The Holladay case

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

"Yes, madame, I know," I said, touched by her emotion. Plainly she was telling the truth.

"So he wrote to friends in Amérique, and made questions about Monsieur Holladay. He learned—oh, he learned that he was ver' rich—what you call a man of millions—and that his daughter—my daughter, monsieur—was living still. From that moment, he was like a man possessed. At once he formed his plan, building I know not what hopes upon it. He drilled us for two years in speaking the English; he took us for six months to Londres that we might better learn. Day after day we took our lessons there—always and always English. Cécile learned ver' well, monsieur; but I not so well, as you can see—I was too old. Then, at last we reached New York, and my daughter—this one—was sent to see Monsieur Holladay, while I was directed that I write to Céleste—to Mademoiselle Holladay. She came that ver' afternoon," she continued, "and I told her that it was I who was her mother. He was with me, and displayed to her the papers of adoption. She could not but be convinced. He talked to her as an angel—oh, he could seem one when he chose!—he told her that I was in poverty—he made her to weep, which was what he desired. She promised to bring us money; she was ver' good; my heart went out to her. Then, just as she had arisen to start homeward, in Céleste came, crying, sobbing, stained with blood."

She shuddered and clasped her hands before her eyes.

"But you have said it was not murder, madame," I said to the younger woman.

"Nor was it!" she cried. "Let me tell you, monsieur. I reached the great building, which my husband had already pointed out to me; I went up in the lift; I entered the office, but saw no one. I went on through an open door and saw an old man sitting at a desk. I inquired if Mr. Holladay was there. The old man glanced at me and bowed toward another door. I saw it was a private office and entered it. The door swung shut behind me. There was another old man sitting at a desk, sharpening a pencil."

"'Is it you, Frances?' he asked.

"'No,' I said, stepping before him. 'It is her sister, Monsieur Holladay!'

"He stared up at me with such a look of dismay and anger on his face that I was fairly frightened; then, in the same instant, before I could draw breath, before I could say another word, his face grew purple, monsieur, and he fell forward on his desk, on his hand, on the knife, which was clasped in it. I tried to check the blood, but could not, it poured forth in such a stream. I knew not what to do; I was distracted, and in a frenzy, I left the place and hurried to our lodgings. That is the truth, monsieur; believe me."

"I do believe you," I said; and she turned again to the window to hide her tears.

"It was then," went on her mother, "that that man yonder had another inspiration. Before it had been only—what you call—blackmail—a few thousands, perhaps a pension; now it was something more—he was playing for a greater stake. I do not know all that he planned. He found Céleste suspected of having killed her father; he must get her released at any cost; so he wrote a note——"