Cray nodded, but his heart was pounding. This was certainly a queer whim on Simpson’s part, and the detective was sure there must be some reason for it. In fact, he was inclined to believe that there was a reason for the choice of the house itself, and that both had to do with the fugitive’s crime. The thought was an exciting one, but Cray was at a loss to explain Simpson’s actions. It might be well to see how the land lay, and the best way to do that, he believed, was with Mrs. Simpson’s knowledge, rather than furtively. “I don’t want to alarm you too much,” he said, “but these things look rather queer, you know. You seem sure that there wasn’t anything the matter with Mr. Simpson’s mind, and yet you admit that he has done some peculiar things. You’d rather think that his mind was temporarily clouded, wouldn’t you, than that he was dead, or had deliberately left you in the lurch?” “Of course,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “It would be terrible, though—terrible!” “So are the other possibilities,” Cray pointed out. “Let’s work along this line—for a while. Would you mind letting me see this gate and garage you speak of?” “No, certainly not,” the woman said, but it was plain that she thought the proceeding a senseless one. “I’ll show you.” The lot was perhaps sixty feet wide, and one hundred and fifty feet deep, possibly more. The grass had not yet obtained a fair start, and the shrubs and trees were very small, although they had evidently been planted the season before. The gravel drive ran along one side of the lot, from front to rear, and beside it, close to the rear fence, was the little, portable garage of which Mrs. Simpson had spoken. It was built of metal, as a precaution against fire, and when the detective tried the door, he found it locked. “Your husband has the key, I suppose?” he said. “Yes, sir.” Cray had noted the graveled surface of the drive on his way from the house, and had seen that it had not been used. There were footprints on the soft surface, but no evidence of tires. “The garage has never been used, I suppose?” Cray inquired. “Oh, no, Mr. Jones.” “And no car has been driven into the yard?” “No, sir.” There was no doubt that she was telling the truth, so far as she was aware, but Cray had evidence that she was mistaken. To be sure, no car had been driven in from the front, but it was plain that one had entered the yard through the new back gate. Evidently the machine had not entered the garage, but had halted in front of it, and had then been backed out again. The marks were not very recent, however, and at least one rain had fallen since they were made. Cray walked on to the rear gate and peered over. There was a newly graded road beyond, and in its surface were the marks of other tires—or, rather, the marks of the same tires repeated several times, a number of sets of them being more recent than those in the yard. And all were made by tires of the sort in common use on electric machines.