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[74] <h2>CHAPTER XV. SOME INTERESTING INFORMATION.</h2> Mrs. Simpson asked the question bravely enough, but there was a certain haunted expression in her eyes which suggested that some inkling of the situation might have come to her. If so, however, her love and loyalty had caused her to brush it aside. Jack Cray did not feel quite comfortable. It seemed like tempting the woman to betray her own husband—was nothing less, in fact. That was unavoidable, however. “Well, I hardly know what to ask,” he confessed, desiring to keep her, if possible, from attaching any great importance to his line of inquiry. “Something unusual is keeping Mr. Simpson away, that’s sure, and I’ve got to try to find out what it is. I’m afraid I’m not much of a detective”—he was mentally comparing himself with Nick Carter—“and, therefore, the only thing I can think of doing just now is to ask a lot of questions, and hope to hit upon something of interest before I get through.” Mrs. Simpson did not look as if this appealed to her in all respects, despite her great desire to have the mystery cleared up. “Of course, I’m not going to peddle what you tell me all over the office,” Cray hastened to say, noting[75] her look of doubt. “Besides, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’ll try not to seem impertinent, though, or to tire you out, and remember it’s only because we want to find your husband.” The woman nodded. “I understand,” she said. “Ask me anything you please, and I’ll try to answer it.” “That’s the way to talk,” Cray commented, and then went on, after a slight pause: “They generally began a long ways back when they’re trying to dope out a thing like this. Suppose we try that method?” He was playing the part of the novice very well, and it was clear that Mrs. Simpson had no suspicion of his real status. On the contrary, she soon showed signs of impatience, as if she looked upon his questions as boring and pointless. She continued to answer them politely and truthfully, however, and that was all Cray asked. “You have lived here, in New Pelham, for some years, haven’t you, Mrs. Simpson?” the detective inquired. “Yes, sir; ten years.” “But not in this same house?” “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[76] 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,[77] though, until we get hold of more facts,” he declared. “I suppose you picked out this house?” “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[78] 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.” <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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