"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 III 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.