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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9185-0.txt b/9185-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..64b6b24 --- /dev/null +++ b/9185-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7551 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery of Murray Davenport, by +Robert Neilson Stephens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mystery of Murray Davenport + A Story of New York at the Present Day + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9185] +This file was first posted on September 12, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + _A Story of New York at the Present Day_ + + By + + Robert Neilson Stephens + + 1903 + + + +Works of Robert Neilson Stephens + +An Enemy to the King + +The Continental Dragoon + +The Road to Paris + +A Gentleman Player + +Philip Winwood + +Captain Ravenshaw + +The Mystery of Murray Davenport + + + + +[Illustration: “'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A “JONAH” IS?'”] + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + + II. ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + + III. A READY-MONEY MAN + + IV. AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + + V. A LODGING BY THE RIVER + + VI. THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + + VII. MYSTERY BEGINS + + VIII. MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + + IX. MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + + X. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + + XI. FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + + XII. LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + + XIII. MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + + XIV. A STRANGE DESIGN + + XV. TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + + XVI. AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + + XVII. BAGLEY SHINES OUT + +XVIII. FLORENCE + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + +“'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A “JONAH” IS?'” + +“THE PLAY BECAME THE PROPERTY OF BAGLEY” + +“'I'M AFRAID IT'S A CASE OF MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE'” + +“'YOU'RE QUITE WELCOME TO THE USE OF MY AUTOMOBILE'” + +“TURL, HAVING TAKEN A MOMENT'S PRELIMINARY THOUGHT, BEGAN HIS ACCOUNT” + +“'GOOD EVENING, MR. MURRAY DAVENPORT! HOW ABOUT MY BUNCH OF MONEY?'” + + + + +THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + +The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was +August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than +they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the +basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and +dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the +reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw +were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down +their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry +in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy +chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called +him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited +though home was to a second-story “bed sitting-room” in a house of +“furnished rooms to let” on a crosstown street traversing the part of New +York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. + +Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium +appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon +sat good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, +and made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and +a negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram. + +“Who the deuce--?” began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he opened +the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise. +“Can I call?” he said, aloud. “Well, rather!” He let his book drop +forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The +telegram read merely: + +“In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA.” + +The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has +already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young +man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no +sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with +impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying +feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after +due announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was +kept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end +of that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. + +She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for +indoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in +a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and +she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair +arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless +skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's +conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility +in the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thing +compared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon +her with a serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made +it much less noticeable. + +“Well, this is a pleasure!” he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet +her. + +“Hello, Tom!” she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. “You +needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of +course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We +have at least an hour to ourselves.” + +“An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at +this time of year. When I got your telegram--” + +“I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York in +August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot +wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I +invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a +cab. But I came just to see you.” + +“How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true.” + The young man spoke sincerely. + +“It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down +and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's +some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't +order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if +you'd prefer a cup of tea--and I could manage some toast.” + +“No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing--with you to share +them. How thoughtful of you!” + +She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small +table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly +across at his hostess. + +“There's something I want you to do for me,” she answered, sitting +composedly back in her chair, in an attitude as graceful as comfortable. + +“Nothing would make me happier.” + +“Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?” she asked. + +“No,” replied Larcher, wonderingly. + +“I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I +should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or +less--that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, +besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do +with theatres.” + +“I never heard of him. But,” said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, +“there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers.” + +“I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, +of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?--going +about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be +easy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know +him.” + +“Oh, am I to do that?” Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper. + +“Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting +along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or +the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he +fares.” + +“Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man,” said Larcher, +somewhat poutingly. + +“Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man,” + she said, with lofty coolness. “But there are reasons why I must find out +about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you +hesitate, and hem and haw--” She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the +shoulders. + +“You might tell me the reasons, dear,” he said, humbly. + +“I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this +information got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get +it, and not ask any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment.” + +“Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts +to--prying into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather +intrusive, private detective sort of business.” + +“Oh, but you don't know the reason--the object in view. Somebody's +happiness depends on it,--perhaps more than one person's; I may tell you +that much.” + +“Whose happiness?” + +“It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't _my_ happiness, you +may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in +doing this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you should +be inquisitive beyond that.” + +“You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you +ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to +think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and +question--” + +“Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this +particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon +my word, you don't flatter me!” + +“Don't be angry, dear. If you're really _sure_ it's all right--” + +“_If_ I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had +asked somebody else! It isn't too late--” + +Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand. + +“Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve +you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can +handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say; +writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has +something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start +with?” + +“No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly +good-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and takes +his meals at restaurants.” + +“Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There _might_ +possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't +like to be looking up the wrong man.” + +“Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means. +But I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course _I_ never +saw him.” + +“There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a +writer and an artist and connected with theatres,” said Larcher. “And it +isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a +thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidences +do occur.” + +“He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember,” added the young +lady. + +“He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want this +report?” + +“As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his +circumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and +when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to +Easthampton to-morrow, you know.” + +A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up his +umbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue and a +car. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additional +minutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last to +consideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangeness +thereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate news +about a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on getting +that news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher could +only give it up, and think upon means for the early accomplishment of his +part in the matter. He had decided to begin immediately, for his first +inquiries would be made of men who kept late hours, and with whose +midnight haunts he was acquainted. + +He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below Fourteenth +Street. