"Absolutely. Because you have treated me discourteously, Lawrence--I don't consider myself justified in injuring your reputation. I am after the person or persons responsible for the death of Roland Warren. Your intimate weaknesses have no interest to either me or the public." Lawrence was silent for awhile, and then--"You're damned white, Carroll. The apologies I extended a moment ago--I repeat. And this time I'm sincere." "And this time they are accepted." "Meanwhile--you are welcome here whenever you wish to call. Perhaps--by talking to me--you yourself may establish the alibi which I know I have, but cannot prove." Carroll rose and bowed. "Thank you. And now--I'll go. If you will express my regrets to Miss Rogers--" Naomi accompanied him to the door. She extended her hand--"You're wrong, Mr. Carroll", she murmured. "Quite wrong!" "You are sure?" "I _know_! I really believe his story." "I hope to--soon. But just now, Mrs. Lawrence--" He saw tears in her fine eyes. "You have nothing to fear from me if he is innocent." She pressed his hand gratefully, and then closed the door. Carroll, inhaling the bracing air of the winter night, proceeded briskly to the curb. Then, standing with one foot on the running board of his car, he stared peculiarly at the big white house standing starkly in the moonlight-- "I wonder," he mused softly--"I wonder--" CHAPTER XIV THE SUIT-CASE AGAIN Carroll drove direct to his apartments, despite his original intention of dropping by headquarters for a chat with Leverage. He wanted to be alone--to think-- The evening had borne fruit beyond his wildest imaginings. Fact had piled upon fact with bewildering rapidity. As yet he had been unable to sort them in his mind, to catalogue each properly, to test for proper value. He reached his apartment and found it warm and comfortable. He donned lounging robe and slippers which the thoughtful Freda had left out for him, settled himself in an easy chair, lighted a fire which he kept always ready in the grate and turned out the lights. Then, with his cigar glowing and great clouds of rich smoke filling the air--he sank into a revelry of thinking. Certain disclosures of the evening stood out with startling clarity. Chief among them was the inevitable belief that Gerald Lawrence had either killed Roland Warren or else knew who had done so--and how it was done. Yet Carroll tried not to allow his thoughts and personal prejudices to run away with him. He knew that now, of all times, he must keep a tight grip on himself. Great as was the dislike which he had conceived for Lawrence--an instinctive repugnance which still obtained--he was grimly determined that he would not be swayed by his emotions. Therefore he deliberately reviewed Lawrence's story in the light of its possible truth.