Margie put on a bold front, and opened the portal.
The first look seemed to root her to the spot.
The room was untenanted.
No one lay on the floor, and the little place, with this exception, seemed just as she left it.
The man, her victim, was gone.
“Thank Heaven! his blood is not on my hands, rascal though he was!” exclaimed Margie Marne, as she leaped across the threshold and shut the door behind her.
If she had returned a little sooner she might have caught sight of her would-be robber.
She might have seen a man come out of the house, with his hat drawn over his brows and the brown beard awry.
This individual hurried away, nor looked he back, as if he thought he was not safe from molestation, and his gait told how eager he was to get out of the neighborhood.
A few minutes later he turned up in a certain house in another part of the city, and dropped into a chair as the tenant of the room demanded to know if he had been in a prize fight.