"No. But because he is proud: because he is jealous of his personal possessions—of which I am one."
"I see—And Mr. Warren—?"
She spread her hands in a helpless, hopeless gesture. "What's the use, Mr. Carroll? Why, should I wrack myself with the story when you do not even believe the reason upon which it is based? If you only believed me when I tell you that when I got into the taxicab Roland had already been killed—"
"I do believe that," returned Carroll gently.
She inbreathed sharply, then her eyes narrowed a trifle. "Do you mean that—or is it bait to make me talk?"
"I can not do more than repeat my statement. I believe what you have told me."
She held his eyes for a moment, then slowly hers shrank from the contact.
"You are telling me the truth," she ventured.
"And if you will tell me the whole story, Mrs. Lawrence—I shall see what
I can do for you."
"What is there to do for me? There is no way to keep my name from it—my name and the story of the mistake which I made—was willing to make."
"Good God! No."