Rodgers stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I should say that there was a nigger in the wood-pile,” he said softly. “You are quite sure it was Oscar talking to the woman.”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Did you recognize the woman’s voice?”
Kitty shook her head. “Her voice haunts me still,” she said. “But I cannot place it. The whole affair bewilders me. I do not know what to think, what to conjecture. Our Oscar and Mandy, my aunt’s faithful old servants, in league against me? Has some one bribed them to lie and steal—and with what object?”
Rodgers did not reply at once. Suddenly he reached over and, pressing the catch, slid the panel back and forth as Inspector Mitchell had done several hours previously. His action reminded Kitty of the incident.
“That panel seems to fascinate you men,” she exclaimed. “Inspector Mitchell spent fully ten minutes commenting upon its well oiled hinges and its possible use.”
“Its use?” Rodgers’ voice was of the carrying quality, and it sounded distinctly through the open panel to a figure crouching in the shadow of the house. “Has the panel been used for any special purpose?”
“No, it is purely ornamental.”
“Didn’t the postman ever drop mail through it?”
“No. Our mail box is fastened to the front door.”