Carroll was more than amused; he was keenly interested. He motioned his visitor to a chair and seated himself opposite, regarding her quizzically.

She was not exactly the type of person he had anticipated encountering in a murder investigation. From the tip of her pert little hat to the toes of her ultra-fashionable shoes she was expressive of the independent rising generation—a generation wiser in the ways of the world than that from which it was sprung—a generation strangely bereft of genuine youth, yet charming in an entirely modern and unique manner.

She was obviously a young person of italics, a human exclamation-point, enthusiastic, irrepressible. She sat fidgeting in her chair, trying her best to convince the detective that she was a woman grown.

"I'm Evelyn Rogers," she gushed. "I'm the sister of Naomi Lawrence—you know her, of course. She's one of the city's social leaders. Of course, she's kind of frumpy and terribly old. She must be—why, I suppose she's every bit of thirty! And that's simply awful!"

"I'm thirty-eight," smiled Carroll.

"No?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Well, you don't look it. You don't look a day over twenty-two, and I think men who are really grown up and yet look like boys are simply adorable! I do, really. And I simply despise boys of twenty-two who try to look like thirty-eight. Don't you?"

"M-m! Not always."

"Well, I do! They're always putting on airs and trying to make us girls think they're full-grown. I just simply haven't time to waste with them. I feel so old!"

"I haven't a doubt of it, Miss Rogers. And now—I believe you came to tell me something about the Warren case?"

"Oh, yes, indeed—just lots! But do you know"—she stared at him with frank approval—"I'm terribly tickled with the way you look. You may not believe it, but I've always been atrociously in love with you."

"No?"

"Yes, indeed! You're such a wonderful man—having your name in the papers all the time. Oh, I've read about everything you've done! That's how I learned so much about detectiving—or isn't that what you call it?"

"Detecting?"

"That's it. You know I always was simply incorrigible in making up words when I couldn't think of the right one. Don't you think it's a lot of trouble sometimes—thinking of just the right word in the right place?"

"Sometimes. But about the Warren case?"

"Oh, yes, certainly! I'm always getting off my subject, ain't I? I mean—am I not? Bother grammar, anyway. It's a terrible bore, don't you think?"

"Yes, Miss Rogers. And now—"

"Back to that awful crime again, aren't you? It's simply sugary the way you great detectives stick to one subject. I can do it, too, when I have to. I took some lessons once in power of will—concentration and all that sort of thing. It made me feel wickedly old; but I learned a great deal about keeping my mind on one subject all the time. You know, it doesn't matter what you concentrate on—even if it's only making biscuits, or something messy and domestic like that—it does you good. It trains you not to waste words, and to store up your mental energy, and all that sort of thing. And all the time I was studying that course, I was thinking how perfectly glorious modern science is. Just suppose Shakespeare had been able to concentrate like us moderns can! His plays would have been utterly marvelous, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose they would. And now let's try concentrating on the
Warren case."

"That's what I've been leading up to. You see, I knew Mr. Warren very well. In fact, he was awfully friendly with me. To tell you the strict truth, and absolutely in confidence, I really believe he was in love with me!"

"No?"

"Yes, truly! We women have a way of knowing when a man is in love with us. He used to be around at the house all the time. Of course, he pretended that he came around because he liked Sis and Gerald—"

"Gerald?"

"That's Mr. Lawrence. He's my brother-in-law—Sis's husband. Insufferably old-timy. Don't think of anything but business. Used to look at me through his horn-rimmed glasses and say I was entirely too young to be receiving attentions from a man as old as Mr. Warren; but he didn't know. I'm not young, really, you know. Of course, I'm not twenty yet, but a girl can be under twenty and yet be a woman, can't she?"

"Yes"—dryly—"especially after she learns to concentrate."

"And as intimately as I knew Roland—that's Mr. Warren, you know—of course I didn't call him Roland to his face. Not that he didn't want me to, but then Sis and Gerald would have disapproved—old frumps! Knowing him so intimately, and really believing that he was in love with me—although, of course, the minute he became engaged to Hazel Gresham I didn't even flirt with him any more—not the least little tiny harmless bit well, I find it excruciatingly hard to believe that he is dead!"

"He is—quite. We're trying to discover who killed him."

"I know it. That's what I came to see you about."

"So you did. I'd quite forgotten—"

"You ought to learn to concentrate, Mr. Carroll. It's really ridiculously easy after you've studied it a little bit. Now if I had been you, and you had been I—me—I never would have forgotten what you came to see me about. Of course, I know you didn't forget, really; but the chances are that you were interested talking, and absolutely failed to remember that poor boy."

"What poor boy?"

"Roland Warren."

Carroll with difficulty concealed a smile.

"I see! And now that I've remembered him again, suppose you tell me what you know about him and the case?"

"It's principally about what I read in the papers this morning. Really, Mr. Carroll, there ought to be a law against newspapers printing such ridiculous things!"

"As what, for instance?"

"That thing they had in there this morning. Why, the way they mentioned Hazel Gresham, you'd have thought that they thought she was the woman who killed Roland—the woman in the taxicab."

