“Nor any apologies to him from you, Naomi.  Carroll has placed himself beyond the pale by what he has done in having the impertinence to foist himself upon us as a social equal.  Now, Carroll—­are you ready with your little catechism?”

“Yes.”  The detective’s voice was quite calm.  “I’m quite ready.”

“Well—­ask.”  Lawrence paused.  “You did come here to inquire about Warren, didn’t you?”

Carroll could not forbear a dig:  “I trust that you are not putting it upon me to deny your statement to that effect.”

“I don’t give a damn what you deny or affirm.”

“Good!  Then we know all about each other, don’t we.  You know that I am a detective in search of information and I know absolutely what you are!” That dart went home—­Lawrence squirmed.  “So I’ll come right to the point.  Is it not a fact that you were in this city at the hour Roland Warren is supposed to have been killed?”

He heard a surprised gasp from Naomi and saw that her face had blanched and that she was leaning forward with eyes wide and hands clutching the arms of the chair in which she had seated herself.

Lawrence leered.  “As the kids would say, Carroll—­that’s for me to know and for you—­super-detective that you are—­to find out.”

Carroll was more at ease now.  Lawrence’s sneering aggressiveness brought him into his own element and he was hitting straight from the shoulder:  refusing pointblank to mince matters.

“I fancy I can,” he returned calmly.  “And now:  is it not a fact that you despised Warren even though you pretended to be his friend?”

“That, too, is my business, Carroll.  Do you think I’m going to feed pap to you?”

Carroll reflected carefully for a moment.  Then suddenly his voice crackled across the room—­“You know, of course, that you are suspected of Warren’s murder?”

Silence!  Then a forced, sickly grin creased Lawrence’s lips—­but his figure slumped, almost cringed.  From Naomi came a choked gasp—­

“Mr. Carroll!  Not Gerald—­”

Carroll paid no heed to the woman.  He sat back in his chair, eyes never for one moment leaving Lawrence’s pallid face.  Nor did Carroll speak again—­he waited.  It was Lawrence who broke the silence—­

“Is—­this—­what you—­detectives—­call the third degree?”

“It is not.  Now get this straight, Lawrence—­I came here to find out what you know about Warren and the circumstances surrounding his death.  I wanted to be decent about the thing—­to cause you no embarrassment if I was convinced that you were unconnected with the crime.  You have forced my hand.  You have driven me to methods which I abhor—­”

“You haven’t a thing on me,” said Lawrence and his tone had degenerated into a half whine.  “You can’t scare me a little bit.  I’ve got an alibi—­”

“Certainly you have.  So, too, have a good many men who have eventually been proven guilty.”