which to work, had seized upon the possibility of Hazel Gresham being the
mysterious woman in the taxicab. Not that they said so openly, but they
said enough to make the public know that the detectives in charge of the
case were likely to investigate her movements on the previous night.

Carroll stepped into a shower, then dressed quickly and ate a light
breakfast served him by his maid, Freda. Before he finished, the doorbell
rang, and Freda announced that there was a lady to see him.

"A lady?"

Freda shrugged.

"She ain't bane nothin' but a girl, sir, Mr. Carroll--just a
little girl."

"Show her in."

In two minutes Freda returned, and behind her came the visitor. Carroll
concealed a smile at sight of her. She was a little thing--sixteen or
seventeen years old, he judged--a fluffy, blond girl quivering with
vivacity; the type of girl who is desperately reaching for maturity,
entirely forgetful of the charms of her adolescence. He rose and bowed in
a serious, courtly manner.

"You wish to see me?"

"Yes, sir, I _do_. Is _this_ Mr. Carroll--the famous detective?"

"I am David Carroll--yes."