“’Deed I’se tellin’ yo’ de truff,” she protested. “She went out wif Mister Edward Rodgers early in de evenin’, an’ she ain’t come back, ’cause I’se been awaitin’ up fo’ her.”
Mitchell stared at Mandy, then, putting out his hand, shut the front door.
“Go to bed,” he said, not unkindly. “I’ll wait here and let Miss Baird in when she returns.”
But Mandy did not budge. “Yo’ means well,” she said, somewhat mollified. “But I cain’t go to bed ’till Miss Kitty gets in. If yo’ care to set awhile, come right in to de lib’ry.”
Mitchell stopped her as she turned to go down the hall. “Let me stay in the parlor,” he said. “I can see Miss Baird and Mr. Rodgers when they drive up. I wish to speak to Mr. Rodgers as well as Miss Baird, and he may leave without entering the house.”
Mandy retraced her steps to a closed door. “De parlor’s been kep’ shut up so long I ’spects yo’ll freeze,” she said. “Dar ain’t much heat comes in hyar from de furnace.”
“That’s all right; I’ll keep on my overcoat.” Mitchell stepped briskly into the room. “Let me light the gas, Mandy,” as the old servant fumbled with the gas fixture, stiffened from lack of use. “Run along, now.”
“Yes, sir,” but Mandy lingered by the door. “I’ll be up in Miss Kitty’s bedroom—jes’ fetch a yell ef yo’ needs me, Mister Inspector.”
As he listened to Mandy’s halting footsteps growing fainter and fainter as she climbed wearily upstairs, Mitchell contemplated the large square room filled with “period” furniture. The old brocades were shabby and the rugs worn, but there was an indefinable atmosphere of the refinement of a bygone generation which time and neglect had not destroyed.