ry well, sir," she said. "But I warn you, she is most nervous and
it has been forbidden her to talk."

"She will not be called upon to talk," retorted Mr. Royce curtly; and
without answering, the woman turned and led the way up the stair and
to her mistress's room.

Miss Holladay was lying back in a great chair with a bandage about her
head, and even in the half-light I could see how changed she was. She
seemed much thinner and older, and coughed occasionally in a way that
frightened me. Not grief alone, I told myself, could have caused this
breakdown; it was the secret weighing upon her. My companion noted the
change, too, of course--a greater change, perhaps, than my eyes could
perceive--and I saw how moved and shocked he was.

"My dear Miss Holladay," he began, but she stopped him abruptly with a
little imperative motion of the hand.

"Pray do not," she whispered hoarsely. "Pray do not."

He stopped and pulled himself together. When he spoke again, it was in
quite a different tone.

"I have brought the money you asked for," and he handed her the
package.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Will you verify the amount?"

"Oh, no; that is not necessary."

"I have a receipt here," and he produced it and his fountain-pen.
"Please sign it."

She took the pen with trembling fingers, laid the receipt upon her
chair-arm without reading, and signed her name with a somewhat painful
slowness. Then she leaned back with a sigh of relief, and buried her
face in her hands. Mr. Royce placed the receipt in his pocket book,
and stopped, hesitating. But the maid had opened the door and was
awaiting us. Her mistress made no sign; there was no excuse to linger.
We turned and followed the maid.

"Miss Holladay seems very ill," said Mr. Royce, in a voice somewhat
tremulous, as she paused before us in the lower hall.

"Yes, sir; ver' ill."

Again the voice! I took advantage of the chance to look at her
intently. Her hair was turning gray, certainly; her face was seamed
with lines which only care and poverty could have graven there; and
yet, beneath it all, I fancied I could detect a faded but living
likeness to Hiram Holladay's daughter. I looked again--it was faint,
uncertain--perhaps my nerves were overwrought and were deceiving me.
For how could such a likeness possibly exist?

"She has a physician, of course?" asked my companion.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"He has advised rest and quiet?"

"Yes, sir."

"When do you leave for