"But she might prove that none of it is true."
"That doesn't make a bit of difference. Gossip pays no attention to a refutation. Leave consideration for Mrs. Lawrence out of it altogether—and figure where Evelyn comes in on the backwash."
"It is tough. But this is a murder case—and, anyway, I don't think she killed Warren."
"Even if she didn't—I fancy she'd rather be convicted of murder—than of what this will lead to. I'm afraid, Leverage. We're trifling with something a good deal more sacred than human life. If Naomi Lawrence is guilty—there's no objection to her suffering. But her kid sister will suffer too—"
"You don't think, Carroll—that she looked like that kind?"
"Good God! no! And even if we prove that she was the woman in the taxicab—that she was going to elope with Warren—it still won't prove that she was that kind. There's something about that husband of hers—meet him, Leverage—meet him! That's the only way you'll have any understanding of my sympathy for the wife."
Leverage rose and walked to the window. He spoke without turning,
"Tough—David; mighty tough. And we've got to do something."
No answer. Carroll had lighted a cigarette and was puffing fiercely upon it. Leverage spoke again softly—
"Haven't we?"
"I suppose we have—"