“’Cause I doan talk ’bout my marster’s affairs,” with offended dignity. “But I wants you to unnerstan’, Mr. Detective Man, dat my marster has de quality hyar same as always.”
“Sure, he does,” agreed Mitchell heartily. “But I’ve never seen an office in this house, and was not aware that Dr. Thorne kept regular office hours.”
“He do.” Cato looked somewhat mollified. “De office is out dat away,” jerking his thumb toward one of the wings. “I’ll get some kindlin’ wood an’ start de fire fo’ yo’ gen’men; it’s gettin’ colder.”
It was not until his hobbling footsteps had entirely died away that Mitchell turned to the Secret Service agent.
“What brings you here, Anthony?” he questioned rapidly. “Surely not the need for medical advice; you look as sound as a dollar.”
Anthony grinned cheerfully. “I have a clean bill of health,” he said. “My ailment was a polite fiction invented for the benefit of the old negro. The Chief told me that you were on the Brainard murder case, and Headquarters said you were apt to be found here, so—I came.”
“What interest has the Chief in the Brainard murder?” demanded Mitchell, his professional jealousy aroused. “Why has he sent you here?”
A subdued bumping and labored breathing announced the approach of Cato, and Mitchell’s question remained unanswered as the old servant shuffled over to the fireplace and proceeded to build a fire on the bed of ashes. Anthony studied him for some little time in silence, then becoming aware that Cato, while pretending to be absorbed in his work, was covertly watching them, he turned and addressed Mitchell.
“I’ve heard that Dr. Thorne is a wonder at diagnosing a case—that he has marvelous instinct—”
Cato faced about in wrath, one hand poised in air clutched a piece of kindling. “What yo’ mean by sayin’ my marster’s got instinct?” he retorted. “He ain’t got no instinct—he’s got insense.”