“Nicholas Carter.”
The name had a magical effect on the woman, for she shrank as far away as Margie’s hand would let her, and for half a minute gazed into the girl’s face.
“Where is he?” she cried.
“On the trail.”
“On what trail?”
“On the trail of the hand that stilled Mother Flintstone’s life.”
“My God! Can this be true, girl?”
“It is true, and because I am Nick’s friend I am here. You know him.”
Nora did not speak, but her lips parted in a gasp and she looked away.
“You don’t want that man to implicate you in the plot, do you?” asked Margie.