“They, Billy? Do you think more than one hand was at work that night?” “I do, Miss Margie,” cried the boy, confidently. “There are two hands in this mystery. Mr. Carter will trip them up in time, see if he don’t.” “Yes, Billy, there is more than a will,” and Margie held the package up before the street boy. “As I’ve told you, it is also the story of Mother Flintstone’s life. Where did you find it, boy?” “Under the hearth.” “The place was not examined by the dark-faced man?” “Exactly! He looked every place else. I found it there safe from him and the rats. Keep it, Margie. No, hide it from that man. He’ll have it or your life if he knows you have it.” Margie placed the packet in her bosom, and looked gratefully at the street boy. “I’ll see that you’re paid for this find,” said she. “I don’t want a penny. I only want ter get ahead of George Richmond and his chum, Claude Lamont, the young sport. They’re into the biggest game of their lives, but we’ll balk ’em all the same, Margie.” The girl expressed the hope that it would turn out thus, and in a short time she was in another part of the city. She wanted to avoid the man into whose hands she had fallen at the Trocadero. She was now confident that this personage was Claude Lamont himself, and she had seen enough of his villainy. Margie Marne carried the precious package home, where she hid it carefully, believing that no human eye could find it, and was satisfied. Night was coming on, and she quitted her humble lodgings, with her hood pulled over her face so as to hide it. She had a visit to make, and soon she reached the room occupied by Carter. Her raps were not answered, and she looked disappointed. When she again reached the street the lamps had been lit, and the girl looked all about her. Thinking of the package she started home, but on a corner not far from Carter’s rooms a hand fell upon her arm. Margie started, and uttered a little cry. She looked around at the same time and into the face of a man, who leered at her with a half-vicious look. “Don’t fly so fast, my bird,” laughed the fellow. “I don’t intend to soil your plumage. You’re Miss Margie Marne, aren’t you?” “What if I am?” “Then you’re the very person I want to see.” “But I don’t want to see any one.” “I suppose not. That’s the way with some girls. I’m Caddy.” “Who’s Caddy?” demanded Margie. “I’m the ‘mixer’ at the Trocadero.” The mention of that name sent a chill through the girl’s nerves, and she fell back. “Don’t mention that horrid place!” she exclaimed. “I know you had a rather unpleasant experience there, but, you see, it wasn’t my fault. I can tell you something that may give you a chance to get even.” “Speak quick, if you can. What is it?” “Let’s drop in here,” and the little man pointed toward a decent-looking restaurant.