"She ain't bane nothin' but a girl, sir, Mr. Carroll—just a little girl."
"Show her in."
In two minutes Freda returned, and behind her came the visitor. Carroll concealed a smile at sight of her. She was a little thing—sixteen or seventeen years old, he judged—a fluffy, blond girl quivering with vivacity; the type of girl who is desperately reaching for maturity, entirely forgetful of the charms of her adolescence. He rose and bowed in a serious, courtly manner.
"You wish to see me?"
"Yes, sir, I do. Is this Mr. Carroll—the famous detective?"
"I am David Carroll—yes."
She inspected him with frank approval.
"Why, you don't look any more than a boy! I thought you were old and had whiskers—and—and—everything horrid."
"I'm glad you're pleasantly surprised. What can I do for you?"
"Oh, it isn't what you can do for me—it's what I can do for you!"