# The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 5
### CHAPTER V.
#### I Dine With a Fascinating Stranger.

When I reached the office Mr. Graham was still at his desk, and he at once~demanded an account of the hearing. I went back to my work, and so caught only a word here and there. It was done at last, and I locked my desk with a sigh of relief. Mr. Graham nodded to me kindly as I passed out, and I left the office with the comfortable feeling that I had done a good day's work for myself, as well as for my employers.
A man who had apparently been loitering in the hall followed me into the elevator.
“This is Mr. Lester, isn't it?” he asked, as the car started to descend.
“Yes,” I said, looking at him in surprise. He was well dressed, with alert eyes and strong, pleasing face. I had never seen him before.
“And you're going to dinner, aren't you, Mr. Lester?' he continued.
“Yes—to dinner,” I assented, more and more surprised.
“Now, don't think me impertinent,” he said, smiling at my look of amazement, “but I want you to dine with me this evening. I can promise you as good a meal as you will get at most places in New York.”
“But I'm not dressed,” I protested.
“That doesn't matter in the least—neither am I, you see. We will dine, if you accept, at The Studio.”
We left the elevator together. I was completely in the dark as to my companion's purpose, and yet it could have but one explanation—it must be connected in some way with the Holladay case.
“Very well,” I said. “I'll be glad to accept your invitation.”
“You shall not go unrewarded. Godfrey is my name—no, you don't know me, but I'll soon explain myself. Here's my taxi.”
It seemed to me that there was an unusual number of loiterers about the door of the building, as we got into the taxi, but we were off in a moment, and I did not give them a second thought. As we swung into Thirteenth Street, the car stopped before The Studio.
My companion led the way upstairs to a private room, where a table stood ready set for us. The oysters appeared before we were fairly seated.
“You see,” he smiled, “I made bold to believe that you'd come with me, and so had the dinner already ordered.”
I looked at him without replying. He smiled, as he caught my glance.
“Of course you're puzzled,” he said. “Well, I'll make a clean breast of the matter at once. I wanted to talk with you about this Holladay case, and I decided that a dinner at The Studio would be just the ticket.”
“You were right,” I assented. “The idea was a stroke of genius.”
“I knew you'd think so. You see, since this morning, I've been making rather a study of you. That coup of yours at the coroner's court this afternoon was admirable—one of the best things I ever saw.”
1 bowed my acknowledgments.
“You were there, then?” I asked.
“I couldn't afford to miss it.”
“The color-blind theory was a simple one.”
“So simple that it never occurred to any one else. I think we're too apt to overlook the simple explanations, which are, after all, nearly always the true ones. Now take this case, for instance, I think it's safe to state that murder, where it is not the result of sudden passion, is always committed for one of two objects—revenge or gain. But Mr. Holladay's past life has been pretty thoroughly probed by the reporters, and nothing has been found to indicate that he had ever made a deadly enemy among the class of people who resort to murder. On the other hand, no one will gain by his death. It might seem at first glance that his daughter would gain; but I think she loses most of all. She already had all the money she could possibly need; and she's lost her father, whom, it's quite certain, she loved dearly. So what remains?”
“Only one thing,” I said. “Sudden passion.”
“That's it. Now, who was the woman? From the first I was certain it could not be his daughter. It seems almost equally absurd to suppose that Holladay could be mixed up with any other woman. He certainly has not been for the last quarter of a century—but before that—well, it's not so certain.”
My host went on to develop an ingenious theory to fit the main facts of the case, and then out of a clear sky abruptly asked, “But what do you make of the note?”
“The note?”
I started at the word, and my suspicions sprang into life again. I looked at him quickly, but his eyes were on the cloth, and he was rolling up innumerable little pellets of bread.
“That note,” he added, “proved two things: One was that the writer was deeply interested in Miss Holladay's welfare; the other was that he or she knew Rogers—almost as well as a physician knows an old patient.”
“I admit the first,” I said. “You'll have to explain the second.”
“The second is self-evident. How did the writer of the note know of Rogers' infirmity?”
“His infirmity?”
“His color-blindness. I confess I'm puzzled. How could any one know it when Rogers himself didn't know it? That's what I should like to have explained. Perhaps there's only one man or woman in the world who could know—well, that's the one who wrote the note. Now, who is it?”
Was this a trap he had prepared for me?
His eyes were not on the cloth now, but on me. There was a light in them I did not quite understand. I felt that I must be sure of my ground before I went forward.
“It should be very easy to trace the writer of the note,” I said.
“The police have not found it so.”
“No?”
“No. It was given to the doorkeeper by a boy—just an ordinary boy of from twelve to fourteen years—the man didn't notice him especially. He said there was no answer and went away. How are the police to find that boy? Suppose they do find him? Probably all he could tell them would be that a man stopped him at the corner and gave him a quarter to take the note to the coroner's office.”
“He might give a description of the man,” I ventured.
“What would a boy's description be worth? It would be, at the best, vague and indefinite. Besides, they've not even found the boy. But to return to the note.”
We had come to the coffee and cigars, and I felt it time to protest.
“Before we return to the note, Mr. Godfrey,” I said, “I'd like to ask you two direct questions. What interest have you in the matter?”
“The interest of every investigator of crime,” he answered, smiling.
“You belong to the detective force, then?”
“I have belonged to it. At present I'm otherwise employed.”
“And what was your object in bringing me here this evening?”
“One portion of my object has been accomplished. The other was to ask you to write out for me a copy of the note.”
“But who was it pursued us up Broadway?”
“Oh, I have rivals!” he chuckled. “I flatter myself that was rather neatly done. Will you give me a copy of the note, Mr. Lester?”
“No,” I answered squarely. “You'll have to go to the police for that. I'm out of the case.”
He bowed across the table to me with a little laugh. As I looked at him, his imperturbable good humor touched me.
“I'll tell you one thing, though,” I added. “The writer of the note knew nothing of Rogers' color-blindness—you're off the scent there.”
“I am?” he asked amazedly. “Then how did you know it, Mr. Lester?”
“I suppose you detectives would call it deduction—I deduced it.”
“I must say that beats me! Deduced it! That was mighty clever.”
Again I bowed my acknowledgments.
“And that's all you can tell me?” he added.
“I'm afraid that's all.”
“Very well; thank you for that much,” and he flicked the ashes from his cigar. “Now, I fear that I must leave you. I've a good deal of work to do, and you've opened up a very interesting line of speculation. I assure you that I've passed a very pleasant evening. I hope you've not found it tiresome?”
“Quite the contrary,” I said heartily. “I've enjoyed myself immensely.”
“Then I'll ask one last favor. My taxi is at the door. I've no further use for it, and I beg you'll drive home in it.”
He took me down to the door, called the taxi, and shook hands with me warmly.
“Good-by, Mr. Lester,” he said. “I'm glad of the chance to have met you. I'm not really such a mysterious individual—it's merely a trick of the trade. I hope we'll meet again some time.”
I saw him stand for a moment on the curb looking after us as we drove away, then he turned and ran rapidly up the steps of the elevated.
The car drew up at my lodging. I sprang out, tipped the driver, and ran up the steps to the door.
When I saw The Record next morning I discovered I had been entertained by their star reporter, Jim Godfrey.