The barren trees which lined the broad deserted thoroughfare jutted starkly into the night, waving their menacing, ice-crusted arms. The December gale, sweeping westward, shrieked through the glistening branches. It shrieked warning and horror, howled and sighed, sighed and howled. Spike Walters felt suddenly ill. He forgot the cold, and was conscious of a fear which acted like a temporary anesthesia. For a few seconds he stood staring, until the match which he held burned out and scorched the f

The thing was incomprehensible, yet true. Not a single article of feminine apparel was contained in the suit-case. Not only that, but every garment therein which bore an identification mark was the property of Roland Warren, the man whose body leered at them from the floor of the taxicab. The two detectives again inspected the suit-case. An extra suit had been neatly folded. The pockets bore the label of a leading tailor, and the name "Roland R. Warren." The tailor-made shirts and underwear bore

Carroll gazed intently upon the face of the dead man. There was a half quizzical light in the detective's eyes as he spoke, apparently to no one. "I've often thought," he said, "in a case like this, how much simpler things would be if the murdered man could talk." "H-m!" rejoined the practical Leverage. "If he could, he wouldn't be dead." "Perhaps you're right. And following that to a logical conclusion, if he were not dead we wouldn't be particularly interested in what he had to say." "All of w

Carroll was more than amused; he was keenly interested. He motioned his visitor to a chair and seated himself opposite, regarding her quizzically. She was not exactly the type of person he had anticipated encountering in a murder investigation. From the tip of her pert little hat to the toes of her ultra-fashionable shoes she was expressive of the independent rising generation—a generation wiser in the ways of the world than that from which it was sprung—a generation strangely bereft of genuine

For a long time after Evelyn departed, Carroll remained seated, puffing amusedly on the cigar which followed his matutinal cigarette. Time had been long since the detective had come in contact with so much youthful spontaneity, and he found the experience refreshing. Then he rose and would have left the apartment for headquarters, but again Freda announced a caller. "Another young lady?" questioned Carroll. "No, sir. It bane young feller." "Show him in." The visitor entered, and Carroll found hi

There was a triumphant ring to Leverage's statement that the dead man's valet had been discharged at some time during the twenty-four hours which immediately preceded the killing. It was as if his instinct recognized a combination of circumstances which could not be ignored. Carroll looked up interestedly. "Have you talked to this fellow?" "No. I figured I'd better leave that phase of it to you; but I'm having him watched. Cartwright is on the job. Right now the man is at his boarding-place on L

No slightest move of Warren's erstwhile valet—no twitching of facial muscles, no involuntary gesture of nervousness, however slight—escaped Carroll's attention; but with all his watchfulness, the boyish-looking investigator was unostentatious, almost retiring in his manner. And this modest demeanor was having its effect on William Barker, just as Carroll had known it would have, and as Leverage had hoped. Eric Leverage had worked with Carroll before, and he had seen the man's personal charm, his

They drove in silence to headquarters, each man busy with his thoughts. It was not until they were alone in Leverage's sanctum that the subject of the recent interview was again broached. It was Leverage who brought it up, in his characteristically gruff way. "I reckon you're wonderin', Carroll, about what I said back yonder in the car?" "About arresting Barker?" "Yes. I guess you're figuring what I'd arrest him for, eh?" "I'm interested—yes." "I'd arrest him for this." Leverage leaned forward e

If Evelyn Rogers, amply clad as to fur around the neck but somewhat under-dressed as to lace stockings about the legs, had desired to create a sensation among her friends, she more than succeeded. She preceded Carroll into the place, her eyes glowing pridefully, skirted the table at which her friends sat, then stopped abruptly, forcing Carroll to do likewise. "Mr. Carroll," she said sweetly, "I want to introduce you to my friends." She called them by name. "Girls, this is Mr. Carroll, the famous

Carroll's forehead was seamed with thought as he turned his car townward and sent it hurtling through the frosty air. He drove mechanically, scarcely knowing what he was doing. He was frankly puzzled, enormously surprised and not a little startled. The afternoon had been at first amusing, then interesting—then utterly boring. Evelyn's chatter had put him in a state of mental coma—a lethargy from which he had been rudely aroused at sight of William Barker leaving the residence of Evelyn Rogers' s

