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. "Of course we must have a receipt for it," he added. "I have it ready here, and she need only attach her signature." "Miss Holladay is too ill to see you, sir," said the maid, with careful enunciation. "I will myself the paper take to her and get her signature." Mr. Royce hesitated a moment in perplexity. 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. "The sum is a considerable one, and must be given to Miss Holladay by me personally in the presence of this witness." It was the maid's turn to hesitate; I saw her lips tighten ominously. "Very well, sir," she said. "But I warn you, she is most nervous and it has been forbidden her to talk." "She will not be called upon to talk," retorted Mr. Royce curtly; and without answering, the woman turned and led the way up the stair and to her mistress's room. Miss Holladay was lying back in a great chair with a bandage about her head, and even in the half-light I could see how changed she was. She seemed much thinner and older, and coughed occasionally in a way that frightened me. Not grief alone, I told myself, could have caused this breakdown; it was the secret weighing upon her. My companion noted the change, too, of course--a greater change, perhaps, than my eyes could perceive--and I saw how moved and shocked he was. "My dear Miss Holladay," he began, but she stopped him abruptly with a little imperative motion of the hand. "Pray do not," she whispered hoarsely. "Pray do not." He stopped and pulled himself together. When he spoke again, it was in quite a different tone. "I have brought the money you asked for," and he handed her the package. "Thank you," she murmured. "Will you verify the amount?" "Oh, no; that is not necessary." "I have a receipt here," and he produced it and his fountain-pen. "Please sign it."