"Yes," she answered eagerly: almost too eagerly Carroll thought—"he has had escapades like this—several times."
"And you are sure that his story is true?"
"Yes. Of course I'm sure. Why should he kill Mr. Warren? There isn't any reason in the world—"
"For your sake and his, I hope not. But meanwhile—"
"Surely, Mr. Carroll—you don't intend publishing what he has told you—about his drinking—alone—in Nashville?"
Carroll smiled. "No indeed. In the first place, I am not at all sure that he has told me the truth. In the second place, if I were sure of it—his alibi would be established and I have no desire whatever to injure a man because of a personal weakness."
Lawrence stared at Carroll peculiarly. "You mean that if I can prove the truth of my story, nothing will be made public about my—the affair—in Nashville?"
"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."