At four o'clock the following afternoon Carroll received from Chief Leverage a detailed report on Gerald Lawrence: "He's a manufacturer," said Leverage. "President of the Capitol City Woolen Mills. Rated about a hundred thousand—maybe a little more. He's on the Board of Directors of the Second National. Has the reputation of being hard, fearless—and considerable of a grouch. Age forty-two. "Married Naomi Rogers about five years ago. She was twenty-five then—thirty now. Supposed to be beautiful—a

Carroll was rarely thrown from a mental balance, but this was one of the exceptions to a rule of conduct where poise was essential. His eyes half-closed in their clash with the coldly antagonistic orbs of his host. His instinctive dislike of the man flamed into open anger and he controlled himself with an effort. One thing Lawrence had done: he had stripped from Carroll his disguise as a casual caller and settled down ominously to brass tacks. Carroll shrugged, forced a smile—then glanced at Nao

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 ha

Carroll tried to appear disinterested—strove to make his manner casual; jocular even. Evelyn was piecing the threads of circumstances together and the events surrounding the Warren murder were slowly clarifying in Carroll's brain. But he knew that now, of all times, he must keep her from thinking that he had any particular interest in her chatter. She was completely off guard—and he knew that for his own interests, she must remain so. So he assumed a bantering attitude—he resorted to what she wo

From the Gresham home, David Carroll went straight to headquarters. Developments had been tumbling over each other so fast that he found himself unable to sort them properly. He wanted to talk the thing over with someone, to place each new lead in the investigation under the microscope in an attempt to discern its true value in relation to the killing of Roland Warren. Eric Leverage was the one man to whom he could talk. And, locked in the Chief's office, he told all that he knew about the case,

The men looked at each other in silence for a minute. Leverage was sorry for Carroll—sorry because he knew that Carroll was disappointed, that the boyish detective had hoped against hope that the trail would lead to some person other than the flaming creature who was Gerald Lawrence's wife. It was not that Carroll had become infatuated with her. It was merely that he liked her—liked her sincerely—and was sorry for her. The conclusions to be inevitably reached from the premise that Naomi was the

Barker's words reverberated through the room—to be succeeded by an almost unnatural stillness; a silence punctured by the ticking of the cheap clock on the mantel, by the crackling of the flames in the grate, by the whistling of the wind around the corners of the gaunt gray stone building which housed the police department. The accused man looked eagerly upon the faces of the two detectives; then, slowly, his chest expanded with relief: he saw that they believed him. And Carroll did believe. It

Long after William Barker left the room—held in custody under special guard—David Carroll and Chief of Police Eric Leverage maintained a thoughtful silence. Leverage wanted to talk—but refused to be the first to broach the subject which each knew was uppermost in the mind of the other. And it was Carroll who spoke first— "Well, Eric," he said dully, "you called the turn that time." "Reckon I did, David." "It looks mighty bad for Mrs. Lawrence—mighty bad." He hesitated. "I wonder whether Barker t

"—Already dead!" Carroll did not know if his lips framed the words or if the walls of the room had echoed. He was startled at a time when he fancied that there could be no further surprise in store for him. He found himself eyeing the woman and he wondered that he gave credence to her statement. Naomi was sitting straight, large black eyes dilated, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly, lips slightly parted. Even under the stress of the moment Carroll was actually conscious of her feminin

For a moment she was silent. It was patent that she was groping desperately for the correct thing to say. And finally she extended a pleading hand— "Please—don't think that!" "What?" "That is was—was my husband. He wouldn't—" "Why not?" "Anyway—it is impossible. He was in Nashville. He didn't get home until morning." Carroll shook his head. "I hope he can prove he was in Nashville. We have tried to prove it, and we cannot. And you must admit, Mrs. Lawrence, that had he known what you planned he

Within an hour Garry Gresham appeared at headquarters in the company of Cartwright. The officer left the room and the three men were alone. Gresham's manner was nervous, but he showed no fright. Leverage, regarding him keenly, found reason to doubt Carroll's positive statement that Gresham was the person they sought. The young man stood facing them bravely, waiting— "Gresham," said Carroll softly, "Your sister is in that room yonder. She read the afternoon paper—the report that I knew who killed