“Mrs. Parsons is not at home,” she repeated. “Why, Oscar brought me a telephone message from her asking me to be here at noon and to lunch with her.” She consulted her watch. “Are you quite certain that she is not in, James?”
“Quite, Miss Kitty.” The butler’s solemnity of manner matched his severe black clothes, which fitted his somewhat spare form with the neatness of a glove. “Mrs. Parsons had forgotten a meeting of the Neighborhood House Committee, and she left word that she was very sorry to put you out. She said that she had no idea what time she would be back, and that you were not to wait for her.”
“Oh!” The exclamation slipped from Kitty with some vigor. “Oh, very well, James,” with a quick change of tone. “Please tell Mrs. Parsons that I called. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Miss Kitty.” And James retreated inside the vestibule and closed the front door. As he went through the hallway, intent on reaching the servants’ dining room by the shortest possible route, he failed to see Mrs. Parsons standing in the folds of the portières before the entrance to the small reception room, which, with the large dining room, was on the ground floor of her English basement house.
From her vantage point, Mrs. Parsons had overheard Kitty’s conversation with her butler. Slipping her front door key, with which she had gained entrance some moments before, unknown to James, into her gold mesh bag, she hurried to the small window which overlooked the street. Taking care not to be seen by passers-by, Mrs. Parsons watched Kitty standing by the curb, apparently in doubt as to whether to cross the street or not.
Kitty, in fact, was debating where she should lunch. Time hung heavy on her hands, and the thought of the great empty house in Georgetown sent a shiver down her spine. Neither Mandy nor Oscar were enlivening company at the best of times, and since her aunt’s death—Kitty shivered again. Oscar’s morbid relish of everything pertaining to the tragedy, his incessant harping on the subject, had worked upon Kitty’s nerves, and except for her appreciation of his many years of devoted service, she would have paid him several months’ wages in advance and let him go.
Mandy, since the day of the discovery of Miss Susan Baird’s dead body, had moved over to “Rose Hill,” bag and baggage, and Kitty had been grateful for her watchful care. Unlike her husband, Mandy was not given to talking and she had seen to it that Kitty had every attention, and in her way had done much to shelter her from inquisitive callers. Mandy looked upon the telephone as the invention of the Evil One, and nothing would induce her to answer it, so that to Oscar had fallen the task of keeping reporters away. His loquaciousness had, however, been checked by a stringent command from Mr. Craige to refer all newspaper men to him or to the police. The order had been emphasized with a hint that, if not carried out, Oscar would be parted from what promised to be a lucrative pension. Oscar had obeyed the order with much grumbling, but his complaints were carefully confided to his wife alone and fell on unsympathetic ears.
“Go ’long, nigger; don’t bother yo’ betters,” she had responded. “Ef yo’ ain’t careful, Miss Kitty’ll bounce us both. An’ then whar’ll we be?”
Kitty looked at her watch again. She had ample time to walk down to the Allies’ Inn for luncheon and she would feel better for the exercise. Already the sunshine and fresh air had braced her up. Her decision made, she waved away a taxi-driver hovering near the curb with a watchful eye on her, and, turning, started down the street. She was conscious of a man passing her at a rapid walk, but with her head slightly bent and her thoughts elsewhere, she did not glance up. The man ran up the three steps leading to Mrs. Parsons’ front door, stopped, turned around and looked at her. The next second Kitty heard her name called by a familiar voice.
“What luck!” exclaimed Leigh Wallace, as she waited for him to approach. “Where are you going, Kitty?”