The last four words were heavily underlined. There was no signature. “What do you make of it?” asked Dukane. “It’s from a woman, of course. Quite an ordinary threatening letter. We handle hundreds of them, and most of them come to nothing at all.” “Possibly,” said Dukane thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t feel like ignoring it entirely. Not on Mortimer’s own account, you understand. He’s not the type of fellow I admire, and I don’t doubt he richly deserves any punishment that may be in store for him. But he’s my star, and if anything happens to him I stand to lose more money than I feel like affording in these hard times.” “I can have a couple of men detailed to keep an eye on him,” suggested Barrison. Dukane shook his head. “He’d find it out and be furious,” he returned. “Whatever else he is, he’s no coward, and he detests having his personal affairs interfered with. Hello! What is it you want?” The thin, gaunt, white-haired man whom he addressed was standing, hat in hand, in the alley just outside the stage door, and he was evidently waiting to speak to the manager. “If you please, sir,” he began, half apologetically, “Mr. Mortimer told me to——” “You’re Mortimer’s man, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir; I’m Wrenn. I came down in the car for Mr. Mortimer, sir. He—he seemed a bit upset-like this morning.” His faded old eyes looked appealingly at the manager. “He did,” assented that gentleman dryly. “You take very good care of Mr. Mortimer, Wrenn,” he added, in a kinder tone. “I’ve often noticed it.” “Thank you, sir. I try——” “He sent you back for something?” “Yes, sir.” The old servant was clearly anxious and ill at ease, and the answer came falteringly: “A—a letter, sir, that he forgot——” Barrison had already thrust that letter into his own pocket. He knew that Dukane would prefer him not to produce it. As a specimen of handwriting it was worth keeping, in case of possible emergencies in the future. Dukane affected to hunt about on the floor. “Here is the envelope,” he said, giving it to the valet. “I don’t see any letter. Mr. Mortimer must have put it in his pocket; indeed, I think I saw him do so. He seemed a good deal excited, and probably doesn’t remember.” “Yes, sir, but——” Wrenn still hesitated. “That’s all. Go back to your master and say the letter is nowhere to be found. Tell him I said so.” “Yes, sir.” Unwillingly Wrenn walked away. “A decent old chap,” commented Dukane, looking after him. “I can’t understand why he sticks to that ill-tempered rake, but he seems devoted to him.” They went out together, and saw Wrenn say something at the window of the great purring limousine that was waiting in the street at the end of the court. After a minute he got in, and the car moved off immediately.