“She is.”
“When did her death take place?”
“Some twenty years ago.”
A faint smile came to the detective’s face, and for half a second he looked searchingly into Lamont’s.
“Why try to deceive me?” he said. “You know that this sister died within the last few days.”
“What’s that?” and the millionaire almost started from his chair, while his hands clutched the sides of it like a madman.
“She died by violence,” coolly continued the detective. “She was murdered—not for her money, for she hadn’t much. But she was killed all the same.”
“I can’t believe that,” cried Lamont.
“Nevertheless it is true. Mother Flintstone was your sister, Mr. Lamont.”
“That old hag? Impossible!”