“Oh, Garry seems all upset, too; but then the more I talk to people, the more I think I’m the only level-headed one in the world.  I haven’t got a bit excited over it, have I?”

“Not a bit.  And now”—­Carroll rose and reached for the check—­“suppose we go?”

“Where?” she asked naively.

The opening was too obvious.

“Where do you usually go with young gentlemen who meet you down-town in the afternoons?”

“Picture show,” she answered frankly.  “Wouldn’t you just adore to see that picture at the Trianon to-day?  They say it’s stupendous!”

“Perhaps.”

They walked up the street together.  On the way they passed Eric Leverage.  That gentleman bowed heavily and stood aside in surprise, while an exclamation, rather profane, issued from his lips.  David Carroll and a seventeen-year-old girl headed for a picture show!  The thing was unbelievable.  Leverage shook his head sadly and passed on as Carroll and Evelyn disappeared behind the din of an orchestrion.

The picture proved not at all bad, although Evelyn excited adverse comment from spectators unfortunate enough to be sitting within range of her constant chatter.  Apparently there was no stopping her.  She talked and talked and talked.

The picture ended eventually, and they left the theater.  Night had descended upon the city, and the busy thoroughfare was studded with thousands of lights, which glared coldly through the December chill.  Principally because he did not know what else to do, Carroll requested permission to take her home in his car.  She accepted with rather disarming alacrity.

Carroll had about run out of conversation, and his ears were tired by the incessant din of the girl’s talk.  He followed her directions mechanically, and eventually they rounded a corner in the heart of the city’s best residential district.  Evelyn designated a white house which stood back in a large yard.

“That’s it,” said she.  “You’d better turn first, so you can park against the curb.”

Carroll slowed down and swung around.  He was tired of the loquacious girl, and anxious to be rid of her; but as he swung his car across the street on the turn, something happened which riveted his attention.

The door of Evelyn’s home opened.  A man and woman stood framed in the doorway.  Then the door closed, and the man descended the steps, moved down the walk to the street, and strode swiftly away.  For perhaps three seconds he had been held clearly in the glare of Carroll’s headlights.

When the detective spoke, it was with an effort to control his tone, to make his question casual.

“Did you see that man, Miss Rogers?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know him?”

“Goodness me, no!  He’s been here before, though.”

Carroll stopped his car at the curb.  He assisted Evelyn to the ground.  Then he made a strange request.