She was strong again, and suddenly catching up a poker which stood near the chair, she placed herself in an attitude of defiance. “You advance at your peril,” she said, in determined tones. “I shall defend myself to the last extremity.” “Against me? Why, girl, you don’t know what you are saying.” “You shall find out if you advance, I say.” He laughed again, and came forward. In an instant the heavy rod was lifted above the girl’s head, and the next second she brought it down with all her might. It was a blow such as a giantess might have delivered, for the man’s lifted arms went down, and he received the full weight of the poker upon his head. He gave one gasp and sank to the floor like one killed outright, and Margie, with the novel weapon still clutched in her hands, looked at him, while a deathly pallor overspread her face. Had she killed him? For a short time she stood there, barely realizing that the whole thing was not a dream, and then she bent over the man. As she touched the beard it came off and fell to the floor beside the face. Margie uttered a scream. 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. 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.