ied--"

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

"So he wrote to friends in Amerique, 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. Cecile 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 Celeste--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 Celeste 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