“Good afternoon, Miss Baird,” he said, bowing affably. “Can you spare me a few minutes of your time?”
“Why, certainly.” Kitty concealed her vexation. The inspector was the last person she had expected to encounter. “Won’t you come in?” and she opened the door to a wider extent. Not waiting for him to remove his overcoat, she hurried across the library and picking up a log from the wood basket by the hearth she stirred the fire to a brighter blaze. On facing about, she found the inspector standing in front of the side door and regarding it with fixed attention.
“This door does not seem exactly in keeping with this house,” he said, as Kitty approached him. “I’ve never seen a finer example of Colonial architecture, but this—” laying his hand on the upper section of the door—“this resembles a Dutch door.”
“That is exactly what it is, or rather, what Aunt Susan had it converted into,” Kitty explained. “Aunt Susan had a bad attack of inflammatory rheumatism about fifteen years ago; she could not leave the house and sat chiefly in this room. She was devoted to her garden and had this side door cut in half so that she could see outside without having to open the entire door.”
“And this panel in the upper half of the door?” Mitchell laid his hand on it as he spoke. “Does it open?”
“Yes, it is a sliding panel.” Kitty stifled a yawn. “The builder’s idea of ornamentation, I presume—a door within a door.” She smiled. “And rusty with disuse. Oscar has an objection to cleaning brass, or anything in fact that requires ‘elbow grease.’”
“The latch is discolored,” Mitchell amended. With a quick motion of his hand he released the catch and pushed the panel backward. “But there is no sign of rust in the hinges. Judging from the way this panel moves, Miss Baird, it is well oiled. See for yourself.”
Kitty glanced at him in surprise before moving the panel back and forth. Inspector Mitchell was right; it moved with ease and totally without noise. When pushed to the farthest, the panel left an opening about eight inches square.
“What do you think of that, Miss Baird?” inquired Mitchell.
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Kitty’s eyebrows drew together in a perplexed frown. “We never touched that panel; never had occasion to use it. This,” laying her hand on the upper part of the Dutch door, “we frequently kept open in the summer as we get the southwestern breeze through it. We never use this door as a means of exit except to go into the garden.”