“It isn’t going to be entirely blind,” postulated Carroll.  “Barker assures us of that!”

CHAPTER XII

A CHALLENGE

At four o’clock the following afternoon Carroll received from Chief Leverage a detailed report on Gerald Lawrence: 

“He’s a manufacturer,” said Leverage.  “President of the Capitol City Woolen Mills.  Rated about a hundred thousand—­maybe a little more.  He’s on the Board of Directors of the Second National.  Has the reputation of being hard, fearless—­and considerable of a grouch.  Age forty-two.

“Married Naomi Rogers about five years ago.  She was twenty-five then—­thirty now.  Supposed to be beautiful—­and would be a society light except that Lawrence doesn’t care for the soup-and-fish stuff.  Report has it that they’re not very happy together.  His parents and hers all dead.  Evelyn, her kid sister, lives with them.

“They employ a cook and two maids.  No man-servant at all.  Roland Warren was pretty intimate at the house, but so far as I can discover there was no scandal linking the names of Warren and Mrs. Lawrence.  Of course, him knowing her pretty intimately and being friendly at the house, you could probably find a good many folks who would say nasty things.  But there hasn’t been the real gossip about her and him that there was about a heap of other women in this town.

“Warren and Lawrence were pretty good friends.  Warren was a stockholder in the woolen mills.  On the other hand it seems as though Warren was at the house a good deal more than just ordinary friendship would have indicated.  But that’s just an idea.  And there’s your dope—­”

“And on the night of the murder?” questioned Carroll.  “Where were they?”

“Mrs. Lawrence was at home.  Lawrence—­if you’re thinking of him in connection with it—­seems to have an iron-clad alibi.  He went to Nashville on a business trip and didn’t get back until the following morning.”

“Alibi, eh?” Carroll’s eyes narrowed speculatively, “are you sure he was in Nashville all that time?”

“Hm-m!” Leverage shook his head.  “I don’t know—­but I can find out.”

Carroll rose.  “Do it please.  And get the dope straight.”

Carroll went to his apartment where he reluctantly commenced dressing for the ordeal of the night.  He felt himself rather ridiculous—­a man of his age calling on a girl not yet out of high school.  The thing was funny—­of course—­but just at the moment the joke was too entirely on him for the full measure of amusement.

At that, he dressed carefully, selecting a new gray suit, a white jersey-silk shirt and a blue necktie for the occasion.  At six-thirty Freda served his dinner and at fifteen minutes after eight o’clock he rang the bell of the Lawrence home.

The door was opened by Evelyn:  palpitant with excitement, and garbed attractively in the demi-toilette of very-young-ladyhood.