"Wait, messieurs!" he cried. "A moment. But a moment. Ah, I remember it now--it was the link which was wanting, and you have supplied it--Holladay, a millionaire of America, his wife, Madame Alix--she did not live in the villa, then, messieurs. Oh, no; she was very poor, a nurse--anything to make a little money; her husband, who was a fisherman, was drowned, and left her to take care of the children as best she could. Ah, I remember--one a mere baby!" He had got down another book, and was running his finger rapidly down the page--his finger all a-tremble with excitement. Suddenly, he stopped with a little cry of triumph. "Here it is, messieurs! I knew I could not be mistaken! See!" Under the date of June 10, 1876, was an entry of which this is the English: "Holladay, Hiram W., and Elizabeth, his wife, of the city of New York, United States of America; from Celeste Alix, widow of Auguste Alix, her daughter Celeste, aged five months. All claim surrendered in consideration of the payment of 25,000 francs." Mr. Royce caught up the book and glanced at the back. It was the "Record of Adoptions." CHAPTER XVIII The Veil is Lifted In a moment we were hurrying along the street, in the direction the notary had pointed out to us. Martigny was already out of sight, and we had need of haste. My head was in a whirl. So Frances Holladay was not really the daughter of the dead millionaire! The thought compelled a complete readjustment of my point of view. Of course, she was legally his daughter; equally of course, this new development could make no difference in my companion's feeling for her. Nothing, then, was really changed. She must go back with us; she must take up the old life----But I had no time to reason it all out. We had reached the beach again, and we turned along it in the direction of the cliffs. Far ahead, I saw a man hurrying in the same direction--I could guess at what agony and danger to himself. The path began to ascend, and we panted up it to the grassy down, which seemed to stretch for miles and miles to the northward. Right before us was a little wood, in the midst of which I caught a glimpse of a farmhouse. We ran toward it, through a gate, and up the path to the door. It was closed, but we heard from within a man's excited voice--a resonant voice which I knew well. I tried the door; it yielded, and we stepped into the hall. The voice came from the room at the right. It was no time for hesitation--we sprang to the door and entered. Martigny was standing in the middle of the floor, fairly foaming at the mouth, shrieking out commands and imprecations at two women who cowered in the farther corner. The elder one I knew at a glance--the younger--my heart leaped as I looked at her--was it Miss Holladay? No, yet strangely like.