She had seen that face before—seen it in company with Claude Lamont, and she knew that the man was his associate in evil and one of the chief men in the plot against Mother Flintstone and herself.
She sprang up suddenly and ran from the room, shutting the door behind her.
Down on the street she saw no one, though she looked everywhere for a policeman.
Moments were flitting away, and she suddenly thought of Carter.
She knew where he lodged, and she would tell him of her adventure.
In a moment she was on her way, but she was doomed to disappointment; the detective’s door was locked and she could not elicit a response.
Baffled, Margie turned back again.
She had taken up nearly twenty minutes on the streets, and when she reached the vicinity of her humble home she thought of the man left on the floor.
She glided upstairs cautiously, just as if the dead could hear her, but at the door she stopped and listened.
All was still beyond it.