Fortunately, however, the girl knew better than that, even in her fright, and said so at once. “No, no, it ain’t Mr. Simpson!” she said pityingly, patting her mistress’ heaving shoulder. “This man’s got big feet, Mrs. Simpson. His shoes ain’ a bit like your husband’s.” “Are you sure?” “Certain sure, ma’am.” “Thank Heaven!” the frightened woman cried fervently. “It’s terrible enough, though, if what you say is true. Call the neighbors, get some man here as quick as you can. I’ll dress while you’re gone.” The maid ran downstairs on the new errand, and Mrs. Simpson returned to her bedroom. Five minutes later, she left the house by the rear door, wrapped in a long kimono. The servant’s errand had already borne fruit, for, although the girl herself was not in sight, a man in his shirt sleeves and with dangling suspenders was just climbing over the side fence. “What’s this I hear about a dead man, Mrs. Simpson?” he called out, as he caught sight of her. “Your girl wasn’t very coherent, but I caught something about the lumber pile in the back yard.” Mrs. Simpson hurried to him and pointed to the pile of boards. “There it is,” she explained nervously. “Mary says a man is underneath, and I can see that something has been done to the pile since yesterday. That hole wasn’t there then.” The dog was still keeping up his incessant noise as they approached, and the neighbor found it impossible to drive him away. Mrs. Simpson stopped at some distance, and the man went on. He, too, stopped and peered into the opening under the pile, but laid his hand on it in order to do so. After a prolonged scrutiny, he straightened up. “There’s a man under there,” he said soberly. “You had better go to the house, Mrs. Simpson. This is no place for you.” Confronted by this emergency, however, the fugitive’s wife showed unexpected courage. “I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said. “The poor fellow may not be dead yet, for all we know, and unless the sight is too terrible, I shall remain to help you. Besides, he’ll have to be brought into the house, anyway, so why shouldn’t I see him now?” “Of course, if you feel that way about it, Mrs. Simpson, stay, by all means,” the neighbor replied, turning and beginning to throw the boards back. In half a minute he was joined by a couple of other men, while the maid and several other women appeared. These latter kept at a distance, however, and, in response to their urgings, Mrs. Simpson joined them. The combined efforts of the men resulted in uncovering Cray’s body in almost no time. The sight that met the rescuers’ gaze was a distressing one, for the detective’s face was battered and bloody, and there did not appear at first to be any life in his big body. One of the men examined him, however, and presently announced that he was still alive. “I wouldn’t give much for his chances,” he said, shaking his head, “but he isn’t dead, that’s certain. I’ll go for Doctor Lord.” CHAPTER XXIX.