The Holladay Case Part 15
We instantly a.s.sented, and he called his carriage, and was driven away. I felt that, at last, we were to see behind one corner of the curtain--perhaps one glimpse would be enough to penetrate the mystery.
But, in half an hour he was back again, and a glance at his face told me that we were again destined to disappointment.
"I sent up my card," he reported briefly, "and Miss Holladay sent down word that she must beg to be excused."
Mr. Royce's face fell.
"And that was all?" he asked.
"That was all. Of course, there was nothing for me to do but come away. I couldn't insist on seeing her."
"No," a.s.sented the other. "No. How do you explain it, doctor?"
Jenkinson sat down, and for a moment studied the pattern of the carpet.
"Frankly, Mr. Royce," he said at last, "I don't know how to explain it. The most probable explanation is that Miss Holladay is suffering from some form of dementia--perhaps only acute primary dementia, which is usually merely temporary--but which may easily grow serious, and even become permanent."
The theory had occurred to me, and I saw from the expression of Mr.
Royce's face that he, also, had thought of it.
"Is there no way that we can make sure?" he asked. "She may need to be saved from herself."
"She may need it very badly," agreed the doctor, nodding. "Yet, she is of legal age, and absolute mistress of her actions. There are no relatives to interfere--no intimate friends, even, that I know of. I see no way unless you, as her legal adviser, apply to the authorities for an inquest of lunacy."
But Mr. Royce made an instant gesture of repugnance.
"Oh, that's absurd!" he cried. "We have no possible reason to take such action. It would offend her mortally."
"No doubt," a.s.sented the other. "So I fear that at present nothing can be done--things will just have to take their course till something more decided happens."
"There's no tendency to mental disease in the family?" inquired Mr.
Royce, after a moment.
"Not the slightest," said the doctor emphatically. "Her father and mother were both sound and well-balanced. I know the history of the family through three generations, and there's no hint of any taint.
Twenty-five years ago Holladay, who was then just working to the top in Wall Street, drove himself too hard--it was when the market went all to pieces over that Central Pacific deal--and had a touch of apoplexia. It was just a touch, but I made him take a long vacation, which he spent abroad with his wife. It was then, by the way, that his daughter was born. Since then he has been careful, and has never been bothered with a recurrence of the trouble. In fact, that's the only illness in the least serious I ever knew him to have."
There was nothing more to be said, and we turned to go.
"If there are any further developments," added the doctor, as he opened the door, "will you let me know? You may count upon me, if I can be of any a.s.sistance."
"Certainly," answered our junior. "You're very kind, sir," and we went back to our cab.
The week that followed was a perplexing one for me, and a miserable one for Royce. As I know now, he had written her half a dozen times, and had received not a single word of answer. For myself, I had discovered one more development of the mystery. On the day following the delivery of the money, I had glanced, as usual, through the financial column of the _Sun_ as I rode home on the car, and one item had attracted my attention. The brokerage firm of Swift & Currer had that day presented at the sub-treasury the sum of one hundred thousand dollars in currency for conversion into gold. An inquiry at their office next morning elicited the fact that the exchange had been effected for the account of Miss Frances Holladay. It was done, of course, that the recipient of the money might remain beyond trace of the police.
CHAPTER IX
I Meet Monsieur Martigny
Our regular work at the office just at that time happened to be unusually heavy and trying. The Brown injunction suit, while not greatly attracting public attention, involved points of such nicety and affected interests so widespread, that the whole bar of New York was watching it. The Hurd subst.i.tution case was more spectacular, and appealed to the press with peculiar force, since one of the princ.i.p.al victims had been the eldest son of Preston McLandberg, the veteran managing editor of the _Record_, and the bringing of the suit impugned the honor of his family--but it is still too fresh in the public mind to need recapitulation here, even were it connected with this story.
The incessant strain told upon both our partners and even upon me, so that I returned to my rooms after dinner one evening determined to go early to bed. But I had scarcely donned my house-coat, settled in my chair, and got my pipe to going, when there came a tap at the door.
"Come in," I called, thinking it was Mrs. Fitch, my landlady, and too weary to get up.
But it was not Mrs. Fitch's pale countenance, with its crown of gray hair, which appeared in the doorway; it was a rotund and exceedingly florid visage.
"You will pardon me, sir," began a resonant voice, which I instantly remembered, even before the short, square figure stepped over the threshold into the full light, "but I have just discovered that I have no match with which to ignite my gas. If I might from you borrow one----"
"Help yourself," I said, and held out to him my case, which was lying on the table at my elbow.
"You are very good," he said, and then, as he stepped forward and saw me more distinctly, he uttered a little exclamation of surprise. "Ah, it is Mistair----"
"Lester," I added, seeing that he hesitated.
"It is a great pleasure," he was saying, as he took the matches; "a great good fortune which brought me to this house. So lonely one grows at times--and then, I greatly desire some advice. If you would have the leisure----"
"Certainly," and I waved toward a chair. "Sit down."
"In one moment," he said. "You will pardon me," and he disappeared through the doorway.
He was back almost at once with a handful of cigarettes, which he placed on the table. Then he drew up a chair. With a little deprecatory gesture, he used one of my matches to light a cigarette.
"It was truly for the gas," he said, catching my smile; "and the gas for the cigarette!"
There was something fascinating about the man; an air of good-humor, of comradeship, of strength, of purpose. My eyes were caught by his stodgy, nervous hands, as he held the match to his cigarette; then they wandered to his face--to the black hair flecked here and there with gray; to the bright, deep-set eyes, ambushed under heavy brows; to the full lips, which the carefully arranged mustache did not at all conceal; to the projecting chin, with its little plume of an imperial.
A strong face and a not unhandsome one, with a certain look of mastery about it----
"It is true that I need advice," he was saying, as he slowly exhaled a great puff of smoke which he had drawn deep into his lungs. "My name is Martigny--Jasper Martigny"--I nodded by way of salutation--"and I am from France, as you have doubtless long since suspected. It is my desire to become a citizen of Amer-ric'."
"How long have you been living in America?" I asked.
"Since two months only. It is my intention to establish here a business in wines."
"Well," I explained, "you can take no steps toward naturalization for three years. Then you go before a court and make a declaration of your intentions. Two years later, you will get your papers."
"You mean," he hesitated, "that it takes so many years----"
"Five years' actual residence--yes."
"But," and he hesitated again, "I had understood that--that----"
"That it was easier? There are illegal ways, of course; but you can scarcely expect me to advise you concerning them, Mr. Martigny."
"No; of course, no!" he cried hastily, waving his hand in disclaimer.
"I did not know--it makes nothing to me--I will wait--I wish to obey the laws."
He picked up a fresh cigarette, lit it from the other, and tossed away the end.