“Mr. Carroll—­so good of you to come.  I’m simply tickled to death.  Let me have your hat and coat.  Come right into the living room—­I want you to meet my brother-in-law and my sister—­”

Sheepishly, Carroll followed the girl into the room.  Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence rose politely to greet him.

At the sight of the man he had really come to see, Carroll was conscious of an instinctive dislike.  Lawrence was of medium height, slightly stooped and not unpleasing to the eye.  But his brows were inclined to lower and the eyes themselves were set too closely together.  He was dressed plainly—­almost harshly, and he stared at Carroll in a manner bordering on the hostile.

The detective acknowledged the introduction and then turned his gaze upon the woman of the family.  There he met with a surprise as pleasant as his first glance at Lawrence had been unpleasant.

There was no gainsaying the fact that Naomi Lawrence was a beautiful woman.  Dressed simply for an evening at home in a strikingly plain gown of a rich black material, and with her magnificent neck and shoulders rising above the midnight hue—­she caused a spontaneous thrill of masculine admiration to surge through the ordinarily immune visitor in the gray suit.

Her face was almost classic in its contour:  her coloring a rich brunette, her hair blue-black.  No jewelry, save an engagement ring, adorned her perfect beauty, and Carroll felt a loathing at the idea that this magnificent creature was the wife of the stoop-shouldered, sour-faced man who stood scowling by the living room table.

He gravely acknowledged the introduction of the young lady upon whom he had called:  feeling a faint sense of amusement at Lawrence’s overt disdain—­and a considerable embarrassment under Naomi’s questioning, level gaze.  For a few moments they talked casually—­but that did not satisfy Evelyn, and she dragged him into the parlor—­

“—­just the eleganest jazz piece—­” Carroll heard as through a haze “—­just got it—­feet can’t keep still—­play it for you—­”

He found himself standing by the piano, the door between the music room and the living room unaccountably closed.  Evelyn banging out the opening measures of the “elegant jazz piece.”

He was still staring moodily at the closed door when the din ceased and he again heard Evelyn’s voice.  “A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Carroll.  A real honest-to-goodness-spendable penny!”

“I was thinking,” he remarked quietly, “that your sister is a very beautiful woman.”

“Naomi?  Shucks!  She isn’t bad looking—­but she’s old.  Abominably old!  Thirty!”

He glanced down on the girl and smiled.  “That does seem old to you, doesn’t it?”

“Treacherously!  I don’t know what I’d ever do if I was to get that old.  Take up crocheting, probably.”