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement, +where he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an atmosphere +of tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap wine, and the +noisy talk of a numerous company sitting--for the most part--at long +tables whereon were the traces of a _table d'hôte_ dinner. Coffee and +claret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and glasses, but +also on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but youth +preponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of saying +it. The ladies were, as to the majority, unattractive in appearance, +nasal in voice, and unabashed in manner. The assemblage was, in short, +a specimen of self-styled, self-conscious Bohemia; a far-off, +much-adulterated imitation of the sort of thing that some of the young +men with halos of hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen in +Paris in their days of art study. Larcher made his way through the crowd +in the front room to that in the back, acknowledging many salutations. +The last of these came from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose +round, humorous face was made additionally benevolent by spectacles, and +whose forward bend of the shoulders might be the consequence of studious +pursuits, or of much leaning over café-tables, or of both. + +“Hello, Barry Tompkins!” said Larcher. “I've been looking for you.” + +Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their meeting +were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut manner: + +“You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius.” Whereat he looked +around and chuckled afresh. + +Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low: + +“You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man named Murray +Davenport?” + +“I believe there is such a man--an illustrator. Is that the one you +mean?” + +“I suppose so. Where can I find him?” + +“I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of +his work--in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think.” + +“I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence, +by the way.” + +“All right. Have you looked in the directory?” + +“Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are +some things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting +acquainted with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So the +trouble is to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead up +to a pretty close acquaintance.” + +“No trouble in that,” said Tompkins, decidedly. “Look here. He's an +illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives, +call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. +That will begin an acquaintance.” + +“And terminate it, too, don't you think? Would any self-respecting +illustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certainty +of his work ever appearing?” + +“Well, then, the next time you have anything accepted for publication, +get to the editor as fast as you can, and recommend this Davenport to do +the illustrations.” + +“Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?” + +“Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider it +presumptuous if _I_ did it. Suppose it happened to be one of those +editors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in the +manuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport as +illustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editor +to make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even if +Davenport refused the job,--which he wouldn't,--you'd have an opportunity +to pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms of mind and +manner.” + +“Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose he +turned out to be a bad illustrator?” + +“I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't have +remembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in my +room to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend him +intelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of yours +in hand just now?” + +“Why, yes,” said Larcher, brightening, “I got a notice of acceptance +to-day from the _Avenue Magazine_, of a thing about the rivers of New +York City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration.” + +“That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet for +illustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'll +think I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now and +tackle the old magazines in my room, to see what my praises of Mr. +Davenport shall rest on. As we go, we'll look the gentleman up in the +directory at the drug-store--unless you'd prefer to tarry here at the +banquet of wit and beauty.” Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved a +hand over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and conceit +it largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances regularly +to inhabit. + +Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather for +the pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins led the +way up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign old +woman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that she, who +was on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent in the shape +of her customers, might know of Murray Davenport; or, indeed, as he had +whispered to Larcher, that the illustrator might be one of the crowd in +the restaurant at that very moment. But the proprietress knew no such +person, a fact which seemed to rate him very low in her estimation and +somewhat high in Mr. Tompkins's. The two young men thereupon hastened to +board a car going up Sixth Avenue. Being set down near Greeley Square, +they went into a drug-store and opened the directory. + +“Here's a Murray Davenport, all right enough,” said Tompkins, “but he's +a playwright.” + +“Probably the same,” replied Larcher, remembering that his man had +something to do with theatres. “He's a gentleman of many professions, +let's see the address.” + +It was a number and street in the same part of the town with Larcher's +abode, but east of Madison Avenue, while his own was west of Fifth. But +now his way was to the residence of Barry Tompkins, which proved to be a +shabby room on the fifth floor of an old building on Broadway; a room +serving as Mr. Tompkins's sleeping-chamber by night, and his law office +by day. For Mr. Tompkins, though he sought pleasure and forage under the +banners of literature and journalism, owned to no regular service but +that of the law. How it paid him might be inferred from the oldness of +his clothes and the ricketiness of his office. There was a card saying +“Back in ten minutes” on the door which he opened to admit Larcher and +himself. And his friends were wont to assert that he kept the card +“working overtime,” himself, preferring to lay down the law to +companionable persons in neighboring cafés rather than to possible +clients in his office. When Tompkins had lighted the gas, Larcher saw a +cracked low ceiling, a threadbare carpet of no discoverable hue, an old +desk crowded with documents and volumes, some shelves of books at one +side, and the other three sides simply walled with books and magazines +in irregular piles, except where stood a bed-couch beneath a lot of +prints which served to conceal much of the faded wall-paper. + +Tompkins bravely went for the magazines, saying, “You begin with that +pile, and I'll take this. The names of the illustrators are always in the +table of contents; it's simply a matter of glancing down that.” + +After half an hour's silent work, Tompkins exclaimed, “Here we are!” and +took a magazine to the desk, at which both young men sat down. “'A Heart +in Peril,'” he quoted; “'A Story by James Willis Archway. Illustrated by +Murray Davenport. Page 38.'” He turned over the leaves, and disclosed +some rather striking pictures in half-tone, signed “M.D.” Two men and two +women figured in the different illustrations. + +“This isn't bad work,” said Tompkins. “I can recommend 'M.D.' with a +clear conscience. His women are beautiful in a really high way,--but +they've got a heartless look. There's an odd sort of distinction in his +men's faces, too.” + +“A kind of scornful discontent,” ventured Larcher. “Perhaps the story +requires it.” + +“Perhaps; but the thing I mean seems to be under the expressions +intended. I should say it was unconscious, a part of the artist's +conception of the masculine face in general before it's individualized. +I'll bet the chap that drew these illustrations isn't precisely the man +in the street, even among artists. He must have a queer outlook on life. +I congratulate you on your coming friend!” At which Mr. Tompkins, +chuckling, lighted a pipe for himself. + +Mr. Larcher sat looking dubious. If Murray Davenport was an unusual sort +of man, the more wonder that a girl like Edna Hill should so strangely +busy herself about him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + +Two days later, toward the close of a sunny afternoon, Mr. Thomas Larcher +was admitted by a lazy negro to an old brown-stone-front house half-way +between Madison and Fourth Avenues, and directed to the third story back, +whither he was left to find his way unaccompanied. Running up the dark +stairs swiftly, with his thoughts in advance of his body, he suddenly +checked himself, uncertain as to which floor he had attained. At a +hazard, he knocked on the door at the back of the dim, narrow passage he +was in. He heard slow steps upon the carpet, the door opened, and a man +slightly taller, thinner, and older than himself peered out. + +“Pardon me, I may have mistaken the floor,” said Larcher. “I'm looking +for Mr. Murray Davenport.” + +“'Myself and misery know the man,'” replied the other, with quiet +indifference, in a gloomy but not unpleasing voice, and stepped back to +allow his visitor's entrance. + +A little disconcerted at being received with a quotation, and one of such +import,--the more so as it came from the speaker's lips so naturally +and with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on a +stranger,--Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper, the +upholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in one +corner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the table +which stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk, were +all of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The same was +to be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black garment +of the square-cut “sack” or “lounge” shape. Books filled the mantel, the +flat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table, which held +also a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript paper, and the +paraphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the walls, and standing +about on top of books and elsewhere, were water-colors, drawings in +half-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many unfinished, besides a few +photographs of celebrated paintings and statues. But long before he had +sought more than the most general impression of these contents of the +room, Larcher had bent all his observation upon their possessor. + +The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by these +and kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose distinguished +by a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty of form was in +the distinctness of its lines. The complexion was colorless but clear, +the face being all smooth shaven. The slightly haggard eyes were gray, +rather of a plain and honest than a brilliant character, save for a tiny +light that burned far in their depths. The forehead was ample and smooth, +as far as could be seen, for rather longish brown hair hung over it, with +a negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an odd +painwearied dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an +unquenchable humor. + +“This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself,” said Larcher, handing +it. + +“Mr. Rogers?” inquired Murray Davenport. + +“Editor of the _Avenue Magazine_.” + +Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without +diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself +took a chair before the table. + +“I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher,” he said, conventionally; then, with +a change to informality, “I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers, +or any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any +offered me before.” + +“Oh, but I've seen some of your work,” contradicted Larcher. “The +illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'” + +“That wasn't offered me; I begged for it,” said Davenport, quietly. + +“Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were +recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this +stuff of mine,” and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from +under his coat. + +“It's so unprecedented,” resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective +way of speaking. “I can scarcely help thinking there must be some +mistake.” + +“But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril' +story?” + +“Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to +_me_--” + +“Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out new +illustrators they hear of.” + +“Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer +to _me_--an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, like a +gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called good +luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen to me +before; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in spite +of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case.” This was +said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling. + +Larcher smiled. “Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse to +do the pictures.” + +“Oh, no,” returned Davenport, indolently. “I won't refuse. I'll accept +the commission with pleasure--a certain amount of pleasure, that is. +There was a time when I should have danced a break-down for joy, +probably, at this opportunity. But a piece of good luck, strange as it +is to me, doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'll +receive it politely. In as much as I have plenty of time for this work, +and as Mr. Rogers seems to wish me to do it, I should be churlish if I +declined. The money too, is an object--I won't conceal that fact. To +think of a chance to earn a little money, coming my way without the +slightest effort on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'm +still tempted to think this is all a dream.” + +Larcher laughed. “Well, as to effort,” said he, “I don't think I should +be here now with that accepted manuscript for you to illustrate, if I +hadn't taken a good deal of pains to press my work on the attention of +editors.” + +“Oh, I don't mean to say that your prosperity, and other men's, is due +to having good things thrust upon you in this way. But if you do owe all +to your own work, at least your work does bring a fair amount of reward, +your efforts are in a fair measure successful. But not so with me. The +greatest fortune I could ever have asked would have been that my pains +should bring their reasonable price, as other men's have done. Therefore, +this extreme case of good luck, small as it is, is the more to be +wondered at. The best a man has a right to ask is freedom from what +people call habitual bad luck. That's an immunity I've never had. My +labors have been always banned--except when the work has masqueraded +as some other man's. In that case they have been blessed. It will seem +strange to you, Mr. Larcher, but whatever I've done in my own name has +met with wretched pay and no recognition, while work of mine, no better, +when passed off as another man's, has won golden rewards--for him--in +money and reputation.” + +“It does seem strange,” admitted Larcher. + +“What can account for it?” + +“Do you know what a 'Jonah' is, in the speech of the vulgar?” + +“Yes; certainly.” + +“Well, people have got me tagged with that name. I bring ill luck to +enterprises I'm concerned in, they say. That's a fatal reputation, Mr. +Larcher. It wasn't deserved in the beginning, but now that I have it, see +how the reputation itself is the cause of the apparent ill luck. Take +this thing, for instance.” He held up a sheet of music paper, whereon he +had evidently been writing before Larcher's arrival. “A song, supposed to +be sentimental. As the idea is somewhat novel, the words happy, and the +tune rather quaint, I shall probably get a publisher for it, who will +offer me the lowest royalty. What then? Its fame and sale--or whether it +shall have any--will depend entirely on what advertising it gets from +being sung by professional singers. I have taken the precaution to submit +the idea and the air to a favorite of the music halls, and he has +promised to sing it. Now, if he sang it on the most auspicious occasion, +making it the second or third song of his turn, having it announced with +a flourish on the programme, and putting his best voice and style into +it, it would have a chance of popularity. Other singers would want it, it +would be whistled around, and thousands of copies sold. But will he do +that?” + +“I don't see why he shouldn't,” said Larcher. + +“Oh, but he knows why. He remembers I am a Jonah. What comes from me +carries ill luck. He'll sing the song, yes, but he won't hazard any +auspicious occasion on it. He'll use it as a means of stopping encores +when he's tired of them; he'll sing it hurriedly and mechanically; he'll +make nothing of it on the programme; he'll hide the name of the author, +for fear by the association of the names some of my Jonahship might +extend to him. So, you see, bad luck _will_ attend my song; so, you see, +the name of bad luck brings bad luck. Not that there is really such a +thing as luck. Everything that occurs has a cause, an infinite line of +causes. But a man's success or failure is due partly to causes outside +of his control, often outside of his ken. As, for instance, a sudden +change of weather may defeat a clever general, and thrust victory upon +his incompetent adversary. Now when these outside causes are adverse, +and prevail, we say a man has bad luck. When they favor, and prevail, he +has good luck. It was a rapid succession of failures, due partly to folly +and carelessness of my own, I admit, but partly to a run of adverse +conjunctures far outside my sphere of influence, that got me my unlucky +name in the circles where I hunt a living. And now you are warned, Mr. +Larcher. Do you think you are safe in having my work associated with +yours, as Mr. Rogers proposes? It isn't too late to draw back.” + +Whether the man still spoke seriously, Larcher could not exactly tell. +Certainly the man's eyes were fixed on Larcher's face in a manner that +made Larcher color as one detected. But his weakness had been for an +instant only, and he rallied laughingly. + +“Many thanks, but I'm not superstitious, Mr. Davenport. Anyhow, my +article has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish the +amount I'm to receive for it.” + +“But consider the risk to your future career,” pursued Davenport, with a +faint smile. + +“Oh, I'll take the chances,” said Larcher, glad to treat the subject as +a joke. “I don't suppose the author of 'A Heart in Peril,' for instance, +has experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story.” + +“As a matter of fact,” replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy +humor, “the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital. +But I believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I +thank you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the _Avenue Magazine_, +it can afford a little bad luck.” + +“Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as +a result of your contact with it.” + +“Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are +right; Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must +know, Mr. Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure +in the world,--a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of +injustice. Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than +that. I never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up +apropos; but people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about +it, and find a moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused +at it, and benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For +it's been a part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should +often work for his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to +fall back on; he always has some little matter I can be useful in. He +poses then as my constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And +so he is, in fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on +the profits of the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr. +Larcher, to forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak of +me where my name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that the +wrong is an imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to +deserve the name of a man with a grievance.” + +His composed, indifferent manner was true to his words. He spoke, indeed, +as one to whom things mattered little, yet who, being originally of a +social and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the first +intelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to make +the most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the man's +acquaintance. + +“You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject ever +comes up in my presence,” said Larcher. “I can certainly testify to the +cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it.” + +“I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about,” + said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously. + +“Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?” + +“In my present environment.” + +“Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings.” + +Davenport shook his head. “My immediate environment would still be the +same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my old, +tiresome, unsuccessful self.” + +“But if you got about more among mankind,--not that I know what your +habits are at present, but I should imagine--” Larcher hesitated. + +“You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary,” said Davenport. +“That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'--to +fall back on Hamlet again--at least not from my present point of view.” + +“'Nor woman neither'?” quoted Larcher, interrogatively. + +“'No, nor woman neither,'” said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming upon +his face. “I don't know what your experience may have been. We have only +our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing from +women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and are +unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is to +be worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love, +with a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment they +are bored with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injured +if the man complains. We take the beauty of their faces, the softness of +their eyes, for the outward signs of tenderness and fidelity; and for +those supposed qualities, and others which their looks seem to express, +we love them. But they have not those qualities; they don't even know +what it is that we love them for; they think it is for the outward +beauty, and that that is enough. They don't even know what it is that we, +misled by that outward softness, imagine is beyond; and when we are +disappointed to find it isn't there, they wonder at us and blame us for +inconstancy. The beautiful woman who could be what she looks--who could +really contain what her beauty seems the token of--whose soul, in short, +could come up to the promise of her face,--there would be a creature! +You'll think I've had bad luck in love, too, Mr. Larcher.” + +Larcher was thinking, for the instant, about Edna Hill, and wondering +how near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women. For +himself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never seemed +the outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered conventionally: +“Well, one _would_ suppose so from your remarks. Of course, women like +to be amused, I know. Perhaps we expect too much from them. + + 'Oh, woman in our hours of ease, + Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, + And variable as the shade + By the light quivering aspen made.' + +I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines.” Mr. Larcher sighed at +certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. “But then, you know,-- + + 'When pain and anguish wring the brow, + A ministering angel them.'” + +“I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish,” said Davenport. “I've +experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on +women. But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on an +undeserving, but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, +after a time, she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck that +clung to him. What would she do then?” + +“Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil +influence,” replied Larcher, laughingly. + +“Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she would +take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil +influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she would +doubtless live happy ever after.” + +For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the +faintest cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face. + +“And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'” said Larcher, +looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject gaily, lest +he might betray his inquisitive purpose. + +“Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes +up a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations +here. I have amused myself a little in science, too,--you see the cabinet +over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, +but I wasn't fitted--or didn't care--to follow that profession in a +money-making way.” + +“You are exceedingly versatile.” + +“Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business. +When are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many are +wanted? I'm afraid I've been wasting your time.” + +In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of +better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to +certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details +settled, Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked: + +“Have you any engagement for dining?” + +“No,” said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion. + +“Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone.” + +“Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say--it depends on where you +dine.” + +“Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any +particular one.” + +“I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,--on one or two good things well +cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'hôte_ menu is +really too wearisome--even to a man who is used to weariness.” + +“Well, I know a place--Giffen's chop-house--that will just suit you. As +a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get an +unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of +delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says +that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and +better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents.” + +“I know the place, and your friend is quite right.” + +Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle. +When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which +in that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already +heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating +respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway +and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner. + +“What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!” remarked +Larcher. + +Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest: + +'The shadows lay along Broadway, +'Twas near the twilight tide--And slowly there a lady fair +Was walking in her pride.' + +“Poe praised those lines,” he added. “But it was a different Broadway +that Willis wrote them about.” + +“Yes,” said Larcher, “but in spite of the skyscrapers and the +incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?” + +“I used to,” said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, +who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many +failures? Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had +been played by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? +And, finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's +reasons for seeking information? + +Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the +chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level +with the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about +to enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, +overbearing voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as +both young men turned around. A tall, broad man, with a coarse, red face; +a man with hard, glaring eyes and a heavy black mustache; a man who had +intruded into a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a large +diamond in his tie; a man who swung his arms and used plenty of the +surrounding space in walking, as if greedy of it,--this man came across +the street, and, with an air of proprietorship, claimed Murray +Davenport's attention. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +A READY-MONEY MAN + +“I want you,” bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rustic +washerwoman summoning her offspring to a task. “I've got a little matter +for you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talk +it over.” + +“I'm engaged to dine with this gentleman,” said Davenport, coolly. + +“Well, that's all right,” said the newcomer. “This gentleman can come, +too.” + +“We prefer to dine here,” said Davenport, with firmness. “We have our own +reasons. I can meet you later.” + +“No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're +determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and +dine.” + +Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then +introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a +brief condescending glance and a rough “How are you,” Mr. Bagley led the +way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and +Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. + +Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the +state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from +the narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment +adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from +another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out +his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in +various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of +walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the +company's hearing capacity. + +As soon as dinner had been ordered,--a matter much complicated by Mr. +Bagley's calling for things which the house didn't serve, and then +wanting to know why it didn't,--he plunged at once into the details of +some business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulking +behind an evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By the +time the chops and potatoes had been brought, the business had been +communicated, and Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. He +suddenly took notice of Larcher. + +“So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?” quoth he, looking with benign +patronage from one young man to the other. + +“I've known Mr. Davenport a--short while,” said Larcher, with all the +iciness of injured conceit. + +“Same business?” queried Bagley. + +“I beg your pardon,” said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreign +language. + +“Are you in the same business he's in?” said Bagley, in a louder voice. + +“I--write,” said Larcher, coldly. + +Bagley looked him over, and, with evident approval of his clothes, +remarked: “You seem to've made a better thing of it than Dav has.” + +“I make a living,” said Larcher, curtly, with a glance at Davenport, who +showed no feeling whatever. + +“Well, I guess that's about all Dav does,” said Bagley, in a jocular +manner. “How is it, Dav, old man? But you never had any business sense.” + +“I can't return the compliment,” said Davenport, quietly. + +Bagley uttered a mirthful “Yah!” and looked very well contented with +himself. “I've always managed to get along,” he admitted. “And a good +thing for you I have, Dav. Where'ud you be to-day if you hadn't had me +for your good angel whenever you struck hard luck?” + +“I haven't the remotest idea,” said Davenport, as if vastly bored. + +“Neither have I,” quoth Bagley, and filled his mouth with mutton and +potato. When he had got these sufficiently disposed of to permit further +speech, he added: “No, sir, you literary fellows think yourselves very +fine people, but I don't see many of you getting to be millionaires by +your work.” + +“There are other ambitions in life,” said Larcher. + +Mr. Bagley emitted a grunt of laughter. “Sour grapes! Sour grapes, young +fellow! I know what I'm talking about. I've been a literary man myself.” + +Larcher arrested his fork half-way between his plate and his mouth, in +order to look his amazement. A curious twitch of the lips was the only +manifestation of Davenport, except that he took a long sip of ale. + +“Nobody would ever think it,” said Larcher. + +“Yes, sir; I've been a literary man; a playwright, that is. Dramatic +author, my friend Dav here would call it, I s'pose. But I made it pay.” + +“I must confess I don't recognize the name of Bagley as being attached to +any play I ever heard of,” said Larcher. “And yet I've paid a good deal +of attention to the theatre.” + +“That's because I never wrote but one play, and the money I made out of +that--twenty thousand dollars it was--I put into the business of managing +other people's plays. It didn't take me long to double it, did it, Dav? +Mr. Davenport here knows all about it.” + +“I ought to,” replied Davenport, coldly. + +“Yes, that's right, you ought to. We were chums in those days, Mr.--I +forget what your name is. We were both in hard luck then, me and Dav. But +I knew what to do if I ever got hold of a bit of capital. So I wrote that +play, and made a good arrangement with the actor that produced it, and +got hold of twenty thousand. And that was the foundation of _my_ fortune. +Oh, yes, Dav remembers. We had hall rooms in the same house in East +Fourteenth Street. We used to lend each other cuffs and collars. A man +never forgets those days.” + +With Davenport's talk of the afternoon fresh in mind, Larcher had +promptly identified this big-talking vulgarian. Hot from several +affronts, which were equally galling, whether ignorant or intended, he +could conceive of nothing more sweet than to take the fellow down. + +“I shouldn't wonder,” said he, “if Mr. Davenport had more particular +reasons to remember that play.” + +Davenport looked up from his plate, but merely with slight surprise, not +with disapproval. Bagley himself stared hard at Larcher, then glanced at +Davenport, and finally blurted out a laugh, and said: + +“So Dav has been giving you his fairy tale? I thought he'd dropped it as +a played-out chestnut. God knows how the delusion ever started in his +head. That's a question for the psychologists--or the doctors, maybe. But +he used to imagine--I give him credit for really imagining it--he used to +imagine he had written that play. I s'pose that's what he's been telling +you. But I thought he'd got over the hallucination; or got tired telling +about it, anyhow.” + +But, in the circumstances, no nice consideration of probabilities was +necessary to make Larcher the warm partisan of Davenport. He answered, +with as fine a derision as he could summon: + +“Any unbiased judge, with you two gentlemen before him, if he had to +decide which had written that play, wouldn't take long to agree with Mr. +Davenport's hallucination, as you call it.” + +Mr. Bagley gazed at Larcher for a few moments in silence, as if not +knowing exactly what to make of him, or what manner to use toward him. He +seemed at last to decide against a wrathful attitude, and replied: + +“I suppose you're a very unbiased judge, and a very superior person all +round. But nobody's asking for your opinion, and I guess it wouldn't +count for much if they did. The public has long ago made up its mind +about Mr. Davenport's little delusion.” + +“As one of 'the public,' perhaps I have a right to dispute that,” + retorted Larcher. “Men don't have such delusions.” + +“Oh, don't they? That's as much as you know about the eccentricities of +human nature,--and yet you presume to call yourself a writer. I guess you +don't know the full circumstances of this case. Davenport himself admits +that he was very ill at the time I disposed of the rights of that play. +We were in each other's confidence then, and I had read the play to him, +and talked it over with him, and he had taken a very keen interest in it, +as any chum would. And then this illness came on, just when the marketing +of the piece was on the cards. He was out of his head a good deal during +his illness, and I s'pose that's how he got the notion he was the author. +As it was, I gave him five hundred dollars as a present, to celebrate the +acceptance of the piece. And I gave him that at once, too--half the amount +of the money paid on acceptance, it was; for anything I knew then, it +might have been half of all I should ever get for the play, because +nobody could predict how it would pan out. Well, I've never borne him an +ounce of malice for his delusion. Maybe at this very moment he still +honestly thinks himself the author of that play; but I've always stood by +him, and always will. Many's the piece of work I've put in his hands; and +I will say he's never failed me on his side, either. Old Reliable Dav, +that's what I call him; Old Reliable Dav, and I'd trust him with every +dollar I've got in the world.” He finished with a clap of good fellowship +on Davenport's shoulder, and then fell upon the remainder of his chop and +potato with a concentration of interest that put an end to the dispute. + +As for Davenport, he had continued eating in silence, with an +expressionless face, as if the matter were one that concerned a stranger. +Larcher, observing him, saw that he had indeed put that matter behind +him, as one to which there was nothing but weariness to be gained in +returning. The rest of the meal passed without event. Mr. Bagley made +short work of his food, and left the two others with their coffee, +departing in as self-satisfied a mood as he had arrived in, and without +any trace of the little passage of words with Larcher. + +A breath of relief escaped Davenport, and he said, with a faint smile: + +“There was a time when I had my say about the play. We've had scenes, I +can tell you. But Bagley is a man who can brazen out any assertion; he's +a man impossible to outface. Even when he and I are alone together, he +plays the same part; won't admit that I wrote the piece; and pretends to +think I suffer under a delusion. I _was_ ill at the time he disposed of +my play; but I had written it long before the time of my illness.” + +“How did he manage to pass it off as his?” + +“We were friends then, as he says, or at least comrades. We met through +being inmates of the same lodging-house. I rather took to him at first. +I thought he was a breezy, cordial fellow; mistook his loudness for +frankness, and found something droll and pleasing in his nasal drawl. +That brass-horn voice!