"For—for the murder of—Roland Warren!"
The detective shook his head. "I don't understand, Miss Gresham. Really I don't. Do you mean to tell me that you were the woman in the taxicab?"
She was biting her lips nervously. "Yes."
"And that you shot Roland Warren?"
"Y-yes—And when I read in the paper that you knew who did it—I came right down here. I didn't want to—to—to be brought down—in a patrol wagon."
"I see—" Wild thoughts were chasing one another through Carroll's brain. He was beginning to see light. "You are quite sure that you killed Mr. Warren?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Why do you doubt me? Don't you suppose that I know whether I killed him? Don't you suppose I can prove that I did it—"
"Yes—I suppose you can. I wonder, Miss Gresham," and Carroll's voice was very, very gentle, "if you would wait in that room yonder for a few minutes?"
"Certainly—" She raised her head pleadingly: "You do believe me, don't you?"
Carroll dodged the issue. "I want to think."