"Worse than that: the servants don't even live on the place. She spent the night here all alone--!" "Then all I'll say is that she is a brave woman. When did Mr. Lawrence get back from Nashville?" "Oh! not until ten o'clock the following morning. And believe me, he was all excited when he read about Roland in the papers. Poor Roland! If you were only a girl, Mr. Carroll--you'd know how terrible it is to have a man who's crazy about you and engaged to your best friend and everything--go and get himself murdered. Why, when I read the papers that morning, I couldn't hardly believe my own eyes. I just said to myself 'it can't be!' I said it over and over again just like that. Having faith, I think they call it. I was reading in a book once about having faith--" She talked interminably. Carroll ceased to hear the plangent voice. He was thinking of what she had just told him--thinking earnestly. He knew he was desperately anxious to have a talk with the Lawrences, to talk things over in a casual manner. And tonight was his opportunity. He knew he'd never have another like it. He didn't want to be forced to seek them out in his capacity of detective. From somewhere in the rear of the house he heard the clamor of a doorbell, then the sound of footsteps in the hall, the opening and closing of the front door--and then Naomi Lawrence appeared in the music room. Carroll could have sworn that her eyes were twinkling with amusement as she addressed Evelyn--pointedly ignoring him. "Evelyn--that Somerville boy is here." "Oh! bother! What's he doin' here?" "He says he came to call. He's got a box of candy." "Piffle! What do I care about candy? He's just a kid!" Naomi went to the hall door. "Right this way, Charley." And as the slender, overdressed young gentleman of nineteen entered the room, Carroll again glimpsed the light of amusement in Naomi's eyes. Mr. Charley Somerville expressed himself as being "Pleaset'meetcha" and tried to conceal his vast admiration when Evelyn informed him that this was _the_ David Carroll. Charley was impressed but he was not particular about showing it--Charley fancying himself considerable of a cosmopolite, thanks to a year at Yale. His dignity was excruciatingly funny to Carroll as the very young man seated himself, crossed one elongated and unbelievably skinny leg over the other and arranged the creases so that they were in the very middle. "A-a-ah! Taking a vacation from your work on the Warren murder case, I presume?" Carroll nodded. "Yes--for awhile." "Detective work must be a terrible bore--mustn't it?" "Sometimes," answered Carroll significantly. "Charley Somerville!" Evelyn flamed to the defense of her friend's profession. "At least Mr. Carroll ain't--isn't--a college freshman." "I'm a sophomore," asserted Charley languidly. "Passed all of my exams." "Anyway," snapped Evelyn, "he ain't any kid!"