The girl was obviously impressed by this information, and, without further argument, conducted him into one of the rooms off the reception hall, and then hurried away to communicate with her mistress. With the natural instinct of the detective, Cray looked keenly about him, and there was something that impressed him at once. The house he was in was by no means a large one, but the furniture seemed to have come from a much smaller house. The diminutive hatrack was positively lost in the square hall, the rugs were little more than patches on the inlaid floor, and the stair carpet—which he could see through the door—was shabby, and too narrow for the stairs. In short, though John Simpson had recently taken a larger house, he had either been unable to furnish it adequately, or else had been too hurried or careless to do so. “Mrs. Simpson will see you, sir,” the maid announced, when she returned. “She will be down in a few minutes.” Presently, the fugitive’s wife descended the stairs. She was a small, slight woman, plainly dressed, and apparently about forty years of age, though her lined face and gray hair caused her to look much older than many women do nowadays at that age. “You have news of my husband, Mr. Jones?” she asked eagerly, holding her hands out in unconscious pleading, so that Cray could see that they had been roughened by hard work. It seemed curious that the mistress of such a house should find it necessary to do menial labor. “Not yet, Mrs. Simpson, I’m sorry to say,” Cray answered reluctantly. The woman sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. There was no longer the slightest room for doubt as to her innocence. Plainly, she knew nothing whatever about the theft, although it might be that some of her worry was due to fear that something of the sort might account for her husband’s unprecedented absence. “It’s hard lines, Mrs. Simpson,” the detective said sympathetically. “Your husband will turn up pretty soon, though, I’m sure.” The wife raised her head and hastily wiped her eyes. “You—you don’t think that he’s dead, then?” “Oh, no, nothing like that!” Cray hastened to assure her. “Oh, I do hope you are right, sir!” Mrs. Simpson said fervently. “If he isn’t dead, though, or terribly injured and unable to communicate with me, what can it possibly mean? Have they reported it to the police yet?” “You mean the office?” “Yes.” Cray shook his head. “That hasn’t seemed necessary—at least, that’s what the office seems to think,” he answered. “Mr. Simpson isn’t in a hospital, though, you may be sure.” “Then where is he? If they don’t do something at the office, I shall be obliged to go to the police myself. I can’t understand why it wasn’t done long ago. John has been gone days and days now, and he’s never before stayed away from home unexpectedly for more than a few hours without letting me know just where he was. I don’t understand it; I don’t, I don’t!”