The wasted body was removed to the morgue and the surgeons brought their skill to bear upon the case. All agreed that the old creature had been foully killed by a dagger, and the coroner’s jury added “by some person unknown,” and then turned the matter over to the police.
The following night Carter, alone in his room, heard a rap on his door, and he opened it to look into the face of a young woman. He held the door open and the girl—she was no more than this in years—glided into the room.
“Lock the door, please,” she said, with an appealing look at the detective.
Carter did so and turned to her.
His visitor had taken a chair, and in the light he saw how frightened she was and how she trembled.
“You haven’t any clew yet?” was her first question.
“Clew to what?”
“Why, to the murderer of Mother Flintstone.”
“Oh, you’re interested in that, are you?”
“I am.”