Then, at last we reached New York, and my daughter--this
one--was sent to see Monsieur Holladay, while I was directed that I
write to Celeste--to Mademoiselle Holladay. She came that ver'
afternoon," she continued, "and I told her that it was I who was her
mother. He was with me, and displayed to her the papers of adoption.
She could not but be convinced. He talked to her as an angel--oh, he
could seem one when he chose!--he told her that I was in poverty--he
made her to weep, which was what he desired. She promised to bring us
money; she was ver' good; my heart went out to her. Then, just as she
had arisen to start homeward, in Celeste came, crying, sobbing,
stained with blood."
She shuddered and clasped her hands before her eyes.
"But you have said it was not murder, madame," I said to the younger
woman.
"Nor was it!" she cried. "Let me tell you, monsieur. I reached the
great building, which my husband had already pointed out to me; I
went up in the lift; I entered the office, but saw no one. I went on
through an open door and saw an old man sitting at a desk. I inquired
if Mr. Holladay was there. The old man glanced at me and bowed toward
another door. I saw it was a private office and entered it. The door
swung shut behind me. There was another old man sitting at a desk,
sharpening a pencil.
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