The Wings of Victory by Fred M. White

It needed no great discernment on Sylvia's part to see what had happened. One glance at the empty frame on the mantelpiece confirmed her worst suspicions. Beyond the shadow of a doubt her father had entered the bedroom and taken away the photograph for the express purpose of sending it to his intended victim. It was a cunning scheme altogether, and not the least cunning part of it was the way in which Dorn had lured her on to write the letter, even to the very postscript, so that she should not see the trap. And here she had walked blindly into it, she had rendered herself liable to a criminal charge.

She had seen quite enough of the world lately to know that. Surely her father must have been desperately placed before he would run a risk like this? In all the years that Sylvia had been his unwilling tool in his course of mean crime he had never placed his own hand on paper. Always he has written as if he had been a woman in distress, and invariably Sylvia had been his medium. But this was a different matter altogether. She had not the least idea what type of man this John Bevill was, but if he made inquiries and used that photograph, then there was just a chance that she might have to stand in the dock, and face a prosecution. The mere thought of it was terrible.