“Yes, sir.”
Cray had noted the graveled surface of the drive on his way from the house, and had seen that it had not been used. There were footprints on the soft surface, but no evidence of tires.
“The garage has never been used, I suppose?” Cray inquired.
“Oh, no, Mr. Jones.”
“And no car has been driven into the yard?”
“No, sir.”
There was no doubt that she was telling the truth, so far as she was aware, but Cray had evidence that she was mistaken. To be sure, no car had been driven in from the front, but it was plain that one had entered the yard through the new back gate.
Evidently the machine had not entered the garage, but had halted in front of it, and had then been backed out again. The marks were not very recent, however, and at least one rain had fallen since they were made.
Cray walked on to the rear gate and peered over. There was a newly graded road beyond, and in its surface were the marks of other tires—or, rather, the marks of the same tires repeated several times, a number of sets of them being more recent than those in the yard. And all were made by tires of the sort in common use on electric machines.