Duvall thanked the man for his information and made his way to the street. Something at least had been gained. The person who was hounding Ruth Morton was a woman.
By this he was not at all surprised. He had felt for some time that Ruth's enemy was, in all probability, some jealous and envious movie actress who, herself unsuccessful, resented the youth and beauty of her successful rival. He called a taxi and directed the driver to take him out to the studio of the company with which Ruth was connected. Here, in all probability, was to be found the woman he sought.
The journey consumed considerably over an hour, and it was lunch time when he finally drew up before the entrance to the series of studio buildings. Before entering he went to a nearby restaurant to get a bite to eat.
It was a small and rather cheap place, but at this hour was crowded with the employees of the big company. Duvall at first could not find a seat, but presently discovered one at a table not far from the door, at which were seated some young men, apparently stenographers or clerks.
While waiting for his order of sandwiches and milk, the detective occupied himself with a newspaper. He was not reading it, however, although he pretended to be deeply engrossed in its contents. He was in reality listening to the gossip of the studio, which rose in a chorus about him.
From a nearby table came the voice of a woman, evidently a great admirer of Ruth Morton.
"I tell you," she said, "that new film that she finished last week, An American Beauty, is going to be a knockout. She's the swellest thing on the screen. Got 'em _all_ faded, _I_ think."
"Think so?" questioned one of her companions. "I'm pretty strong for Helen Ward, myself."
"Ruth Morton won't last," remarked a third, in a petulant voice.
"Course she'll last. Say--ain't that a bear of a title? An American Beauty. She always seems like a beautiful big rose, to me."
"Well, roses don't last, do they?" asked the petulant voice again. "Not very long, anyway."
Duvall turned suddenly in an effort to see the face of the speaker, but try as he would, he was unable to do so. Two of the girls sat with their backs to him. He could not manage to catch a glimpse of either of them. Almost as he turned, the three rose and made their way to the street. For a moment he thought of following them, but the idea seemed absurd. These twelve dollar a week stenographers or clerks could have no part in the plot against Miss Morton. And yet, there was something startling in the young woman's words. "Roses don't last." The telegram received by Ruth Morton that morning had contained almost the same phrase. "Even the beauty of the rose cannot endure." Then he remembered the title of the new film of which the girls had spoken, and smiled at his own suspicions. "An American Beauty." It would be natural, perfectly natural for anyone to refer to Ruth as a rose, with that title for her latest picture. He dismissed the matter from his mind, and proceeded to make a hasty lunch.