“I had that idea,” responded Carroll slowly.  “But what I can’t understand, Barker, and what you might help me figure out, is this—­why should Miss Gresham kill Mr. Warren?”

“Huh!  Ask me somethin’ easy, will you?  I never was good at riddles.”

Leverage marveled at the change in the two men.  Apparently Carroll had swallowed hook, line, and sinker.  Of course, Leverage was pretty sure that he had not; but he was also sure that Barker thought he had.  And Barker was volunteering information—­plenty of it—­that was absolutely valueless.  For the first time he was forcing the conversational pace, and Carroll seemed serenely content to drag limply along.

“Reckon she might have been jealous of him?” drawled Carroll.

“Jealous?  Maybe.  I ain’t sayin’ she wasn’t.  Of course, she must have heard a good many things about him and other women; and when a woman gets downright jealous there ain’t much sayin’ what she wouldn’t do.  Not that I’m sayin’ Miss Gresham croaked him.  I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ positive; but if you’re askin’ me who he’d most naturally elope with, why I’d say it was the girl he was engaged to marry.  If he wasn’t going to marry her, what did he ever get engaged to her for?”

Carroll nodded.

“Certainly sounds reasonable.”  He paused, and then:  “Where were you about midnight last night?”

“I was”—­Barker’s figure stiffened defensively, and his eyebrows drew down over the deep-set eyes—­“I was just shootin’ some pool.”

“Shooting pool?”

“Un-huh!”

“Where?”

“At Kelly’s place.”

“Where is that?”

The man hesitated, flushed, and then, somewhat sullenly: 

“On Cypress Street.”

“That’s pretty close to the Union Station, isn’t it?”

“Not so close.”

“About how far away?”

Again the momentary hesitation.

“’Bout a half-block.”

“And you were shooting pool there?”

“Sure I was!  I c’n prove it.”

Carroll grinned disengagingly.

“You don’t need to prove anything to me, Barker.  And for goodness’ sake get the idea out of your head that I’m suspecting you of anything.  I had to talk matters over with you.  You knew more about the dead man than any one else; but I couldn’t think you had anything to do with it, could I?  You’re not a woman!”

Barker grinned sheepishly.

“That’s all right, Mr. Carroll.  And as for me bein’ a woman—­well, you’re sure a woman killed him, ain’t you?”

“As sure as any one can be.  And now”—­Carroll rose—­“I’m tremendously obliged for all the information you’ve given me.  Any time you run across anything more that you think might prove of interest, look me up, will you?”

“Sure!  Sure!” Barker’s tone was almost hearty.  “You’re a regular feller, Mr. Carroll—­a regular feller!”

The two detectives departed.  Carroll spoke to Cartwright as he passed: