Oscar cast a frightened glance upward. Rodgers’ determined expression was not one to encourage evasion.
“Suttenly, Sah, suttenly. Wha-what truf do yo’ wish, Sah?” he stammered, politeness uppermost in spite of his confusion of mind.
Rodgers’ gaze grew in intensity as he studied the old man. The latter’s eyes had shifted from his interrogator to the mansion and his black face had become mottled grey in color. As the silence lengthened, Oscar’s apprehension increased and his fingers fumbled nervously with his cane. For the life of him he could think of nothing to say. The sound of Rodgers’ voice came as so vast a relief that at first he failed to take in what he was saying.
“You testified at the inquest, Oscar,” Rodgers stated slowly, “that after serving a midday dinner on Sunday you left ‘Rose Hill.’ But you did not tell Coroner Penfield that you returned here on Sunday night—”
“I didn’t, Sah—fo’ Gawd, I didn’t!” Oscar raised a trembling hand. “I only jes’ passed along the street down yonder—”
“And what did you see?” demanded Rodgers, his eyes sparkling. His chance shot in the dark had told.
Oscar’s answer was slow in coming. Moving closer to Rodgers, he laid one shaking hand, knotted from rheumatism, on his shoulder. The gesture, half involuntary, held something pathetic in its mute appeal.
“Massa,” he began, and his voice grew wistful. “Whose side is yo’ on? Is yo’ fo’ de police o’ fo’ Miss Kitty?”
Rodgers whitened as he met the old man’s direct gaze. At last there was no shifting in Oscar’s eyes. Man to man they faced each other—master and servant—each dominated with one desire: to serve one woman.