“I know the man you mean.” Dorothy laid her hand on the swing door. “Miss Millicent and I watched him pacing up and down the carriage drive before breakfast, and saw him go toward Dr. Thorne’s house. Has he been here since? Oh!” She stepped back, startled, as a face appeared at the pantry window, and a second later a finger tapped gently on the pane.
“Speaking of the devil”—muttered Murray, walking past Dorothy and throwing open the window. “What do you want to scare the lady for?” he demanded wrathfully.
“I beg your pardon.” Mitchell lifted his hat and regarded Dorothy solemnly. “I was under the impression she had seen me standing here a moment ago. Please tell Nurse Deane, Murray, that I wish to see her.”
Dorothy, who had drawn back until she stood partly hidden by the wall of the pantry from Mitchell’s penetrating gaze, grew paler as she heard the detective’s request, and the quick droop of her eyelids hid a look of sudden terror. Before the footman could reply she stepped forward to the window.
“My sister is off duty this morning,” she said. “She is still asleep in her bedroom. Can I take your message to her?”
Mitchell considered rapidly before replying. “May I have a few words with you?”
“Surely. Will you not come into the house? It is rather chilly standing by an open window.”
“Walk around to the front door, sir, and I’ll show you into the drawing-room,” directed Murray, removing his apron and closing the window. “Mrs. Porter is in the library,” he added, and hastened to open the swing door.
With a word of thanks Dorothy walked slowly through the dining-room and down the hall, permitting the footman to reach the front door and usher Detective Mitchell into the drawing-room before she entered. She bowed courteously to Mitchell and signed to him to take a chair near the sofa on which she deposited herself with careful regard to having her back turned to the windows and the detective facing the light. She waited for him to open the conversation.
“You came here last night, Miss Deane.” It seemed more a simple statement of fact than a question, and Dorothy treated it as such and made no reply. Mitchell moved his chair nearer the sofa before asking, “Did I understand you to say that your sister was resting this morning—or ill?”