Carroll tried to appear disinterested—strove to make his manner casual; jocular even. Evelyn was piecing the threads of circumstances together and the events surrounding the Warren murder were slowly clarifying in Carroll's brain.

But he knew that now, of all times, he must keep her from thinking that he had any particular interest in her chatter. She was completely off guard—and he knew that for his own interests, she must remain so.

So he assumed a bantering attitude—he resorted to what she would have termed "kidding."

"Aren't you the observant young woman, though? Not a single thing escapes your eagle eye, does it?"

She pouted. "Oh! rag me if you want to. But I am terribly noticing.
There ain't many things that happen which I don't get wise to."

"Not even vanishing suit-cases, eh?"

"No: not even that. It was funny about that, though. At first I thought maybe Sis was packing up to go meet Gerald in Nashville—but I figured out that it was bad enough to have to live with him here without chasing all over the country after him."

"You say that suit-case left the house after she packed it?"

"Sure pop."

"Who took it?"

"I don't know. Sis was out a couple of times that day—so I guess she did."

Carroll shrugged. "She was probably sending some of Mr. Lawrence's belongings to him in Nashville."

"Huh! There're some things even a great detective like you don't know. Don't you suppose I noticed that the clothes she was packing in that suit-case were hers?"

"Really?"

"You bet your life, I noticed. You see," she grew suddenly confidential. "There's a certain kind of perfume Sis uses—awful expensive. Roland Warren used to bring it to her. Well, I've been using it too—and Sis never did get wise. I only used it when she did—and when she smelled it, she didn't know that she was smelling what I had on. Well, it isn't likely she was sending that to Gerald, is it?"

"Hardly. But are you sure she packed it?"

"I'll say I am. I saw her do it. And then two days later I saw the bottle on her dressing table again—and so I just naturally looked to see if the suit-case was back and it surely was."

"But perhaps it never left the house?"

"Guess again, Mr. Carroll. I know—because just before I went to Hazel's I hunted all over for it, to get some of that extract myself. And the suit-case wasn't there. Believe me—it's some perfume, too!"

"You say Mr. Warren gave it to her?"

"He sure did. That man wasn't any piker, believe me. It costs twelve dollars an ounce!"

"No?"

"Yeh—goodness knows how much a pound would cost. I used it all the time—I knew when he gave it to Sis he meant it for me—because, like I told you, he was simply crazy about me. Told me so dozens of times. Said he came to see me. It used to bore him terribly when he'd have to sit in the room and talk to Sis and Gerald."

"I fancy it did—" Carroll summoned a waiter—"A little baked Alaska for dessert?"

"Baked Alaska! Oh! boy! you sure spoke a mouthful that time. I'm simply insane over it!"

She evidently had not exaggerated. She absorbed enough of the dessert to have satisfied two growing men. It did Carroll good to witness her frank enjoyment of his luncheon. She glanced at her wrist watch and rose hastily—

"Goodness me, I've simply got to be going."

"Where?"

She made a wry face: "Hazel Gresham's. Honestly, women get queer when they grow up—get older than twenty. Hazel has been acting so peculiarly lately—"

"That's natural, isn't it, Miss Rogers? Her fiancÉ killed—"

"Oh! shucks! I don't mean that. That wouldn't be queer. But there's something else bothering her. And when I try to get her to tell me what it is, she gets right snippy and tells me to mind my own business. And I'll tell you right now, Mr. Carroll—if there's one person in the whole world who always minds their own business—and who doesn't pay the slightest attention to other peoples' affairs—that person is me. I started that a long time ago when I read something some one wrote in a book about how much happier folks could be if they never bothered with other folk's business—and it struck me as awfully logical. And so that's what I've always done. Don't you think I'm sensible?"

"I certainly do. Very sensible. And I'm sorry Miss Gresham isn't feeling well."

"Oh! she feels well enough. She's just acting nutty. And as for when your name is mentioned—O-o-oh!"

"My name?" Carroll was genuinely surprised.

