“Nothing, of course,” was the prompt response. “I’m trying to get at something else, Mrs. Simpson—I’m afraid I can’t tell you just what at present. Are you a light sleeper?” “Yes, very.” “I suppose your room is on the second floor, there, where those double windows are?” “Yes, sir.” “And the windows are open these nights?” “Of course—all of them. It has been very warm, you know.” “Was that the room you originally planned to occupy?” Mrs. Simpson looked amazed. “Why, no, it wasn’t,” she confessed. “Naturally, the best bedroom is supposed to be at the front of the house. It has a big bay window, and gets the air from three sides. It’s so big, though, and seemed so lonesome after Mr. Simpson was gone, that I changed to this back one after the first night. But I don’t understand what’s in your mind, Mr. Jones.” “Don’t try to, Mrs. Simpson,” he advised. “I have an idea, but I’m not free to share it yet, even with you. That’s all I care to look at here, Mrs. Simpson; let’s go back to the house.” They went around to the front door, and the woman invited him in again somewhat reluctantly. He would have liked to get hold of a pair of Simpson’s shoes, but he did not dare ask that, feeling sure that she would smell a rat if he did. “No, thanks,” he said. “I have imposed on you too much already.” He paused for a moment, and went on, picking his words carefully. “I suppose you haven’t got a very good opinion of my abilities along this line, Mrs. Simpson?” he said deprecatingly. “Mr. Griswold himself has thought fit to send me here, and I have an idea or two that I would like to test. It’s too soon to tell you what I believe, but I think I have a clew to your husband’s behavior. Will you help me to find out whether it’s good for anything, or not?” “Of course, I will—I’ll do anything I can.” “Then—it sounds like a mystery thriller, but the explanation is very simple—will you sleep in the front room for a night or two, and see that all the windows at the back are closed and dark?” Mrs. Simpson looked at him as if she thought he had lost his senses, but she reluctantly agreed to do as he asked. “Thanks ever so much,” Cray said uncomfortably. “I know how it sounds, but I have a notion that it will help.” And, after a few more words, he left the house, being careful, however, to caution Mrs. Simpson to say nothing to any one concerning his peculiar request, or the trend of his inquiries. Incidentally, he had secured from her the name of the garage at which Simpson had rented the car—an electric. The ex-police detective’s manner, as he strode down the hill, was a very thoughtful one, but there was something triumphant about the swing of his shoulders and the carriage of his massive head.