“No, I didn’t,” Mrs. Simpson said with some feeling. “I had nothing to say about it.”
“Is that so? I wouldn’t have thought Mr. Simpson would have gone ahead in any such way as that.”
“He never did before, Mr. Jones, but his heart seemed to be set on this place, and I let him have his way. The openness seemed to appeal to him very strongly. I’ve been living in a row for years, you know.”
“Ah, the openness!” murmured Cray. “I can see how that might have attracted him. Have you noticed anything unusual about your husband lately, Mrs. Simpson? Has he seemed his normal self all the time?”
His hostess seemed at a loss to know how to answer the question, to judge by her hesitation and knitted brows.
“If you think there may be anything the matter with his mind, Mr. Jones, I’m sure you’re wrong,” she said, at length. “I haven’t noticed anything of that sort at all, and I would have been sure to do so. I can’t say that he has been himself, though. Buying this house on his own responsibility, and in such a hurry would be enough to show that he wasn’t. Besides that, though, he has been nervous and irritable, but I laid that to the extra work he was doing. I’m afraid I shall have to call him freakish, but nothing more. He seems to have suddenly developed whims, and acquired rather expensive tastes. I’m afraid his advancement at the office has turned his head somewhat.”
“You are still referring to the house?”
The woman hesitated again, but seemed to decide that frankness would be best.
“No,” she answered, “that isn’t all. He has got the automobile fever, as well.”