“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 fiancee.  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.