He heard a surprised gasp from Naomi and saw that her face had blanched and that she was leaning forward with eyes wide and hands clutching the arms of the chair in which she had seated herself.
Lawrence leered. "As the kids would say, Carroll—that's for me to know and for you—super-detective that you are—to find out."
Carroll was more at ease now. Lawrence's sneering aggressiveness brought him into his own element and he was hitting straight from the shoulder: refusing pointblank to mince matters.
"I fancy I can," he returned calmly. "And now: is it not a fact that you despised Warren even though you pretended to be his friend?"
"That, too, is my business, Carroll. Do you think I'm going to feed pap to you?"
Carroll reflected carefully for a moment. Then suddenly his voice crackled across the room—"You know, of course, that you are suspected of Warren's murder?"
Silence! Then a forced, sickly grin creased Lawrence's lips—but his figure slumped, almost cringed. From Naomi came a choked gasp—
"Mr. Carroll! Not Gerald—"
Carroll paid no heed to the woman. He sat back in his chair, eyes never for one moment leaving Lawrence's pallid face. Nor did Carroll speak again—he waited. It was Lawrence who broke the silence—
"Is—this—what you—detectives—call the third degree?"