"Yes siree-bob! I started telling her all about what good friends you and I have gotten to be—and would you believe it! she jumped all over me—just like Sis did when I told her—and said I shouldn't associate with professional detectives—and it was immoral—and all that sort of thing."

"Indeed?"

"You bet she did. It was scandalous! Of course I told her what a ducky you are—but she begged me not to go with you any more. I told her she was crazy—because I really don't think there's anything so very terrible about you—do you?"

"At least," smiled Carroll, "I won't eat you. But what you tell me about Miss Gresham is interesting. Why in the world should she be prejudiced against the man who is trying to locate the slayer of her fiancÉ?"

"Ask me something easy. I reckon it's just like I said before: when a woman grows up—gets to be twenty—she gets mentally unbalanced—or something. Honestly, I haven't met a woman over nineteen years of age in the longest time who didn't have a crazy streak in her somewhere. Have you?"

"I'd hardly say that much—" They had crossed the hotel lobby, swung through the doors and were standing on the sidewalk unconsciously braced against the biting wind which shrieked around the corner and cut to the bone, giving the lie to the bright sunshine and its promise of warmth.

"Brrrr!" shivered Evelyn—and Carroll rose eagerly to the hint.

"I'd be delighted to ride you to Miss Gresham's in my car—"

"Would you? That'd be simply splendiferous! And I'd like Hazel to meet you—then she'd know that you're just a regular human being in spite of what everyone says."

During the drive to the Gresham home, which stood on the side of the mountain at the extreme southern end of the city—Evelyn did about a hundred and one per cent of the talking. She blithely discussed everything from the economic effect of the recent election to the campaign against one-piece bathing suits for women: indicating well-defined, if immature opinions on every subject. She informed him that she was delighted with suffrage and opposed to prohibition, that the League of Nations would be all right if only it was not so far away, that she was sincerely of the belief that straight lines would pass out within the year and the girl with the curvy figure have a chance again in the world, that fur coats were all the rage—and he ought to see her sister's—it was the grandest in the city, that—she orated at length on any subject which occurred to her tireless mind; securing his dumb Okeh to her views—and liking him more and more with each passing minute because he treated her seriously: like a full grown woman of twenty—or something.

They pulled up at the curb of the Gresham home. As they did so Garry
Gresham swung out of the gate, paused—and his eyes widened in
astonishment at sight of Carroll. Then he stepped quickly to the curb as
Carroll and the girl alighted.

"Hello, Garry," greeted Evelyn boldly. It was the first time she had ever called him by his first name. But Gresham did not notice. He nodded a curt "Hello, Evelyn" and addressed himself to Carroll—eyes level, manner direct.

"What do you want here, Carroll?"

There was an undertone of earnestness in the young man's words which the detective did not miss. He simulated innocence: "I? Nothing—"

Garry Gresham frowned. "You had no particular reason for coming here?"

"None whatever. Why?"

"I fancied it was peculiar—after your original suspicion of my sister—"

Carroll laughed good-naturedly. "Rid your mind of that, my friend. I merely happened to be downtown with Miss Rogers—and drove her up here in my car. As a matter of fact, if you have no objection, I'd like very much to meet your sister."

"Why?"

"Because she was Roland Warren's fiancÉe. Because she can tell me some things about Warren which no one else can tell me. Because the Warren case is almost as far from solution as it was one minute after the killing occurred."

Gresham thought intensively for a moment. "You can give me your word of honor, Carroll, that you are convinced that my sister is not connected in any way with the crime?"

"I can, Gresham. So far as I now know, your sister has no connection whatever with the case. But she must necessarily be in possession of certain personal details regarding Warren which I'd like to find out."

Gresham started back toward the house. "You may talk to her," he decided briefly—"if she is willing. But I prefer to be present during the interview."

Carroll bowed. "As you will, Gresham."

They walked to the house and Garry led the way to the front hall. Evelyn, considerably piqued at being ignored, took advantage of his disappearance in search of his sister, to open up a broadside of inconsequential chatter before which her previous efforts paled into insignificance. And it was in the midst of her verbal barrage that Gresham appeared at the far end of the hall with his sister.

