It seemed curious that the mistress of such a house should find it necessary to do menial labor.
“Not yet, Mrs. Simpson, I’m sorry to say,” Cray answered reluctantly.
The woman sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. There was no longer the slightest room for doubt as to her innocence. Plainly, she knew nothing whatever about the theft, although it might be that some of her worry was due to fear that something of the sort might account for her husband’s unprecedented absence.
“It’s hard lines, Mrs. Simpson,” the detective said sympathetically. “Your husband will turn up pretty soon, though, I’m sure.”
The wife raised her head and hastily wiped her eyes.
“You—you don’t think that he’s dead, then?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Cray hastened to assure her.
“Oh, I do hope you are right, sir!” Mrs. Simpson said fervently. “If he isn’t dead, though, or terribly injured and unable to communicate with me, what can it possibly mean? Have they reported it to the police yet?”
“You mean the office?”