“Been here often,” Cray concluded. “Hasn’t been in the yard but once, but has come as far as the gate on a number of occasions. Seems to have been undecided about something, or had cold feet. What’s more, unless I’m ’way off the track, that machine has been here not later than night before last, and those freshest marks look suspiciously as if they were made last night.” He actually forgot Mrs. Simpson for the time being, and, opening the gate, passed through. He had seen something which interested him, the print of a rather small shoe in the soft ground just beyond the gate, where one would naturally have stood to open the gate from the outside. The detective took a steel tape line from his pocket, and carefully measured the footprint. Incidentally, he gave the tire marks a close examination. Soon he straightened up and looked about him. In doing so, he was more struck than ever with the isolation of the Simpson house. The spot where they stood was not overlooked by any other residence. There was another house within two or three hundred yards, to be sure, but it presented a blank wall on that side, evidently being designed to stand close to another one, which was yet to be built. “Supposing the fellow had any motive to do it, he could come here in a noiseless electric at the dead of night, with lights turned off, and nobody would be the wiser,” Cray told himself. “And he could reach the hill here without passing through the center of the village itself.” At that point, however, he glanced up at the rear of the Simpson house. “How about his wife, though?” he went on to himself. “She evidently isn’t wise to any such thing, and yet there are plenty of windows here, at the rear—and not very far from the garage, either.” That brought him back, and he rather awkwardly entered the yard, fearing that he might have betrayed curiosity of an altogether too professional character. “A fellow can’t help trying to act like a detective, I guess, when he’s put on such a job like this,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “I see right now that I’m not in the same class with Nick Carter. Suppose I’ll have to try to keep up the bluff just the same, and ask some more fool questions—if you are not ready to throw me out.” “Of course not, Mr. Jones,” the poor little woman assured him. “I only wish——” The detective nodded. “I wish, too, that I could find him for you, Mrs. Simpson,” he said sincerely, and added, under his breath, “and for you alone.” “May be I will—who knows?” he went on, gazing thoughtfully about. “By the way, where do you sleep, if I may ask? At the back of the house?” CHAPTER XVII. CRAY WIRES FOR “CARTER.” It is not to be wondered at that Mrs. Simpson looked surprised at a question which appeared so irrelevant. “Yes, I do,” she answered, “but I don’t see what in the world that has to do with Mr. Simpson’s absence.”