A few minutes later the police knew of the crime, and a sergeant took possession of the old woman’s abode. Hell’s Kitchen had a new sensation, and its inhabitants stood about in groups and discussed it. The sensation was too late for the morning papers, but it would do for the afternoon journals; and as Mother Flintstone was a noted character, half a dozen reporters came to the scene with ready pencils and reportorial noses. The papers in the afternoon told all there was to tell. They dished up the past life of the old woman and colored it to suit themselves. Some had her a woman once respected and wealthy, the wayward daughter of a money king; others said she was related to royalty; none put her down as plain Mother Flintstone--that, you know, being the unvarnished truth, would never do! The wasted body was removed to the morgue and the surgeons brought their skill to bear upon the case. All agreed that the old creature had been foully killed by a dagger, and the coroner’s jury added “by some person unknown,” and then turned the matter over to the police. The following night Carter, alone in his room, heard a rap on his door, and he opened it to look into the face of a young woman. He held the door open and the girl--she was no more than this in years--glided into the room. “Lock the door, please,” she said, with an appealing look at the detective. Carter did so and turned to her. His visitor had taken a chair, and in the light he saw how frightened she was and how she trembled. “You haven’t any clew yet?” was her first question. “Clew to what?” “Why, to the murderer of Mother Flintstone.” “Oh, you’re interested in that, are you?” “I am.” “What is your name?” “Yes, I thought you’d want to know that and it’s no more than right that I should tell you. You may call me Margie Marne.” “But that’s not your name.” The girl smiled. “Perhaps not; don’t, for Heaven’s sake, rob me of the only secret I have--my true identity.” “I will not. You shall keep your name. That secret can belong to you as long as you want it, or until you see best to disclose it.” “The time may come when I can speak,” was the reply. “But you haven’t answered my question yet.” “About the clew? It’s a queer case.” “And a dark one?” “Yes.” “No reward has been offered?” “Not a dollar.” “But you want to find out who killed Mother Flintstone, and why.” “I do, and I will find out.” “Thank God!” cried Margie Marne, rising from her chair and seizing Carter’s hands. “That’s the best thing I ever heard a man say.” “What was the old lady to you?” “Don’t ask me. Only find the hand that slew her.” “That’s my mission, as I’ve already told you.” “I’ll reward you,” and she seemed to smile again. “I don’t look like a person of wealth, but I can reward the man who solves this mystery of the tenements. I’m not as poor as I look, not a female Lazarus by any means.” “You don’t look it, either.”