--ye gods, how I grew to shudder at it afterward! +But I liked his company over a glass of beer; he was convivial, and told +amusing stories of the people in the country town he came from, and of +his struggles in trying to get a start in business. I was struggling as +hard in my different way--a very different way, for he was an utter +savage as far as art and letters were concerned. But we exchanged +accounts of our daily efforts and disappointments, and knew all about +each other's affairs,--at least he knew all about mine. And one of mine +was the play which I wrote during the first months of our acquaintance. +I read it to him, and he seemed impressed by it, or as much of it as he +could understand. I had some idea of sending it to an actor who was then +in need of a new piece, through the failure of one he had just produced. +My play seemed rather suitable to him, and I told Bagley I thought of +submitting it as soon as I could get it typewritten. But before I could +do that, I was on my back with pneumonia, utterly helpless, and not +thinking of anything in the world except how to draw my breath. + +“The first thing I did begin to worry about, when I was on the way to +recovery, was my debts, and particularly my debt to the landlady. She +was a good woman, and wouldn't let me be moved to a hospital, but took +care of me herself through all my illness. She furnished my food during +that time, and paid for my medicines; and, furthermore, I owed her for +several weeks' previous rent. So I bemoaned my indebtedness, and the +hopelessness of ever getting out of it, a thousand times, day and night, +till it became an old song in the ears of Bagley. One day he came in +with his face full of news, and told me he had got some money from the +sale of a farm, in which he had inherited a ninth interest. He said he +intended to risk his portion in the theatrical business--he had had some +experience as an advance agent--and offered to buy my play outright for +five hundred dollars. + +“Well, it was like an oar held out to a drowning man. I had never before +had as much money at the same time. It was enough to pay all my debts, +and keep me on my feet for awhile to come. Of course I knew that if my +play were a fair success, the author's percentage would be many times +five hundred dollars. But it might never be accepted,--no play of mine +had been, and I had hawked two or three around among the managers,--and +in that case I should get nothing at all. As for Bagley, his risk in +producing a play by an unknown man was great. His chances of loss seemed +to me about nine in ten. I took it that his offer was out of friendship. +I grasped at the immediate certainty, and the play became the property +of Bagley. + +“I consoled myself with the reflection that, if the play made a real +success, I should gain some prestige as an author, and find an easier +hearing for future work. I was reading a newspaper one morning when the +name of my play caught my eye. You can imagine how eagerly I started to +read the item about it, and what my feelings were when I saw that it was +immediately to be produced by the very actor to whom I had talked of +sending it, and that the author was George A. Bagley. I thought there +must be some mistake, and fell upon Bagley for an explanation as soon as +he came home. He laughed, as men of his kind do when they think they have +played some clever business trick; said he had decided to rent the play +to the actor instead of taking it on the road himself; and declared that +as it was his sole property, he could represent it as the work of anybody +he chose. I raised a great stew about the matter; wrote to the +newspapers, and rushed to see the actor. He may have thought I was a +lunatic from my excitement; however, he showed me the manuscript Bagley +had given him. It was typewritten, but the address of the typewriter +copyist was on the cover. I hastened to the lady, and inquired about the +manuscript from which she had made the copy. I showed her some of my +penmanship, but she assured me the manuscript was in another hand. I ran +home, and demanded the original manuscript from Bagley. 'Oh, certainly,' +he said, and fished out a manuscript in his own writing. He had copied +even my interlineations and erasures, to give his manuscript the look of +an original draft. This was the copy from which the typewriter had +worked. My own handwritten copy he had destroyed. I have sometimes +thought that when the idea first occurred to him of submitting my play to +the actor, he had meant to deal fairly with me, and to profit only by an +agent's commission. But he may have inquired about the earnings of plays, +and learned how much money a successful one brings; and the discovery may +have tempted him to the fraud. Or his design may have been complete from +the first. It is easy to understand his desire to become the sole owner +of the play. Why he wanted to figure as the author is not so clear. It +may have been mere vanity; it may have been--more probably was--a desire +to keep to himself even the author's prestige, to serve him in future +transactions of the same sort. In any case, he had created evidence of +his authorship, and destroyed all existing proof of mine. He had made +good terms,--a percentage on a sliding scale; one thousand dollars down +on account. It was out of that thousand that he paid me the five hundred. +The play was a great money-winner; Bagley's earnings from it were more +than twenty thousand dollars in two seasons. That is the sum I should +have had if I had submitted the play to the same actor, as I had intended +to do. I made a stir in the newspapers for awhile; told my tale to +managers and actors and reporters; started to take it to the courts, but +had to give up for lack of funds; in short, got myself the name, as I +told you today, of a man with a grievance. People smiled tolerantly at my +story; it got to be one of the jokes of the Rialto. Bagley soon hit on +the policy of claiming the authorship to my face, and pretending to treat +my assertion charitably, as the result of a delusion conceived in +illness. You heard him tonight. But it no longer disturbs me.” + +“Has he ever written any plays of his own? Or had any more produced over +his name?” asked Larcher. + +“No. He put the greater part of his profits into theatrical management. +He multiplied his investment. Then he 'branched out;' tried Wall Street +and the race-tracks; went into real estate. He speculates now in many +things. I don't know how rich he is. He isn't openly in theatrical +management any more, but he still has large interests there; he is what +they call an 'angel.'” + +“He spoke of being your good angel.” + +“He has been the reverse, perhaps. It's true, many a time when I've been +at the last pinch, he has come to my rescue, employing me in some affair +incidental to his manifold operations. Unless you have been hungry, and +without a market for your work; unless you have walked the streets +penniless, and been generally 'despised and rejected of men,' you, +perhaps, can't understand how I could accept anything at his hands. But +I could, and sometimes eagerly. As soon as possible after our break, he +assumed the benevolent attitude toward me. I resisted it with proper +scorn for a time. But hard lines came; 'my poverty but not my will' +consented. In course of time, there ceased to be anything strange in the +situation. I got used to his service, and his pay, yet without ever +compounding for the trick he played me. He trusts me thoroughly--he +knows men. This association with him, though it has saved me from +desperate straits, is loathsome to me, of course. It has contributed as +much as anything to my self-hate. If I had resolutely declined it, I +might have found other resources at the last extremity. My life might +have taken a different course. That is why I say he has been, perhaps, +the reverse of a good angel to me.” + +“But you must have written other plays,” pursued Larcher. + +“Yes; and have even had three of them produced. Two had moderate success; +but one of those I sold on low terms, in my eagerness to have it accepted +and establish a name. On the other, I couldn't collect my royalties. The +third was a failure. But none of these, or of any I have written, was up +to the level of the play that Bagley dealt with. I admit that. It was my +one work of first-class merit. I think my poor powers were affected by my +experience with that play; but certainly for some reason I + + '... never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture.' + +I should have been a different man if I had received the honor and the +profits of that first accepted play of mine.” + +“I should think that, as Bagley is so rich, he would quietly hand you +over twenty thousand dollars, at least, for the sake of his conscience.” + +“Men of Bagley's sort have no conscience where money is concerned. I used +to wonder just what share of his fortune was rightly mine, if one knew +how to estimate. It was my twenty thousand dollars he invested; what +percentage of the gains would belong to me, giving him his full due for +labor and skill? And then the credit of the authorship,--which he flatly +robbed me of,--what would be its value? But that is all matter for mere +speculation. As to the twenty thousand alone, there can be no doubt.” + +“And yet he said tonight he would trust you with every dollar he had in +the world.” + +“Yes, he would.” Davenport smiled. “He knows that _I_ know the difference +between a moral right and a legal right. He knows the difficulties in +the way of any attempt at self-restitution on my part,--and the +unpleasant consequences. Oh, yes, he would trust me with large sums; has +done so, in fact. I have handled plenty of his cash. He is what they call +a 'ready-money man;' does a good deal of business with bank-notes of high +denomination,--it enables him to seize opportunities and make swift +transactions. He should interest you, if you have an eye for character.” + +Upon which remark, Davenport raised his cup, as if to finish the coffee +and the subject at the same time. Larcher sat silently wondering what +other dramas were comprised in the history of his singular companion, +besides that wherein Bagley was concerned, and that in which the fickle +woman had borne a part. He found himself interested, on his own account, +in this haggard-eyed, world-wearied, yet not unattractive man, as well +as for Miss Hill. When Davenport spoke again, it was in regard to the +artistic business which now formed a tie between himself and Larcher. + +This business was in due time performed. It entailed as much association +with Davenport as Larcher could wish for his purpose. He learnt little +more of the man than he had learned on the first day of their +acquaintance, but that in itself was considerable. Of it he wrote a full +report to Miss Hill; and in the next few weeks he added some trifling +discoveries. In October that young woman and her aunt returned to town, +and to possession of a flat immediately south of Central Park. Often as +Larcher called there, he could not draw from Edna the cause of her +interest in Davenport. But his own interest sufficed to keep him the +regular associate of that gentleman; he planned further magazine work for +himself to write and Davenport to illustrate, and their collaboration +took them together to various parts of the city. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + +The lower part of Fifth Avenue, the part between Madison and Washington +Squares, the part which alone was “the Fifth Avenue” whereof Thackeray +wrote in the far-off days when it was the abode of fashion,--the far-off +days when fashion itself had not become old-fashioned and got improved +into Smart Society,--this haunted half-mile or more still retains many +fine old residences of brown stone and of red brick, which are spruce +and well-kept. One such, on the west side of the street, of red brick, +with a high stoop of brown stone, is a boarding-house, and in it is an +apartment to which, on a certain clear, cold afternoon in October, the +reader's presence in the spirit is respectfully invited. + +The hallway of the house is prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits of +hallways, in order to lead to a secluded parlor at the rear, apparently +used by its occupants as a private sitting and dining room. At the left +side of this room, after one enters, are folding doors opening from what +is evidently somebody's bed-chamber. At the same side, further on, is a +large window, the only window in the room. As the ceiling is so high, and +the wall-paper so dark, the place is rather dim of light at all times, +even on this sunny autumn afternoon when the world outside is so full of +wintry brightness. + +The view of the world outside afforded by the window--which looks +southward--is of part of a Gothic church in profile, and the backs of +houses, all framing an expanse of gardens. It is a peaceful view, and +this back parlor itself, being such a very back parlor, receives the +city's noises dulled and softened. One seems very far, here, from the +clatter and bang, the rush and strenuousness, really so near at hand. +The dimness is restful; it is relieved, near the window, by a splash of +sunlight; and, at the rear of the room, by a coal fire in the grate. The +furniture is old and heavy, consisting largely of chairs of black wood +in red velvet. Half lying back in one of these is a fretful-looking, +fine-featured man of late middle age, with flowing gray hair and flowing +gray mustache. His eyes are closed, but perhaps he is not asleep. There +is a piano near a corner, opposite the window, and out of the splash of +sunshine, but its rosewood surface reflects here and there the firelight. +And at the piano, playing a soft accompaniment, sits a tall, slender +young woman, with a beautiful but troubled face, who sings in a low voice +one of Tosti's love-songs. + +Her figure is still girlish, but her face is womanly; a classic face, not +like the man's in expression, but faintly resembling it in form, though +her features, clearly outlined, have not the smallness of his. Her eyes +are large and deep blue. There is enough rich color of lip, and fainter +color of cheek, to relieve the whiteness of her complexion. The trouble +on her face is of some permanence; it is not petty like that of the +man's, but is at one with the nobility of her countenance. It seems to +find rest in the tender sadness of the song, which, having finished, she +softly begins again: + +“'I think of what thou art to me, +I think of what thou canst not be'”-- + +As the man gives signs of animation, such as yawning, and moving in his +chair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed by +the song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice: + +“Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And such +expression!