“You’ve read the papers—­all about Mr. Warren’s murder, haven’t you?”

“I’ll say I have.”

“What do you think about it?”

Again that startled look in Barker’s eyes.  Again the nervous twitching of hands.

“Whatcha mean, what do I think about it?”

“The woman in the taxicab—­do you think she killed him?”

Barker drew a deep breath.  One might have fancied that it was a sigh of relief.

“Oh, her?  Sure!  She’s the person that killed him!”

“He knew a good many women?” suggested Carroll interrogatively.  “He got along pretty well with them?”

“H-m!” William Barker nodded.  “You said it then, Mr. Carroll.  Mr. Warren—­he was a bird with the women!”

CHAPTER VIII

CARROLL MAKES A MOVE

No slightest move of Warren’s erstwhile valet—­no twitching of facial muscles, no involuntary gesture of nervousness, however slight—­escaped Carroll’s attention; but with all his watchfulness, the boyish-looking investigator was unostentatious, almost retiring in his manner.

And this modest demeanor was having its effect on William Barker, just as Carroll had known it would have, and as Leverage had hoped.  Eric Leverage had worked with Carroll before, and he had seen the man’s personal charm, his sunny smile, his attitude of camaraderie, perform miracles.  People had a way of talking freely to Carroll after he had chatted with them awhile, no matter how bitter the hostility surrounding their first meeting.  Carroll was that way—­he was a student of practical every-day psychology.  He worked to one end—­he endeavored to learn the mental reactions of every one of his dramatis persoae toward the fact of the crime he happened to be investigating; that and, as nearly as possible, their feelings at the moment of the commission of the crime, no matter where they might have been.

“It doesn’t matter what a suspect says,” he had told Leverage once.  “Some of them tell the truth and some of them lie.  Often the truth sounds untrue, while the lies carry all the earmarks of honesty.  It’s a sheer guess on the part of any detective.  What I want to know is how my man felt at the time the crime was committed—­not where he was; and how he feels now about the whole thing.”

“But the facts themselves are important,” argued the practical chief of police.

“Granted!  But when you have facts, you don’t need a detective.  I’d rather have a suspect talk freely and never tell the truth than have him be reticent and stick to a true story.”

Leverage’s reply had been expressive of his opinion of Carroll’s almost uncanny ability.

“Sounds like damned nonsense,” said he; “but it’s never failed you yet.  And even you couldn’t get away with it if you lost that smile of yours!”

Right now he was witnessing the magic of Carroll’s smile.  He had seen the antagonism slowly melt from Barker’s manner.  The nervousness was still there, true; but it seemed tinged with an attitude which was part friendliness toward Carroll and part contempt for his powers.  That, too, was an old story to Leverage.  More than one criminal had tripped over the snag of underrating Carroll’s ability.