“He invited it,” said Claude. “He forced it upon himself. They can’t blame me for this thing.” Five minutes later he stood on the street, with the house darkened behind him and the glim of the lamps in his eyes. He looked like Cain; the brand was on his brow. CHAPTER XXXVII. CARTER’S ESCAPE. We left Carter in durance in the dungeon where the strange explosion had taken place. Truly the detective was in the direst straits, and he could not forget the writing on the wall. He did not know who “Lewis Newell” was, and he did not stop to inquire. The sentence said that Opal Lamont, the fair daughter of the millionaire, was responsible for the prisoner’s fate, and this set the detective to thinking. Perhaps the house to which he had been decoyed belonged to Perry Lamont, like another house he knew of. He recalled his visit to the nabob’s mansion, where he had confronted Opal, and he recalled as well her demeanor. That she had revengeful blood he well knew. Her beauty was tigerish. But first of all the detective wanted to get out of the dark place, and he resolved that it should not hold him long. How to get out was the question, but for all this he set about it with all his wits at work. The singular odors arising from the bomb had not overcome him longer than a few minutes, and now the dungeon seemed fairly free of them. Once more he went around the walls and sounded them again. He stooped where he had seen the flash of light as the bomb burst, and found that the wall had yielded. A stone was loosened, and this gave him hope. Beyond the wall must lie liberty. With an energy born of despair Carter toiled until he had made a hole underneath the wall large enough to admit his body, and he did not hesitate to squeeze through it. Beyond the wall sure enough lay freedom, for he felt the cool night air on his cheeks and found himself in a cramped back yard. Out of durance at last, Carter breathed a prayer of thankfulness and filled up the hole. He stood for some little time in the yard, and then cleared the fence which stood between him and the street. Half an hour later he might have been seen to enter Bristol Clara’s house. The woman uttered a cry as she saw him, and pulled him forward. “Thank Heaven!” she cried; “but why didn’t you come sooner?” “I couldn’t. Circumstances prevented,” said the detective, with a grim smile, which Bristol Clara did not understand. “What’s happened, girl?” “Murder!” “Where?” “There!” The woman pointed across the room toward the next house and looked at Carter. “Who committed it?” he asked. “Claude Lamont.” “Then they’re even,” was the detective’s answer. Clara did not reply, but led the detective to the peephole, and bade him look. The room beyond the partition was dimly lighted, but he could see its appointments and single tenant. A man was stretched on the floor, silent and still. “That’s the victim,” said the woman at his side. “Who is he?” “Perry Lamont.”