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[116] <h2>CHAPTER XXIII. THE WATCHERS MAKE THEMSELVES SCARCE.</h2> When Cray and Gordon first came within sight of No. 31 Floral Avenue there were lights in some of the upper windows, but before they had reached a point opposite the house, the lights went out. “Mrs. Simpson is just going to bed,” announced Cray. “Good enough! Glad to see she isn’t a night owl. Thought of that, but was afraid to pile on any more injunctions.” They passed the house and continued along the road toward the brow of the hill, then turned about and paced slowly back. There were lights in some of the other houses, and Green Eye could see that Cray had been right in saying that there were no other windows to overlook Simpson’s rear yard and garage. “Like to see the wheel tracks?” asked Cray, just before they reached the house again. “Safe enough, I guess, if she isn’t snooping around.” Gordon shook his head. “I’d like to have a look at them myself,” he answered, “but we’d better wait for a while and give the woman a chance to quiet down. She may be peering out of those back windows for all she’s worth at this very moment, you know. What you said was enough to arouse any woman’s curiosity, and she’s probably imagining all sorts of[117] things. I don’t believe she’s in touch with her husband, and even if she were, it’s unlikely that she could get word to him. Still, you never know what a panicky woman is going to do. She has no man to fall back upon now, remember, and if she saw us lurking about, she might call up the police.” “Well, what if she did?” demanded Cray. “We haven’t anything to be afraid of at their hands.” Having once been a police detective himself, he often found it hard to sympathize with his companion’s attitude, which was that of most private detectives. “That’s a foolish question, Jack,” Green Eye returned, copying one of Nick Carter’s gentle rebukes. “We’re not down in the city now, remember. We’ll be up against some country officers, who might yank us off to the lockup before we had a chance to explain. While we were gone, what if Simpson should appear on the scene? Where would our plans be then?” “That’s right, too,” Cray agreed ruefully. “Might get away and not turn up again. Take it all back, Mr. Carter. We can wait for a while—long enough for Mrs. Simpson to get tired if she’s on the watch—and still have time to look about a bit, with the help of our flash lights, before midnight. Not much chance that Simpy will show up before then.” Accordingly, they concealed themselves near by and waited impatiently until nearly eleven-thirty, by which time all the houses in the neighborhood were dark. “Now we’ll do a little exploring,” announced Green Eye. They cautiously skirted Simpson’s property until they reached a point from which they could see[118] that the rear windows were all closed, after which they continued to the rear of the lot. They remained outside the low fence until they had satisfied themselves that Simpson was not in the vicinity. Having ascertained that, they crept about the corner of the fence, and, lurking in its shadow, approached the wide gate which the fugitive had had cut there. Cray switched on his flash light, and turned it downward so that it shone upon the footprint he had noted earlier in the day. “That’s Simpson’s, I’m pretty sure,” he declared. “Got the data of it, anyway. The fellow stood here to open the gate.” “Show me the tire marks first,” Gordon said. He was trying to simulate Nick’s thoroughness, but he had a more personal reason as well. He wished to see if the tracks would tell him the same story they had told his companion, because if they did not—well, the stolen gold might prove to be much more elusive than he had hoped, and the sooner he found it out the better. The night was dark. Along the street an occasional arc lamp spluttered characteristically, but there at the rear of the house it was very lonely and gloomy; nevertheless, the two men threw frequent glances at the Simpson back windows, and their ears were strained all the time to catch the first sounds of approach. Gordon’s examination did not take long. Every mark that he saw served to confirm what Cray had[119] told him, and as the light was switched off the darkness permitted a significant grin of satisfaction. “I see nothing to upset your reasoning, Jack,” he said judicially. “We had better go into the yard, though, and see if there are any new tracks in front of the garage, and then get under cover.” Cray had noted that morning that the hinges of the gate had been very thoroughly oiled, but it seemed best not to put them to the test, but to crawl over the fence at one side, where their own footprints would not be conspicuous. Thereafter, keeping as much as possible in the lee of the little garage, they examined the corner in front of the door. “Nothing new seems to have taken place here,” Cray informed the supposed Nick Carter. “Here’s the one set of tire marks, you see, and nothing more of consequence, not even an obliterated trail. If the stuff was inside the garage this morning, it seems safe enough to say that it’s here still.” As he spoke, he tried the door once more, but found it locked, as it had been that morning. They passed on around the little structure of metal, keeping to the side, away from the house. “There’s the lumber pile I told you about,” Cray announced. “About time to hunt our holes, isn’t it?” His companion agreed, and they made themselves as comfortable as they could beside the pile of boards. Now, however, as Cray had foretold, they were exposed to view from the back of the house, but the[120] only alternative was to take a position which might reveal them to Simpson if he should come, as they counted on his doing. “Let’s hope he shows up, and is considerate enough not to keep us waiting too long,” murmured Gordon. “I’ve seen cozier places than this.” <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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