“No, thanks,” he said. “I have imposed on you too much already.”
He paused for a moment, and went on, picking his words carefully.
“I suppose you haven’t got a very good opinion of my abilities along this line, Mrs. Simpson?” he said deprecatingly. “Mr. Griswold himself has thought fit to send me here, and I have an idea or two that I would like to test. It’s too soon to tell you what I believe, but I think I have a clew to your husband’s behavior. Will you help me to find out whether it’s good for anything, or not?”
“Of course, I will—I’ll do anything I can.”
“Then—it sounds like a mystery thriller, but the explanation is very simple—will you sleep in the front room for a night or two, and see that all the windows at the back are closed and dark?”
Mrs. Simpson looked at him as if she thought he had lost his senses, but she reluctantly agreed to do as he asked.
“Thanks ever so much,” Cray said uncomfortably. “I know how it sounds, but I have a notion that it will help.”
And, after a few more words, he left the house, being careful, however, to caution Mrs. Simpson to say nothing to any one concerning his peculiar request, or the trend of his inquiries.
Incidentally, he had secured from her the name of the garage at which Simpson had rented the car—an electric.
The ex-police detective’s manner, as he strode down the hill, was a very thoughtful one, but there was something triumphant about the swing of his shoulders and the carriage of his massive head.