--unconscious expression, too. What a pity--what a +shame--that your gift should be utterly wasted!” + +“It isn't wasted if my singing pleases you, father,” says the girl, +patiently. + +“I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself,” replies the man, +peevishly. “I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide +our light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the +world pays for them, too. Think of the money--think of how we might live! +Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!” + +She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers +as one who has as often made the same answer: + +“I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage, +and the choirs are all full.” + +“You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic +opera--” + +The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: “And +you know well enough my determination about that. The one week's +experience I had--” + +“Oh, nonsense!” interrupted the man. “All managers are not like that +fellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic opera +stage.” + +“No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If I +absolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put to +that necessity.” + +“Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?” + +“We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us our +present allowance--” + +“Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom I +brought up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father to +the full extent of his ability!” + +“All the same, it's a far greater allowance than most sons or brothers +make.” + +“Because other sons are ungrateful, and blind to their duty, it doesn't +follow that Dick ought to be. Thank Heaven, I brought him up better than +that. I'm only sorry that his sister can't see things in the same light +as he does. After all the trouble of raising my children, and the hopes +I've built on them--” + +“But you know perfectly well,” she protests, softly, “that Dick makes us +such a liberal allowance in order that I needn't go out and earn money. +He has often said that. Even when you praise him for his dutifulness to +you, he says it's not that, but his love for me. And because it is the +free gift of his love, I'm willing to accept it.” + +“I suppose so, I suppose so,” says the man, in a tone of resignation to +injury. “It's very little that I'm considered, after all. You were always +a pair, always insensible of the pains I've taken over you. You always +seemed to regard it as a matter of course that I should feed you, and +clothe you, and educate you.” + +The girl sighs, and begins faintly to touch the keys of the piano again. +The man sighs, too, and continues, with a heightened note of personal +grievance: + +“If any man's hopes ever came to shipwreck, mine have. Just look back +over my life. Look at the professional career I gave up when I married +your mother, in order to be with her more than I otherwise could have +been. Look how poorly we lived, she and I, on the little income she +brought me. And then the burden of you children! And what some men would +have felt a burden, as you grew up, I made a source of hopes. I had +endowed you both with good looks and talent; Dick with business ability, +and you with a gift for music. In order to cultivate these advantages, +which you had inherited from me, I refrained from going into any business +when your mother died. I was satisfied to share the small allowance her +father made you two children. I never complained. I said to myself, 'I +will invest my time in bringing up my children.' I thought it would turn +out the most profitable investment in the world,--I gave you children +that much credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I should +begin to realize on the investment!” + +“I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you,” says the girl. “He +began to earn money as soon as he was nineteen, and he has never--” + +“Time enough, too,” the man breaks in. “It was a very fortunate thing I +had fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, when +your grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if I +hadn't prepared Dick to step in and make his living?” + +“_Our_ living,” says the girl. + +“Our living, of course. It would be very strange if I weren't to reap a +bare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a living +out of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualities +for success?” The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuable +qualities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. “Dick hasn't +done any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what _he_ has +done, is so much more than nothing at all, that--” He stops as if it were +useless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact that +this conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with displeasure. + +After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: “Well, if I haven't +earned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to please +you.” + +“You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our trip +to Europe?” + +“The young man who did us so many kindnesses, and was of so much use to +you, on our trip to Europe,” she corrects. + +“He thought I was rich, my dear, and that you were an heiress. He was a +nobody, an adventurer, probably. If things had gone any further between +you and him, your future might have been ruined. It was only another +example of my solicitude for you; another instance that deserves your +thanks, but elicits your ingratitude. If you are fastidious about a +musical career, at least you have still a possibility of a good marriage. +It was my duty to prevent that possibility from being cut off.” + +She turns upon him a look of high reproach. + +“And that was the only motive, then,” she cries, “for your tears and your +illness, and the scenes that wrung from me the promise to break with +him?” + +“It was motive enough, wasn't it?” he replies, defensively, a little +frightened at her sudden manner of revolt. “My thoughtfulness for your +future--my duty as a father--my love for my child--” + +“You pretended it was your jealous love for me, your feeling of +desertion, your loneliness. I might have known better! You played on my +pity, on my love for you, on my sense of duty as a daughter left to fill +my mother's place. When you cried over being abandoned, when you looked +so forlorn, my heart melted. And that night when you said you were dying, +when you kept calling for me--'Flo, where is little Flo'--although I was +there leaning over you, I couldn't endure to grieve you, and I gave my +promise. And it was only that mercenary motive, after all!--to save me +for a profitable marriage!” She gazes at her father with an expression so +new to him on her face, that he moves about in his chair, and coughs +before answering: + +“You will appreciate my action some day. And besides, your promise to +drop the man wasn't so much to give. You admitted, yourself, he hadn't +written to you. He had afforded you good cause, by his neglect.” + +“He was very busy at that time. I always thought there was something +strange about his sudden failure to write--something that could have +been explained, if my promise to you hadn't kept me from inquiring.” + +The father coughs again, at this, and turns his gaze upon the fire, which +he contemplates deeply, to the exclusion of all other objects. The girl, +after regarding him for a moment, sighs profoundly; placing her elbows on +the keyboard, she leans forward and buries her face in her hands. + +This picture, not disturbed by further speech, abides for several ticks +of the French clock on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it is broken by a knock +at the door. Florence sits upright, and dries her eyes. A negro man +servant with a discreet manner enters and announces two visitors. “Show +them in at once,” says Florence, quickly, as if to forestall any possible +objection from her father. The negro withdraws, and presently, with a +rapid swish of skirts, in marches a very spick and span young lady, +her diminutive but exceedingly trim figure dressed like an animated +fashion-plate. She is Miss Edna Hill, and she comes brisk and dashing, +with cheeks afire from the cold, bringing into the dull, dreamy room the +life and freshness of the wintry day without. Behind her appears a +stranger, whose name Florence scarcely heeded when it was announced, and +who enters with the solemn, hesitant air of one hitherto unknown to the +people of the house. He is a young man clothed to be the fit companion of +Miss Hill, and he waits self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciously +greets Florence as her dearest, and while she bestows a touch of her +gloved fingers and a “How d'ye do, Mr. Kenby,” on the father. She then +introduces the young man as Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, there +appears a surprised admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty. + +Miss Hill monopolizes Florence, however, and Larcher is left to wander to +the fire, and take a pose there, and discuss the weather with Mr. Kenby, +who does not seem to find the subject, or Larcher himself, at all +interesting, a fact which the young man is not slow in divining. Strained +relations immediately ensue between the two gentlemen. + +As soon as the young ladies are over the preliminary burst of compliments +and news, Edna says: + +“I'm lucky to find you at home, but really you oughtn't to be moping in +a dark place like this, such a fine afternoon.” + +“Father can't go out because of his rheumatism, and I stay to keep him +company,” replies Florence. + +“Oh, dear me, Mr. Kenby,” says Edna, looking at the gentleman rather +skeptically, as if she knew him of old and suspected a habit of +exaggerating his ailments, “can't you pass the time reading or +something? Florence _must_ go out every day; she'll ruin her looks if +she doesn't,--her health, too. I should think you could manage to +entertain yourself alone an hour or two.” + +“It isn't that,” explains Florence; “he often wants little things done, +and it's painful for him to move about. In a house like this, the +servants aren't always available, except for routine duties.” + +“Well, I'll tell you what,” proposes Edna, blithely; “you get on your +things, dear, and we'll run around and have tea with Aunt Clara at +Purcell's. Mr. Larcher and I were to meet her there, but you come with +me, and Mr. Larcher will stay and look after your father. He'll be very +glad to, I know.” + +Mr. Larcher is too much taken by surprise to be able to say how very +glad he will be. Mr. Kenby, with Miss Hill's sharp glance upon him, +seems to feel that he would cut a poor figure by opposing. So Florence +is rushed by her friend's impetuosity into coat and hat, and carried +off, Miss Hill promising to return with her for Mr. Larcher “in an hour +or two.” Before Mr. Larcher has had time to collect his scattered +faculties, he is alone with the pettish-looking old man to whom he has +felt himself an object of perfect indifference. He glares, with a defiant +sense of his own worth, at the old man, until the old man takes notice of +his existence. + +“Oh, it's kind of you to stay, Mr.