“Oh, no, Mr. Jones. This has only been built a few months, and we were hardly settled, when my husband disappeared. We lived right in the village until recently.”
“Mr. Simpson is buying this on installment, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. We have always rented until now, but he has long wanted to have a place of his own, and just lately he decided that he could afford it. It didn’t seem possible to me at first, but my husband’s salary had just been raised, and they had given him quite a lump sum, I believe, for the extra work entailed in handling this relief fund.”
The woman’s eyes were on Cray now, and there was a troubled, searching expression in them.
He nodded—there did not seem to be anything else to do. “Naturally, that would have made a difference,” he agreed, and was glad to see that Mrs. Simpson looked relieved. Apparently she had feared that he might deny the raise and the bonus.
“What a pity this should have happened just after you had moved into your new house!” he went on. “I hope Mr. Simpson hasn’t shouldered more than he can carry. That might explain it, you know. Possibly he has gone away in a fit of discouragement, after finding that the place would cost him more than he could afford. Real-estate people sometimes hold back essential facts, you know, in order to get a man’s signature to a contract.”
But he saw that that was a hardly less disturbing possibility in the woman’s eyes, and hastened to turn her thoughts into another channel.
“Or it may be loss of memory, or something of that sort,” he added. “Your husband may be wandering about without knowing his own name.”
Naturally, that suggestion met with no better reception, and Cray was obliged to give it up.
“There isn’t much use in speculating about it, though, until we get hold of more facts,” he declared. “I suppose you picked out this house?”