Cato had an attentive listener as he ambled on who forbore to hurry him. “Has the friendship between Miss Porter and Dr. Thorne kept up?” he inquired finally.
Cato’s face altered. “No, an’ I didn’t ’spect such treatment of Marse Beverly from Miss Milly,” he grumbled. “Now Marse Beverly’s back she ain’t never troubled ter recognize him on de road—an’ she set a store by his mother—I cain’t un’erstand these hyar women folk!”
“You are not alone in that,” answered Mitchell. “The police are puzzled by the behavior of Mrs. Porter and her daughter.”
“So I heard tell.” Cato’s tone was short; too late he repented of his garrulous confidences. In the pleasure of hearing his own voice he had forgotten that Mitchell was a detective. “I ’spects Marse Beverly won’t be back ’til nearly midnight; had yo’ better wait?”
“Surely, there’s no hurry.” And in proof of his words Mitchell selected a comfortable chair. “Where did you say your master had gone?”
“Didn’t I tell yo’ he’d gone to Washington?” Cato’s manner waxed impatient, and Mitchell hastened to quiet him.
“So you did,” he agreed. “But it seems to me that he ought to be back by now.”
“Yo’ cain’t tell how dese hyar cyars is gwine ter run; sometimes Marse Beverly gets hyar right smart on time, an’ ag’in he don’t.” Cato lugged out of his pocket an old-fashioned silver timepiece, rivaling a turnip in size, and his most prized possession. It had been the gift of Mrs. Thorne from among her heirlooms, and bore the inscription, “To our most trusted friend, Cato.” The negro regarded the face of the watch solemnly as he counted off the time. “’Most ten o’clock,” he pronounced. “An’ dar’s Marse Beverly now,” as the resounding bang of the front door echoed through the house. “I’ll jes’ tell him yo’ am hyar.”
But Cato’s rheumatic limbs did not permit of rapid motion, and Thorne was halfway up the stairs before the negro’s hail reached him.
“Mister Mitchell am hyar,” announced Cato.