Miss Holladay seemed to me in no little danger
of becoming an accessory after the fact.
"She seems really ill," continued our senior. "She looks thinner and
quite careworn. I commended her resolution to seek rest and quiet and
change of scene."
"When does she go, sir?" asked Mr. Royce, in a subdued voice.
"The day after to-morrow, I think. She did not say definitely. In
fact, she could talk very little. She's managed to catch cold--the
grip, I suppose--and was very hoarse. It would have been cruelty to
make her talk, and I didn't try."
He wheeled around to his desk, and then suddenly back again.
"By the way," he said, "I saw the new maid. I can't say I wholly
approve of her."
He paused a minute, weighing his words.
"She seems careful and devoted," he went on, at last, "but I don't
like her eyes. They're too intense. I caught her two or three times
watching me strangely. I can't imagine where Miss Holladay picked her
up, or why she should have picked her up at all. She's French, of
course--she speaks with a decided accent. About the money, I suppose
we'd better sell a block of U. P. bonds. They're the least productive
of her securities."
"Yes, I suppose so," agreed Mr. Royce, and the chief called up a
broker and gave the necessary orders. Then he turned to other work,
and the day passed without any further reference to Miss Holladay or
her affairs.
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