“Perry Lamont, the millionaire,” was the answer. “They’re all birds of the same feather, even the girl. I had a narrow escape from her, but a miss is just as good as a mile. She may know ere this that I don’t lie dead in the parlor of the old mansion on Cedar Street. I want a place at the peephole to-night, Clara.” “It’s at your service.” “I won’t need it after to-night.” “Are you going to close in on them?” The detective nodded. “Which one did it?” eagerly asked the girl. “Never mind, Clara. I won’t make any mistake.” “Of course not. You never do,” proudly answered the tenant of the house. Carter had set his time, but he could not prophesy what the coming hours were to bring forth. CHAPTER XXXIV. BETWEEN THE WALLS OF DOOM. Shrewd as the detective was, he was destined to meet one who was almost his equal in dexterity and cunning before the hour set for closing in on his quarry came around. When he quitted Bristol Clara’s abode he proceeded to his own quarters, where he desired, for the time, to be alone. The secrets of the trail he kept to himself. If he knew the hand which struck Mother Flintstone down he did not reveal it by word or deed, and, like the experienced tracker, he was silent. Several hours later the detective left the rooms and reappeared on the street. He was within a block of his place when a boy approached him. He extended a letter, which the detective at once took. “Who sent this, boy?” he asked, as he glanced at the superscription. “The leddy, sir.” “But who was the lady?” “Look inside. I guess that tells; ha, ha!” and the messenger whisked around the nearest corner and disappeared. Already the hands of Carter had broken the seal of the missive thus strangely delivered, and in a moment he had read: “Could you spare me five minutes of your valuable time, Mr. Carter? I can make some dark places clear to you. I can enlighten you about some important things. Come secretly, for it is ticklish business. I will be there. Come to Number -- Hester Street. Don’t knock! just open the door and come to the first room on the left of the hall. “SARA P----” Nick Carter read the letter twice before he looked up again. He did not know Sara P----. He had never heard of such a person, and he racked his brain in vain to think who she might be. He did not know what “dark places” she referred to. She might mean some old trail which he had run down, or she might have reference to Mother Flintstone’s taking off. The detective was puzzled. However, he decided to see if there was anything in the affair, to go to the designated number and meet this woman-informer face to face. As no time was set by the strange writer, he took it for granted that she was to be found in the house at any hour, and in a few minutes he was on his way. The detective was always ready to investigate anything that promised to assist him on a trail.