at a woman killed Warren. You seem pretty confident
of that yourself. Well, we happen to know that you know who this woman
was. Who was she?"

For the first time Barker's eyes shifted. "You know as well as me
who she was?"

"Who was she?" Carroll's voice fairly snapped.

"It was--Miss Hazel Gresham!"

Carroll stared at the man. "Listen to me, Barker--you're lying and we
know you're lying. You know as well as we do that Miss Gresham was at her
own home when Warren was killed. I don't want any more lies! Not one! Now
tell us the truth!"

Barker stared first at Carroll--then at Leverage. An expression of doubt
crossed his face. It was patent that these men knew more than he had
credited them. Finally he shrugged his shoulders--

"Well--Mr. Carroll, that bein' the case--I ain't goin' to stick my head
in a noose for nobody!"

"You've decided to tell us the truth!"

"I have."

"You know who killed Roland Warren?"

"Yes--I know who killed Roland Warren!"

"Who was it?"

Barker's face went white. Leverage and Carroll leaned forward
eagerly--nervously. It seemed an eternity before Barker's answer
came--but when it did, his words rang with conviction--he uttered a
name--

"_Mrs. Naomi Lawrence_!"

CHAPTER XVIII

"AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH--"

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 was not that he wanted to--he had fought
himself mentally away from that conviction time after time; had
threshed over every scintilla of evidence, searching futilely for
something which would clear this radiant woman whom he had met but
once. Carroll's interest--however platonic--was intensely personal.
The woman had impressed herself indelibly upon him. It was perhaps her
air of game helplessness; perhaps the stark tragedy which he had seen
reflected in her eyes when he had first entered her home and saw that
she knew why he had come.

And now, driven into the corner which he had hoped to avoid, his
retentive memory brought back a circumstance well-nigh forgott