--ahem. But they really needn't have +troubled you. I can get along well enough myself, when it's absolutely +necessary. Of course, my daughter will be easier in mind to have some +one here.” + +“I am very glad to be of service--to so charming a young woman,” says +Larcher, very distinctly. + +“A charming girl, yes. I'm very proud of my daughter. She's my constant +thought. Children are a great care, a great responsibility.” + +“Yes, they are,” asserts Larcher, jumping at the chance to show this +uninterested old person that wise young men may sometimes be entertained +unawares. “It's a sign of progress that parents are learning on which +side the responsibility lies. It used to be universally accepted that +the obligation was on the part of the children. Now every writer on the +subject starts on the basis that the obligation is on the side of the +parent. It's hard to see how the world could have been so idiotic +formerly. As if the child, summoned here in ignorance by the parents for +their own happiness, owed them anything!” + +Mr. Kenby stares at the young man for a time, and then says, icily: + +“I don't quite follow you.” + +“Why, it's very clear,” says Larcher, interested now for his argument. +“You spoke of your sense of responsibility toward your child.” + +(“The deuce I did!” thinks Mr. Kenby.) + +“Well, that sense is most natural in you, and shows an enlightened mind. +For how can parents feel other than deeply responsible toward the being +they have called into existence? How can they help seeing their +obligation to make existence for that being as good and happy as it's in +their power to make it? Who dare say that there is a limit to their +obligation toward that being?” + +“And how about that being's obligations in return?” Mr. Kenby demands, +rather loftily. + +“That being's obligations go forward to the beings it in turn summons to +life. The child, becoming in time a parent, assumes a parent's debt. The +obligation passes on from generation to generation, moving always to the +future, never back to the past.” + +“Somewhat original theories!” sniffs the old man. “I suppose, then, a +parent in his old age has no right to look for support to his children?” + +“It is the duty of people, before they presume to become parents, to +provide against the likelihood of ever being a burden to their children. +In accepting from their children, they rob their children's children. +But the world isn't sufficiently advanced yet to make people so +far-seeing and provident, and many parents do have to look to their +children for support. In such cases, the child ought to provide for the +parent, but out of love or humanity, not because of any purely logical +claim. You see the difference, of course.” + +Mr. Kenby gives a shrug, and grunts ironically. + +“The old-fashioned idea still persists among the multitude,” Larcher +goes on, “and many parents abuse it in practice. There are people who +look upon their children mainly as instruments sent from Heaven for them +to live by. From the time their children begin to show signs of +intelligence, they lay plans and build hopes of future gain upon them. +It makes my blood boil, sometimes, to see mothers trying to get their +pretty daughters on the stage, or at a typewriter, in order to live at +ease themselves. And fathers, too, by George! Well, I don't think there's +a more despicable type of humanity in this world than the able-bodied +father who brings his children up with the idea of making use of them!” + +Mr. Larcher has worked himself into a genuine and very hearty +indignation. Before he can entirely calm down, he is put to some wonder +by seeing his auditor rise, in spite of rheumatism, and walk to the door +at the side of the room. “I think I'll lie down awhile,” says Mr. Kenby, +curtly, and disappears, closing the door behind him. Mr. Larcher, after +standing like a statue for some time by the fire, ensconces himself in a +great armchair before it, and gazes into it until, gradually stolen upon +by a sense of restful comfort in the darkening room, he falls asleep. + +He is awakened by the gay laugh of Edna Hill, as she and Florence enter +the room. He is on his feet in time to keep his slumbers a secret, and +explains that Mr. Kenby has gone for a nap. When the gas is lit, he sees +that Florence, too, is bright-faced from the outer air, that her eye has +a fresher sparkle, and that she is more beautiful than before. As it is +getting late, and Edna's Aunt Clara is to be picked up in a shop in +Twenty-third Street where the girls have left her, Larcher is borne off +before he can sufficiently contemplate Miss Kenby's beauty. Florence is +no sooner alone than Mr. Kenby comes out of the little chamber. + +“I hope you feel better for your nap, father.” + +“I didn't sleep any, thank you,” says Mr. Kenby. “What an odious young +man that was! He has the most horrible principles. I think he must be an +anarchist, or something of that sort. Did you enjoy your tea?” + +The odious young man, walking briskly up the lighted avenue, past piano +shops and publishing houses, praises Miss Kenby's beauty to Edna Hill, +who echoes the praise without jealousy. + +“She's perfectly lovely,” Edna asserts, “and then, think of it, she has +had a romance, too; but I mustn't tell that.” + +“It's strange you never mentioned her to me before, being such good +friends with her.” + +“Oh, they've only just got settled back in town,” answers Edna, +evasively. “What do you think of the old gentleman?” + +“He seems a rather queer sort. Do you know him very well?” + +“Well enough. He's one of those people whose dream in life is to make +money out of their children.” + +“What! Then I _did_ put my foot in it!” Larcher tells of the brief +conversation he had with Mr. Kenby. It makes Edna laugh heartily. + +“Good for him!” she cries. “It's a shame, his treatment of Florence. Her +brother out West supports them, and is very glad to do so on her account. +Yet the covetous old man thinks she ought to be earning money, too. She's +quite too fond of him--she even gave up a nice young man she was in love +with, for her father's sake. But listen. I don't want you to mention +these people's names to anybody--not to _anybody_, mind! Promise.” + +“Very well. But why?” + +“I won't tell you,” she says, decidedly; and, when he looks at her in +mute protest, she laughs merrily at his helplessness. So they go on up +the avenue. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +A LODGING BY THE RIVER + +The day after his introduction to the Kenbys, Larcher went with Murray +Davenport on one of those expeditions incidental to their collaboration +as writer and illustrator. Larcher had observed an increase of the +strange indifference which had appeared through all the artist's +loquacity at their first interview. This loquacity was sometimes +repeated, but more often Davenport's way was of silence. His apathy, or +it might have been abstraction, usually wore the outer look of +dreaminess. + +“Your friend seems to go about in a trance,” Barry Tompkins said of him +one day, after a chance meeting in which Larcher had made the two +acquainted. + +This was a near enough description of the man as he accompanied Larcher +to a part of the riverfront not far from the Brooklyn Bridge, on the +afternoon at which we have arrived. The two were walking along a squalid +street lined on one side with old brick houses containing junk-shops, +shipping offices, liquor saloons, sailors' hotels, and all the various +establishments that sea-folk use. On the other side were the wharves, +with a throng of vessels moored, and glimpses of craft on the broad +river. + +“Here we are,” said Larcher, who as he walked had been referring to a +pocket map of the city. The two men came to a stop, and Davenport took +from a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century, +representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this with +the scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport then +looked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon on +the ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottles +in the window. + +“If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows up +there,” said Davenport, glancing at the first story over the saloon. + +“Suppose we go in and see what can be done,” suggested Larcher. + +They found the saloon a small, homely place, with only one attendant +behind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing some +sort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third old +fellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seated +by himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly all +head-lines. + +Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who lived +overhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect, +gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, and +finally vouchsafed the single word: + +“Roomers.” + +“I should like to see the person that has the front room up one flight,” + began Larcher. + +“All right; that won't cost you nothing. There he sets.” And the +barkeeper pointed to the rural-looking old man with the newspaper, at +the same time calling out, sportively: “Hey, Mr. Bud, here's a couple o' +gents wants to look at you.” + +Mr. Bud, who was tall, spare, and bent, about sixty, and the possessor +of a pleasant knobby face half surrounded by a gray beard that stretched +from ear to ear beneath his lower jaw, dropped his paper and scrutinized +the young men benevolently. They went over to him, and Larcher explained +their intrusion with as good a grace as possible. + +“Why, certainly, certainly,” the old man chirped with alacrity. “Glad to +have yuh. I'll be proud to do anything in the cause of literature. Come +right up.” And he rose and led the way to the street door. + +“Take care, Mr. Bud,” said the jocular barkeeper. “Don't let them sell +you no gold bricks or nothin'. I never see them before, so you can't +hold me if you lose your money.” + +“You keep your mouth shut, Mick,” answered the old man, “and send me up +a bottle o' whisky and a siphon o' seltzer as soon as your side partner +comes in. This way, gentlemen.” + +He conducted them out to the sidewalk, and then in through another door, +and up a narrow stairway, to a room with two windows overlooking the +river. It was a room of moderate size, provided with old furniture, a +faded carpet, mended curtains, and lithographs of the sort given away +with Sunday newspapers. It had, in its shabbiness, that curious effect +of cosiness and comfort which these shabby old rooms somehow possess, +and luxurious rooms somehow lack. A narrow bed in a corner was covered +with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt. There was a cylindrical stove, +but not in use, as the weather had changed since the day before; and +beside the stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partly +full of coal. While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud was +offering chairs, Davenport made directly for the window and looked out +with an interest limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so. + +“This is my city residence,” said the host, dropping into a chair. “It +ain't every hard-worked countryman, these times, that's able to keep up +a city residence.” As this was evidently one of Mr. Bud's favorite jests, +Larcher politically smiled. Mr. Bud soon showed that he had other +favorite jests. “Yuh see, I make my livin' up the State, but every now +and then I feel like comin' to the city for rest and quiet, and so I keep +this place the year round.” + +“You come to New York for rest and quiet?” exclaimed Larcher, still +kindly feigning amusement. + +“Sure! Why not? As fur as rest goes, I just loaf around and watch other +people work. That's what I call rest with a sauce to it. And as fur as +quiet goes, I get used to the noises. Any sound that don't concern me, +don't annoy me. I go about unknown, with nobody carin' what my business +is, or where I'm bound fur. Now in the country everybody wants to know +where from, and where to, and what fur. The only place to be reely alone +is where thur's so many people that one man don't count for anything. And +talk about noise!--What's all the clatter and bang amount to, if it's got +nothin' to do with your own movements? Now at my home where the noise +consists of half a dozen women's voices askin' me about this, and wantin' +that, and callin' me to account for t'other,--that's the kind o' noise +that jars a man. Yuh see, I got a wife and four daughters. They're very +good women--very good women, the whole bunch--but I do find it restful +and refreshin' to take the train to New York about once a month, and loaf +around a week or so without anybody takin' notice, and no questions ast.” + +“And what does your family say to that?” + +“Nothin', now. They used to say considerable when I first fell into the +habit. I hev some poultry customers here in the city, and I make out I +got to come to look after business. That story don't go fur with the +fam'ly; but they hev their way about everything else, so they got to +gimme my way about this.” + +Davenport turned around from the window, and spoke for the first time +since entering: + +“Then you don't occupy this room more than half the time?” + +“No, sir, I close it up, and thank the Lord there ain't nothin' in it +worth stealin'.” + +“Oh, in that case,” Davenport went on, “if I began some sketches here, +and you left town before they were done, I should have to go somewhere +else to finish them.” + +It was a remark that made Larcher wonder a little, at the moment, knowing +the artist's usual methods of work. But Mr. Bud, ignorant of such +matters, replied without question: + +“Well, I don't know. That might be fixed all right, I guess.” + +“I see you have a library,” said Davenport, abruptly, walking over to a +row of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His sudden +interest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise in +Larcher. + +“Yes, sir,” said the old man, with pride and affection, “them books is my +chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and +again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three +that's pretty rough travellin'. But the others!