But suddenly she started up and calmly invited Carter into the parlor.
The detective accepted and watched her like a hawk, for had not she once faced him with a revolver, and was not this the woman named by “Lewis Newell” on the wall of the dungeon?
Opal Lamont seemed calm now.
She faced the man of many trails and even smiled.
“The murder of Mother Flintstone?” she said, recalling the detective’s words in the hall. “You accuse me of that, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see your proofs, please.”
Carter dived one hand into his bosom and drew forth a little packet, upon which the eyes of Opal Lamont were riveted from the first.
He had never shown this to any one.
No one knew that he found it in an obscure corner of Mother Flintstone’s den the night he went thither with Mulberry Billy, the street waif, and the old woman’s “chum.”