“I suppose your room is on the second floor, there, where those double windows are?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the windows are open these nights?”
“Of course—all of them. It has been very warm, you know.”
“Was that the room you originally planned to occupy?”
Mrs. Simpson looked amazed.
“Why, no, it wasn’t,” she confessed. “Naturally, the best bedroom is supposed to be at the front of the house. It has a big bay window, and gets the air from three sides. It’s so big, though, and seemed so lonesome after Mr. Simpson was gone, that I changed to this back one after the first night. But I don’t understand what’s in your mind, Mr. Jones.”
“Don’t try to, Mrs. Simpson,” he advised. “I have an idea, but I’m not free to share it yet, even with you. That’s all I care to look at here, Mrs. Simpson; let’s go back to the house.”
They went around to the front door, and the woman invited him in again somewhat reluctantly. He would have liked to get hold of a pair of Simpson’s shoes, but he did not dare ask that, feeling sure that she would smell a rat if he did.