“You can go now,” said Carter, when he had taken a survey of the apartment. “I will need you to-morrow, Billy. Don’t go far. You can take my lounge if you want a snooze till then.”
The urchin went away, leaving Carter in the hovel where Mother Flintstone lay.
Nick went over the old place with his keen eyes and eager hands.
If he found anything that let some light upon the mystery he did not divulge the secret, and just as day was breaking over the spires of Gotham he came out of the place and walked away.
A few minutes later the police knew of the crime, and a sergeant took possession of the old woman’s abode.
Hell’s Kitchen had a new sensation, and its inhabitants stood about in groups and discussed it.
The sensation was too late for the morning papers, but it would do for the afternoon journals; and as Mother Flintstone was a noted character, half a dozen reporters came to the scene with ready pencils and reportorial noses.
The papers in the afternoon told all there was to tell.
They dished up the past life of the old woman and colored it to suit themselves.
Some had her a woman once respected and wealthy, the wayward daughter of a money king; others said she was related to royalty; none put her down as plain Mother Flintstone—that, you know, being the unvarnished truth, would never do!