“I’ll wait for the doctor,” he said, holding out a visiting-card, which Cato took, and, putting on a pair of horn spectacles, regarded solemnly. The spectacles had been purchased from an itinerant merchant, but he could not read, with or without the glasses; they were only for the elegance which Cato thought went with his position in the family.
“Is yo’ come to see Marse Beverly professionally?” he asked, bringing out the last word with a flourish.
“Yes,” responded Anthony quickly, and Cato’s manner thawed.
“Step right in, suh,” he said, throwing wide the door. “Dar’s a gen’man awaitin’ a’ready. Ef yo’ jes’ make yo’self com’foble,” wheeling forward a large chair. “De doctor’ll be ’long d’reckly. Dar he is now,” as the portières were pulled back from the entrance to the dining-room. “No, it ain’t, nuther,” he added, catching a glimpse of the newcomer. “It’s Mister Mitchell. Is yo’ tired ob waitin’, suh?” as the detective walked into the living-room.
“Didn’t I hear Dr. Thorne arrive?” asked Mitchell, looking about, and at sight of Anthony he whistled in surprise. “You here? Anything wrong?”
“Feeling feverish,” returned Anthony, with a warning glance toward Cato, who was shuffling toward the staircase. “I called to see Dr. Thorne professionally.”
“Is that so?” Mitchell selected a chair near the fireplace. “I wasn’t aware that Dr. Thorne ever had office practice.”
The remark was overheard by Cato, and he turned with a reproving air to Mitchell.
“’Deed he do, an’ right smart patients come hyar from de city, too,” warming to his subject as he saw Mitchell’s skeptical air. “Dat ’er’ gen’man what was murdered at de Porters’ was hyar to consult wid him on Monday evenin’.”
“He was!” Mitchell nearly fell out of his chair, and recovering from his astonishment regarded the negro intently. “Why haven’t you spoken of it before?”