“But this man will find out. He intends to discover the hand that took the old woman’s life. The murderer never escapes Nick Carter. He is doomed from the moment the trail is found.” “I know him.” “Then you don’t want to be dragged into his net. I am more than Margie Marne. I have another name, as I verily believe, and the man who brought me here knows that.” “I cannot say.” “It is the foulest plot ever hatched in this or any other city. Look here: Mother Flintstone lived alone in squalor and apparent poverty. One night she is killed--stabbed in the neck. Why was the life of the old woman taken? Who was the man who came back to the window, back to the scene of his crime to be discovered by little Billy, the street rat? What was Mother Flintstone to that man?” “Was he the murderer?” asked Nora. “If not, why did he come there? As I live, I believe that man has Mother Flintstone’s blood on his hands.” “I don’t know,” she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. “But go to sleep, girl. I can’t let you out.” In another moment Margie was alone, for the woman had broken from her grasp, and the girl heard her footsteps on the stairs beyond the room. “I see. This woman is merely the tool of the plotters,” thought the detective’s fair friend. “She serves them, while she fears Mr. Carter. Nora knows the detective, but she stands by the man who brought me to this place.” The girl did not dream of going to bed. She went to the window, and found it shuttered like the one in the lower room. The old house was a prison, which seemed as solid as the Bastille, and at last Margie came away from the window. An hour passed. She heard footsteps come up the stairs and stop at the door. It was Nora coming back to see if she was asleep, and in a few seconds the steps receded. At last she threw herself upon the bed, and, wearied out, fell into a dreamless slumber. Suddenly, however, she opened her eyes, and then bounded from the couch. Smoke which seemed to pour into the room over the door almost suffocated her. She shrieked for help, she beat the door with her hands, she was here, there, everywhere. But no help came, and as the walls of the little room grew hot Margie Marne fell senseless and hopeless to the floor. CHAPTER XXIII. CARTER AND HIS QUARRY. It looked like a diabolical plot to make way with the girl who had interested herself in the death of Mother Flintstone. Margie cried again for help, but none seemed to come. She heard the roar of flames just beyond the door, and knew that it was locked. Seconds seemed hours to the doomed maiden, and she felt her strength leave her. Suddenly there was a crash, and some one broke into the room. Margie tried to rise, but her powers could not stand the strain, and she fell back once more. She felt some one lift her from the bed and carry her from the room. She heard voices as in a dream, she felt smoke and flame in her face, and then a rush of cold air. Was she saved?