In spite of himself, Spike felt a genial warming toward this boyish-faced man.  He had heard of Carroll, and rather feared his prowess; but now that he was face to face with him, he found himself liking the chap.  Not only that, but he was conscious of a sense of protection, as if Carroll were there for no other purpose than to take care of him, to see that he received a square deal.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Carroll, I’ll be glad to tell you anything I know.”

“You have said, Walters, that the passenger you picked up at the Union Station was a woman.”

“Yes, sir, it was a woman.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why, yes, sir.  I couldn’t very well be mistaken.  You see—­o-o-oh! 
You’re thinking maybe it was a man in woman’s clothes?  Is that it, sir?”

Carroll smiled.

“What do you think?”

“That’s impossible, sir.  It was a woman—­I’d swear to that.”

“Pretty positive, eh?”

“Absolutely, sir.  Besides, take the matter of the overcoat the—­the—­body has on.  Even if what you think was so, sir—­that it was a woman dressed up like a man—­and if he had gotten rid of the women’s clothes, where would he have gotten the clothes to put on?”

“H-m!  Sounds logical.  How about the suit-case you said this woman had?”

“Yonder it is—­right on the front beside me, where it has been all the time.”

“And you tell us that between the time you left the Union Station and the time you got here a man got into the taxicab, was killed by the woman, the woman got out, and you heard nothing?”

“Yes, sir,” said Spike simply.  “Just that, sir.”

“Rather hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.  That’s why I called the police.”  Chief Leverage was shivering under the impact of the winter blasts.

“S’pose we take a look at the bird, David,” he suggested, nodding toward the taxi.  “That might tell us something.”

Carroll nodded.  The men entered the taxi, and Leverage flashed a pocket-torch in the face of the dead man.  Then he uttered an exclamation of surprise not unmixed with horror.

“Good Lord!”

“You know him?” questioned Carroll easily.

“Know him?  I’ll say I do.  Why, man, that’s Roland Warren!”

“Warren!  Roland Warren!  Not the clubman?”

“The very same one, Carroll, an’ none other.  Well, I’m a sonovagun!  Sa-a-ay, something surely has been started here.”  He swung around on the taxi-driver.  “You, Walters!”

“Yes, sir?”

“You are sure the suit-case is still in front?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well”—­to Carroll—­“that makes it easier.  It’s the woman’s suit-case, and if we can’t find out who she is from that, we’re pretty bum, eh?”

“Looks so, Erie.  You’re satisfied”—­this to Walters—­“that that is her suit-case?”

“Absolutely.  It hasn’t been off the front since she handed it to me at the station.”