The Film of Fear

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

"Open the door!" Grace cried. "Something terrible must have occurred!"

The clerk took the pass key with which he had provided himself, and inserted it in the lock. A moment later the door swung open, and the two of them entered the room.

It was in total darkness. Grace clutched at her heart, fearing what she believed the switching on of the lights would reveal. The clerk, without loss of time, pressed the push button near the door. The room was at once flooded with light.

Grace glanced about, then gave a momentary sigh of relief. The room, the small parlor of the suite, was quite vacant. At its further end the door to Ruth Morton's bedroom stood ajar.

With the clerk beside her, Grace hurriedly crossed the room. With a prayer in her heart she pushed open the bedroom door. Her companion at the same moment felt along the door-jamb for the electric switch. In an instant the bedroom lights were turned on.

Then Grace saw that her fears had been fully justified. On the floor, halfway between the door and the bed, lay Ruth Morton, apparently lifeless. Her face was the color of chalk, her eyes were closed. With a cry, Grace fell on her knees beside the unconscious girl and with trembling fingers felt her heart. The clerk, a weak-faced young man, stood gazing at the scene before him in amazed horror.

"She isn't dead!" Grace exclaimed, turning an excited face to him. "Her heart is still beating. Send for a doctor, quick!" Then, taking the unconscious girl in her arms, she lifted her to the bed.

CHAPTER XV

Richard Duvall, realizing that the woman he sought had once more eluded him, was for the moment unable to decide what to do next. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. Apparently this enemy of Ruth Morton's was far more resourceful than he had supposed. She had gotten clear away, and there appeared no means by which he could trace her. That the second cab, the one he had hailed, contained Grace, did not of course occur to him. The trail appeared to be hopelessly lost.

Still, his investigations in Miss Ford's room had not been entirely fruitless, although they had also added a startlingly new element to the mystery of the case. Who was the person who had attacked him from the closet? Was it the woman who had just left the house? He did not think so. Nor was it Miss Ford herself. There had been something uncanny about the whole experience; he was by no means certain that his assailant had been a human being at all. And yet, its cries—its fingers, tearing at his throat. He was unable to account for the experience at all, and determined, as soon as possible, to repeat his visit, and sift the matter to the bottom.