized. The one just received had intensified the effect a hundredfold.