"
Mr. Royce nodded as he started for the door.
"I will; we'll find some flaw in that fellow's story, depend upon it.
Come on, Lester."
I snatched up pen and paper and followed him to the elevator. In a
moment we were in the street; there were cabs in plenty now,
disgorging their loads and starting back uptown again; we hailed one,
and in another moment were rattling along toward our destination with
such speed as the storm permitted. There were many questions surging
through my brain to which I should have welcomed an answer. The storm
had cut off my paper that morning, and I regretted now that I had not
made a more determined effort to get another. A glance at my companion
showed me the folly of attempting to secure any information from his,
so I contented myself with reviewing what I already knew of the
history of the principals.
I knew Hiram W. Holladay, the murdered man, quite well; not only as
every New Yorker knew that multi-millionaire as one of the most
successful operators in Wall Street, but personally as well, since he
had been a client of Graham & Royce for twenty years and more. He was
at that time well on toward seventy years of age, I should say, though
he carried his years remarkably well; his wife had been long dead,
and he had only one child, his daughter, Frances, who must have been
about twenty-five.
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