"I hope you are right," said the motion picture man. "Well, I guess I'll go along home. I'll be at the studio first thing in the morning, however, and I suppose you will be there too."
"By all means. I am most curious to see whether our reasoning to-night has been correct."
"Shall I take you to your hotel in my car?"
"No, thanks. I'll take a taxi. Good night."
"Good night."
A few moments later, Duvall was speeding up Fifth Avenue, his brain still puzzling over the curious contradictions which the events of the night had developed. On one point he felt secure, however. He was certain that the woman who had so narrowly escaped him earlier in the evening would not soon again attempt anything against Ruth Morton.
Arrived at his hotel, he asked for his key. The man behind the desk, with a queer look, handed him along with it a slip of paper. On it was written: "Mrs. Bradley wishes Mr. John Bradley to come to her room at the moment he returns."
"When was this message left?" the detective asked.
"Oh—nearly two hours ago. The time is stamped on the back of it, sir."
Duvall turned the card over, and saw from the stamp on the other side that Mrs. Morton had sent for him at half past ten.