Margie felt hope almost desert her soul. “But you don’t intend to keep me here,” she cried. “You have no right to do that.” “I obey orders, never asking any questions.” “Then it is a plot against me. I remember the visit to the café. It was a decoy letter, after all. I went; I fell into the snare and here I am--lost!” “Don’t take such a black view of matters and things,” was the reply. “Mebbe they aren’t quite as dark as you paint them.” “They are dark enough,” said the despairing girl. “You shall not keep me here.” “Very well. Then go.” Margie bounded across the room and caught the doorknob wildly. “Why don’t you open the door?” coolly asked Nora. “Heavens, I cannot!” “That’s the easiest way to find out. No, you can’t get out till I say so.” Margie looked at the woman and then once more at the window between her and the street. “I’ll call for help,” she exclaimed. “All right, miss.” In a moment the poor girl was at the window, but when she drew back the curtain she saw inner shutters of iron. Truly she was in durance. “Why am I here? Surely you will tell me that? What have I done to deserve this fate?” “Wait and see. You want some sleep, don’t you?” “In this terrible house? No!” “But you must take a little rest. Come.” Nora gripped Margie’s wrist and led her from the room. She escorted her upstairs and into a smaller apartment on the floor, where she pointed toward a bed. “Not a particle of sleep till you tell me why I am treated thus,” cried the distracted girl. “Then you’ll remain a long while awake,” was the quick answer. “I’ll tell you nothing.” Margie grew desperate. She darted forward and clutched the woman’s sleeve and looking into her face saw it grow white. “Tell me!” cried Margie. “I am the victim of some awful plot. Is it because I am the detective’s friend?” “The detective?” echoed Nora. “What detective?” “Nicholas Carter.” The name had a magical effect on the woman, for she shrank as far away as Margie’s hand would let her, and for half a minute gazed into the girl’s face. “Where is he?” she cried. “On the trail.” “On what trail?” “On the trail of the hand that stilled Mother Flintstone’s life.” “My God! Can this be true, girl?” “It is true, and because I am Nick’s friend I am here. You know him.” Nora did not speak, but her lips parted in a gasp and she looked away. “You don’t want that man to implicate you in the plot, do you?” asked Margie. No answer. “You don’t want to hang with the balance?” “I won’t; the rope that hangs me isn’t made. The hemp has never grown for that purpose.” “Then let me out of here.” “To tell on me--to go to Carter with the story of where you’ve been?” “I’ll shield you, Nora.” Margie thought she was making headway with her jaileress, but the next moment dispelled her hopes. “Not for the world, girl,” said Nora. “I can’t afford to do that. It would doom me.”