Jack Cray did not feel quite comfortable. It seemed like tempting the woman to betray her own husband—was nothing less, in fact. That was unavoidable, however.
“Well, I hardly know what to ask,” he confessed, desiring to keep her, if possible, from attaching any great importance to his line of inquiry. “Something unusual is keeping Mr. Simpson away, that’s sure, and I’ve got to try to find out what it is. I’m afraid I’m not much of a detective”—he was mentally comparing himself with Nick Carter—“and, therefore, the only thing I can think of doing just now is to ask a lot of questions, and hope to hit upon something of interest before I get through.”
Mrs. Simpson did not look as if this appealed to her in all respects, despite her great desire to have the mystery cleared up.
“Of course, I’m not going to peddle what you tell me all over the office,” Cray hastened to say, noting her look of doubt. “Besides, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’ll try not to seem impertinent, though, or to tire you out, and remember it’s only because we want to find your husband.”
The woman nodded. “I understand,” she said. “Ask me anything you please, and I’ll try to answer it.”
“That’s the way to talk,” Cray commented, and then went on, after a slight pause: “They generally began a long ways back when they’re trying to dope out a thing like this. Suppose we try that method?”
He was playing the part of the novice very well, and it was clear that Mrs. Simpson had no suspicion of his real status. On the contrary, she soon showed signs of impatience, as if she looked upon his questions as boring and pointless. She continued to answer them politely and truthfully, however, and that was all Cray asked.
“You have lived here, in New Pelham, for some years, haven’t you, Mrs. Simpson?” the detective inquired.
“Yes, sir; ten years.”
“But not in this same house?”