Carroll was pleasantly surprised. Evelyn's protestations of intimacy with Hazel Gresham had implanted in his mind the impression that she was decidedly of the flapper type. He was glad to find that she was not.

She was not a beautiful girl: rather she belonged in that very desirable category which is labeled "Sweet." There was an attractive wistfulness about her—an undeniable charm, a wholesomeness—the sort of a woman, reflected Carroll instantly, whom a sensible man marries.

There was no hint of affectation about her. Her eyes were a trifle red and swollen and she seemed in the grip of something more than mere excitement. But in her dress there was no ostentation—it was somber, but not black. And she came straight to Carroll—her eyes meeting his squarely—and they mutually acknowledged Evelyn's gushing, but unheard, introduction—

"Miss Gresham—"

"Mr. Carroll—"

They seated themselves about a small table which stood in the center of the reception hall, and even Evelyn sensed the undercurrent of tenseness in the air. Her tongue became reluctantly still although she did break in once with a triumphant—"Ain't he like I told you he was?" to Hazel.

It was Garry who introduced the subject. "Mr. Carroll wants to ask you something about Roland," he said softly—and Carroll, intercepting the look which passed between brother and sister, felt a sense of warmth—a pleasant glow; albeit it was tinged with guilt—as though he had blundered in on something sacred.

The girl's voice came softly in reply: her gaze unwavering.

"What is it you wish to know, Mr. Carroll?"

The detective was momentarily at a loss. He conscripted his entire store of tact—"I don't want to cause you any embarrassment, Miss Gresham—"

"This is no time for equivocation, Mr. Carroll. You may ask me whatever you wish."

"Thank you," he answered gratefully. "You have, of course, heard that there is a woman connected with Mr. Warren's death—the woman in the taxicab."

Her face grew pallid, but she nodded. "Yes. Of course."

He watched her closely—"Have you the slightest idea—the vaguest suspicion—of that woman's identity?"

"No!" she answered—and he knew that she had spoken the truth.

"You have thought of it—of her—a good deal?"

"Naturally."

"Mind you—I'm not asking if you know—I'm merely asking if you have a suspicion."

"I have not—not the faintest."

"You were quite satisfied—pardon the intense personal trend of my questions, Miss Gresham—that during his engagement to you, Mr. Warren was—well, that he was carrying on no affair with another woman?"

"I say, Carroll—" It was Garry Gresham who interrupted and his voice was harsh. But his sister halted him with a little affectionate gesture—

"Mr. Carroll is right, Garry: he must know these things." She turned again to Carroll. "No, Mr. Carroll—I knew of no such affair—nor did I suspect one. When I became engaged to Mr. Warren I placed my trust in him as a gentleman. I still believe in him."

"Yet we know that there was a woman in that cab!"

"No-o. We know that the taxi-driver says there was."

"That's true—"

Hazel Gresham leaned forward: her manner that of a suppliant. "Mr. Carroll—why don't you abandon this horrible investigation? Why aren't you content to let matters rest where they are?"

"I couldn't do that, Miss Gresham."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Warren's murderer is still at large—and as a matter of duty—"

"Duty to whom? I am content to let the matter rest where it is. All of your investigation isn't going to restore Roland to life. You can only cause more misery, more suffering, more heartbreak—"

"It is a duty to the State, Miss Gresham. And, frankly, I cannot understand your attitude—"

"She has had enough—" broke in Garry Gresham. "She's been through hell since—that night."

"I'm afraid, though—"

"Mr. Carroll—you can call it off, if you will." Hazel Gresham rose and paced the room. "The case is in your hands. You can gain nothing by finding the person who committed the—the—deed. Let's drop it. Do me that favor, won't you? Let's consider the whole thing at an end!"

David Carroll was puzzled. But he was honest—"I'm afraid I cannot, Miss
Gresham. I must, at least, try to solve it."

She paused before him: figure tensed—

"Then let me say, Mr. Carroll—that I hope you fail!"