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Rogers," began our junior impressively, "you know, of course, that this whole case hinges, at present, on your identification of the woman who, presumably, was in Mr. Holladay's office when he was stabbed. I want to be very sure of that identification. Will you tell me how she was dressed?" The witness paused for a moment's thought.
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?
As for me, I was ransacking my memory where had I heard that voice before? Somewhere, I was certain a voice low, vibrant, repressed, full of color. Then, with a start, I remembered! It was Miss Holladay's voice, as she had risen to welcome our junior that morning at the coroner's court! I shook myself together for that was nonsense! "I fear that won't do," said Mr. Royce at last.
Royce had passed a good night and was better; the clerks who had spent the afternoon before in visiting the stables had as yet discovered nothing, and were continuing their search. I looked up a time-card of the Long Island Railroad, and found that Miss Holladay's coachman could not reach the city until 9.30.
He had grown gray in Holladay's office; he had proved himself, a hundred times, a man to be relied on; he had every reason to feel affection and gratitude toward his employer, and I was certain that he felt both; he received a liberal salary, I knew, and was comfortably well-to-do. That he himself could have committed the crime or been concerned in it in any way was absolutely unthinkable.
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