Part 17 (1/2)

Our junior half-started from his chair in his excitement; then he controlled himself, and sank back into it again.

”Show him in,” he said, and sat with his eyes on the door, haggard in appearance, pitiful in his eagerness. Not until that moment had I noticed how the past week had aged him and worn him down--his work, of course, might account for part of it, but not for all. He seemed almost ill.

The door opened in a moment, and a gray-haired man of about sixty entered. He was fairly gasping for breath, and plainly laboring under strong emotion.

”Well, Thompson,” demanded Mr. Royce, ”what's the trouble now?”

”Trouble enough, sir!” cried the other. ”My mistress has been made away with, sir! She left town just ten days ago for Belair, where we were all waiting for her, and n.o.body has set eyes on her since, sir!”

CHAPTER X

An Astonis.h.i.+ng Disappearance

Mr. Royce grasped the arms of his chair convulsively, and remained for a moment speechless under the shock. Then he swung around toward me.

”Come here, Lester,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”I needed you once before, and I need you now. This touches me so closely I can't think consecutively. You _will_ help, won't you?”

There was an appeal in his face which showed his sudden weakness--an appeal there was no resisting, even had I not, myself, been deeply interested in the case.

”Gladly,” I answered, from the depths of my heart, seeing how overwrought he was. ”I'll help to the very limit of my power, Mr.

Royce.”

He sank back into his chair again, and breathed a long sigh.

”I knew you would,” he said. ”Get the story from Thompson, will you?”

I brought a chair, and sat down by the old butler.

”You have been in Mr. Holladay's family a great many years, haven't you, Mr. Thompson?” I asked, to give him opportunity to compose himself.

”Yes, a great many years, sir--nearly forty, I should say.”

”Before Miss Holladay's birth, then?”

”Oh, yes, sir; long before. Just before his marriage, Mr. Holladay bought the Fifth Avenue house he lived in ever since, and I was employed, then, sir, as an under-servant.”

”Mr. Holladay and his wife were very happy together, weren't they?” I questioned.

”Very happy; yes, sir. They were just like lovers, sir, until her death. They seemed just made for each other, sir,” and the trite old saying gathered a new dignity as he uttered it.

I paused a moment to consider. This, certainly, seemed to discredit the theory that Holladay had ever had a liaison with any other woman, and yet what other theory was tenable?

”There was nothing to mar their happiness that you know of? Of course,” I added, ”you understand, Thompson, that I'm not asking these questions from idle curiosity, but to get to the bottom of this mystery, if possible.”

”I understand, sir,” he nodded. ”No, there was nothing to mar their happiness--except one thing.”

”And what was that?”