Cato had been true to every trust reposed in him. In his humble hands Mrs. Thorne had left the farming of the few acres still remaining to the once large estate, and but for his “truck garden” she would have gone without many necessities. And when Mrs. Thorne grew older and more feeble, Cato, when crops were bad, did not hesitate to do odd “chores” for neighboring farmers, receiving in return poultry or fresh vegetables which would be served to Mrs. Thorne as only Cato knew how to cook them. But even these delicacies could not prolong Mrs. Thorne’s feeble hold on life, and Cato, bottling up his own sorrow, turned to his “young marster” with the same blind devotion which had characterized his affection for Colonel and Mrs. Thorne.
It was found on reading Mrs. Thorne’s will that a small legacy left by her husband, who had pre-deceased her by twenty years, had been carefully hoarded against the day when Beverly Thorne would be old enough to go to a medical college, and true to his promise to his mother he eventually entered Johns Hopkins University, and was graduated with honors; but the spirit of adventure, inherited from some doughty ancestor, had sent him far afield. In his absence Cato had acted as caretaker of the “lodge,” and when Beverly once again entered the house he had exclaimed with delight at finding every piece of furniture, every heirloom, valued by his mother, in its accustomed place, and showing by its excellent condition the care lavished upon it by Cato.
Cato’s pleasure in the cozy appearance of the dining-room was shared by Detective Mitchell, who even forgot his impatience to see Beverly Thorne as he examined the handsome animal heads and skins hung on the walls.
“Fine trophies,” he commented. “I had no idea Dr. Thorne was such a sportsman.”
“He didn’t kill all de critters,” acknowledged Cato. “Some has been in de fam’ly a long time, far’s I can remember, an’ dat’s consid’able far.”
“So you’ve been in the family a long time?” Mitchell looked at him shrewdly. “Remember the Civil War?”
“Jes’ like it ware yesserday,” promptly. “An’ seein’ yo’ all a-peepin’ an’ a-peerin’ at de Porter house makes me think ob when de ‘rebs’ an’ de ‘Yanks’ uster camp out hyarabouts, an’ I’d wake in de mawnin’ an’ find de Yanks hyar an’ de nex’ day dey’d vamoose, an’ de rebs would come an’ take what was lef’ ob de fence rails ter make camp-fires.”
“But they couldn’t run off with that stone wall toward the river,” remarked Mitchell. “Pity the wall didn’t extend around the whole place and you wouldn’t have had so much trouble. But perhaps the wall wasn’t built in those days?”
“Oh, but ’twas. Ole Judge Porter, him dat was de gran’son ob de fust owner ob Dewdrop Inn, he had dat wall set dar ter cut off de ribber view, ’caise he hated de Thornes.”
“But why?”