Carroll's eyes narrowed slightly. The faint smile still played about his lips.

"You don't think she was?"

"Oh, Mr. Carroll! Please, please, don't be so irresistibly absurd!
Why in the world should Hazel kill the man she was engaged to?"

"I don't know."

"And besides, what does she know about killing some one? That is the most bizarre idea I have ever heard in all my life. Besides, she couldn't have killed him, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Even if she'd wanted to, she couldn't; and I'm sure she didn't want to. Not that I think Roland Warren was the finest man in the world, or anything like that. Of course, I do believe he was interested in me, and that made me know him pretty well; but still he was an awfully nice boy, and I'm sure Hazel was very much in love with him. So even if she could have killed him, she wouldn't, would she?"

"I hope not; but you said she couldn't. What did you mean by that?"

"I mean that nobody can be in two places at one time. Although I did read a funny article in the Sunday magazine section of one of the big newspapers, last year, which said that—"

"If Miss Gresham had been with Mr. Warren last night at midnight—she would have been in two places at one time!"

"Why, yes—and that's not possible; so, of course, she—"

"What makes you think that, Miss Rogers!"

"Think what?"

"That Miss Gresham was not with Mr. Warren at midnight last night?"

"Why," answered Evelyn Rogers simply, "I know she wasn't—that's all."

"You know?"

"Yes, indeed—beyond the what-you-call-'em of a doubt."

"How do you know that?"

"It's very simple," she explained casually. "She was with me all night."

Carroll gazed at the girl before him with new interest. Out of her chatter he had at last garnered one important fact. His mind, trained to seize upon the vital and instantly discard the inconsequential, clutched the bit of information, and turned it over. From the first Carroll had scouted the idea that the dead man's fiancee might have been responsible for his death; but still it was a line of investigation which demanded examination, and his pretty young visitor was making that road exceedingly simple. He injected all the warmth of his friendly, sunny nature in the smile which he bestowed upon her.

"You have helped me tremendously with that piece of information,
Miss Rogers."

"I don't see how, particularly. No one with any sense—provided they knew Hazel, of course—could even imagine her killing any one, and least of all an adorable boy like Roland. She was so much in love with him!"

"Of course, I haven't the pleasure of Miss Gresham's acquaintance."

"Of course not. You'll have to meet her, though. She's a darling! Naturally, she's all broken up this morning because her wedding date was all set. Now all her plans have gone smash, and she really was terribly fond—"

"You say you spent the night with Miss Gresham?"

"Certainly, and—"

"Where?"

"At her house."

"And you are sure she was there all night?"

"Of course! We slept in the same bed—and that's certainly proof enough, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"You suppose? My goodness gracious! Don't you know?"

"Well—yes. If you're sure—"

"Why, my dear Mr. Carroll, we didn't even actually go to bed until a quarter before twelve. At ten o'clock we made some waffles downstairs—Hazel has just bought a perfectly darling aluminum electric waffle-iron. It makes the most toothsome waffles—all crisp and everything. And you know when you use aluminum you don't need any grease, so that makes the waffles much nicer. I'm getting horribly domestic since Hazel became engaged, because she is learning—"

"And after you made the waffles?"

"Oh! After that we went up-stairs to her room, and put on our kimonos, and had a heart-to-heart talk. I can't tell you what we talked about, because sometimes—well, it was atrociously risquÉ—as women will, you know, and—"

"At a quarter before twelve you were still sitting up talking, and you had your kimonos on?"

"Yes, and—oh, you just ought to see Hazel's new kimono—pink crÊpe de chine, trimmed with satin. She looks simply ravishing in it. I told Sis I wanted one like it, but—"

"And then you went to bed?"

"Yes, just about then."

"You are sure Miss Gresham didn't get up!"

"Oh, I'm positive she didn't! I didn't get to sleep until after one o'clock, anyway, and I would have known."

"You've given me some valuable information, Miss Rogers; and I'll see to it that the newspapers correct any impression they may have left that Miss Gresham might have been connected with the crime. Meanwhile"—he rose—"I'm a bit overdue down at headquarters; so if you'll excuse me—"

Evelyn Rogers rose and stood before him. Her pretty little face was eager.

"I've really helped you, Mr. Carroll?"

"Enormously."

"Well, I wonder—you know I'm just fiendishly anxious to be helpful in the world—I wonder if you'd let me help you some more?"

"I'd be delighted."

"Would you really?"

"Really!"

"And I can come to you any time to talk things over?"

"Whenever you get ready."

She clapped her hands.

"That's simply exquisite! You know, Mr. Carroll, I'm just simply crazy about you! I always have been, but I'm more so now than ever—just hopelessly!"

"Thank you."

She made her way to the door. There she turned, and there was a peculiar light in her eyes.

"Mr. Carroll!"

"Yes?"

"I wish you had been nineteen years old just now."

"Why?"

"Because," she flashed, "if you had been nineteen years old when I told you what I did, you would have kissed me!"