“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!”

CHAPTER VI

REGARDING ROLAND WARREN

For a long time after Evelyn departed, Carroll remained seated, puffing amusedly on the cigar which followed his matutinal cigarette.  Time had been long since the detective had come in contact with so much youthful spontaneity, and he found the experience refreshing.  Then he rose and would have left the apartment for headquarters, but again Freda announced a caller.

“Another young lady?” questioned Carroll.

“No, sir.  It bane young feller.”

“Show him in.”

The visitor entered, and Carroll found himself gazing into the level eyes of a slightly disheveled and obviously excited young man of about twenty-eight years of age.  The man was slight of stature, but every nervous gesture bespoke wiriness.

“Are you Mr. Carroll?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Gresham—­Garrison Gresham.”

“A-a-ah!  Won’t you be seated!”

“Yes.  I came to have a talk with you.”

Carroll seated himself opposite his caller.  Then he nodded.

“You came to see me?”

“About the Warren case.”

“You know something about it?”

“Yes!” The young man seemed to bite the word.  “I do.”

“What?”

“You’re in charge of the case, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen this morning’s papers?”

“I have.”

“Well, they’re rotten—­absolutely rotten.  They don’t say it in so many words, but the impression they create is that my sister, Hazel, was the woman in the taxi who killed Roland Warren.  It’s a damned lie!”