“I’ll agree with you on that score, boy,” and the detective put the card in his pocket. “George Richmond never goes out after small game. That’s his record.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the murder of Mother Flintstone?” eagerly questioned the boy.
“Time will tell,” was the detective’s reply. “Do you think he had, Billy?”
“I do, I do,” cried the boy. “Bless me if I kin get the idea out o’ my head. That man either killed Mother Flintstone or he knows who did.”
To this the detective made no reply, and he told the boy to go back to bed.
“Have you struck any clew yet, Mr. Carter?” asked Billy.
“A little one. There, go to bed and let me go to work again.”
“I will, but keep an eye on the man I saw to-night in Mother Flintstone’s house. He needs watchin’ day and night. Good night, Mr. Carter.”
Five minutes later the famous detective was far from Billy’s uncouth abode, and in an entirely different part of the city.
He stopped at last, and looked up at a tall building that seemed to cleave the darkened sky far overhead.