The proceeds of the sale were brought to the office early the next
afternoon, a small packet neatly sealed and docketed--one hundred
thousand-dollar bills. Mr. Graham turned it over in his hand
thoughtfully.
"You'll take it to the house, of course, John," he said to his
partner. "Lester 'd better go with you."
So Mr. Royce placed the package in his pocket, a cab was summoned, and
we were off. The trip was made without incident, and at the end of
half an hour we drew up before the Holladay mansion.
It was one of the old-styled brownstone fronts which lined both sides
of the avenue twenty years ago; it was no longer in the
ultra-fashionable quarter, which had moved up toward Central Park, and
shops of various kinds were beginning to encroach upon the
neighborhood; but it had been Hiram Holladay's home for forty years,
and he had never been willing to part with it. At this moment all the
blinds were down and the house had a deserted look. We mounted the
steps to the door, which was opened at once to our ring by a woman
whom I knew instinctively to be the new maid, though she looked much
less like a maid than like an elderly working-woman of the middle
class.
"We've brought the money Miss Holladay asked Mr. Graham for
yesterday," said Mr. Royce. "I'm John Royce, his partner," and without
answering the woman motioned us in.
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