--well, I've tried a good +many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of +novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people +in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would +blow 'em away. But look at the _body_ to Scott's people! They're all the +way round, and clear through, his characters are.--Of course, I'm no +literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion.” Mr. Bud's +manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its +bold enthusiasm. + +“Your small opinion is quite right,” said Davenport. “There's no doubt +about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters.” He took +one of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on +with brightened eyes. “Andrew Fairservice--there's a character. 'Gude +e'en--gude e'en t' ye'--how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a +wild slip, that'--there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant +in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the +hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as +fast as he can.” + +“Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol +Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him.” The old man +grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another +to praise, his favorite author. + +“Interesting old illustrations these are,” said Davenport, taking up +another volume. “Dryburgh Abbey--that's how it looks on a gray day. I +was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then.” + +“What?” exclaimed Mr. Bud. “You been to Dryburgh Abbey?--to Scott's +grave?” + +“Oh, yes,” said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which +was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had +been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New +York. + +“You don't say! Well, to think of it! I _am_ happy to meet you. By +George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe +you've seen Abbotsford?” + +“Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the +house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns.” + +Mr. Bud's excitement was great. “Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and +High Street--” + +“Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the +Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands +of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?” + +The old man shook his head. “That's all too fur away from home fur me. +The women are afraid o' the water, and they'd never let me go alone. I +kind o' just drifted into this New York business, but if I undertook to +go across the ocean, that _would_ be the last straw. And I'm afraid I +couldn't get on to the manners and customs over there. They say +everything's different from here. To tell the truth, I'm timid where I +don't know the ways. If I was like you--I shouldn't wonder if you'd been +to some of the other places where things happen in his novels?” + +With a smile, Davenport began to enumerate and describe. The old man sat +enraptured. The whisky and seltzer came up, and the host saw that the +glasses were filled and refilled, but he kept Davenport to the same +subject. Larcher felt himself quite out of the talk, but found +compensation in the whisky and in watching the old man's greedy enjoyment +of Davenport's every word. The afternoon waned, and all opportunity of +making the intended sketches passed for that day. Mr. Bud was for +lighting up, or inviting the young men to dinner, but they found pretexts +for tearing themselves away. They did not go, however, until Davenport +had arranged to come the next day and perform his neglected task. Mr. Bud +accompanied them out, and stood on the corner looking after them until +they were out of sight. + +“You've made a hit with the agriculturist,” said Larcher, as they took +their way through a narrow street of old warehouses toward the region of +skyscrapers and lower Broadway. + +“Scott is evidently his hobby,” replied Davenport, with a careless smile, +“and I liked to please him in it.” + +He lapsed into that reticence which, as it was his manner during most of +the time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the more +remarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came on +in Larcher's presence. + +It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner in +Madison Avenue, and he thus found himself not far from Davenport's abode. +Going thither upon an impulse, he beheld the artist seated at the table, +leaning forward over a confusion of old books, some of them open. He +looked pallid in the light of the reading lamp at his elbow, and his +eyes seemed withdrawn deep into their hollows. He welcomed his visitor +with conventional politeness. + +“How's this?” began Larcher. “Do I find you pondering, + + '... weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore?'” + +“No; merely rambling over familiar fields.” Davenport held out the +topmost book. + +“Oh, Shakespeare,” laughed Larcher. “The Sonnets. Hello, you've marked +part of this.” + +“Little need to mark anything so famous. But it comes closer to me than +to most men, I fancy.” And he recited slowly, without looking down at the +page: + +'When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, +I all alone beweep my outcast state, +And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, +And look upon myself, and curse my fate,'-- + +He stopped, whereupon Larcher, not to be behind, and also without having +recourse to the page, went on: + +'Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, +Featured like him, like him with friends possest, +Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,'-- + +“But I think that hits all men,” said Larcher, interrupting himself. +“Everybody has wished himself in somebody else's shoes, now and again, +don't you believe?” + +“I have certainly wished myself out of my own shoes,” replied Davenport, +almost with vehemence. “I have hated myself and my failures, God knows! +I have wished hard enough that I were not I. But I haven't wished I were +any other person now existing. I wouldn't change selves with this +particular man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throw +off the burden of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my life +and conduct, and take up the burden of some other man's--though I +should be the gainer even by that, in a thousand cases I could name.” + +“Oh, I don't exactly mean changing with somebody else,” said Larcher. +“We all prefer to remain ourselves, with our own tastes, I suppose. But +we often wish our lot was like somebody else's.” + +Davenport shook his head. “I don't prefer to remain myself, any more +than to be some man whom I know or have heard of. I am tired of myself; +weary and sick of Murray Davenport. To be a new man, of my own +imagining--that would be something;--to begin afresh, with an +unencumbered personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning and +find that I was not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I know +of, but a different self, formed according to ideals of my own. There +_would_ be a liberation!” + +“Well,” said Larcher, “if a man can't change to another self, he can at +least change his place and his way of life.” + +“But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the new +place. And even change of scene and habits is next to impossible +without money.” + +“I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enough +for me just now,” said Larcher. + +Davenport's only reply was a short laugh. + +“Suppose you had the money, and could live as you liked, where would +_you_ go?” demanded Larcher, slightly nettled. + +“I would live a varied life. Probably it would have four phases, +generally speaking, of unequal duration and no fixed order. For one +phase, the chief scene would be a small secluded country-house in an old +walled garden. There would be the home of my books, and the centre of my +walks over moors and hills. From this, I would transport myself, when +the mood came, to the intellectual society of some large city--that of +London would be most to my choice. Mind you, I say the _intellectual_ +society; a far different thing from the Society that spells itself with +a capital S.” + +“Why not of New York? There's intellectual society here.” + +“Yes; a trifle fussy and self-conscious, though. I should prefer a +society more reposeful. From this, again, I would go to the life of the +streets and byways of the city. And then, for the fourth phase, to the +direct contemplation of art--music, architecture, sculpture, +painting;--to haunting the great galleries, especially of Italy, +studying and copying the old masters. I have no desire to originate. I +should be satisfied, in the arts, rather to receive than to give; to be +audience and spectator; to contemplate and admire.” + +“Well, I hope you may have your wish yet,” was all that Larcher +could say. + +“I _should_ like to have just one whack at life before I finish,” + replied Davenport, gazing thoughtfully into the shadow beyond the +lamplight. “Just one taste of comparative happiness.” + +“Haven't you ever had even one?” + +“I thought I had, for a brief season, but I was deceived.” (Larcher +remembered the talk of an inconstant woman.) “No, I have never been +anything like happy. My father was a cold man who chilled all around +him. He died when I was a boy, and left my mother and me to poverty. My +mother loved me well enough; she taught me music, encouraged my +studies, and persuaded a distant relation to send me to the College of +Medicine and Surgery; but her life was darkened by grief, and the +darkness fell over me, too. When she died, my relation dropped me, and +I undertook to make a living in New York. There was first the struggle +for existence, then the sickening affair of that play; afterward, +misfortune enough to fill a dozen biographies, the fatal reputation of +ill luck, the brief dream of consolation in the love of woman, the +awakening,--and the rest of it.” + +He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, to +the book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which they +had already been quoting: + +'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising--Haply I think on thee; +and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen +earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love--' + +He broke off, and closed the book. “'For thy sweet love,'” he repeated. +“You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those +lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly +song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,--a little +poem of Frank L. Stanton's.” He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a +light baritone: + + 'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong, + For God gives grief with the gift of song, + And poverty, too; but your love is more--' + +Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. “What an ass I was! As +if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!” + +“Oh, never be disheartened,” said Larcher. “Your time is to come; you'll +have your 'whack at life' yet.” + +“It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two +of the dreams of youth--the dreams an unhappy lad consoled himself with.” + +“What were they?” inquired Larcher. + +“What were they not, that is fine and pleasant? I had my share of diverse +ambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, in +Longfellow: + + _'For a boy's will is the wind's will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'”_ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + +A month passed. All the work in which Larcher had enlisted Davenport's +cooperation was done. Larcher would have projected more, but the +artist could not be pinned down to any definite engagement. He was +non-committal, with the evasiveness of apathy. He seemed not to care any +longer about anything. More than ever he appeared to go about in a dream. +Larcher might have suspected some drug-taking habit, but for having +observed the man so constantly, at such different hours, and often with +so little warning, as to be convinced to the contrary. + +One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and the +beauty of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a sense +of life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met his +friend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his +inner contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as +a man could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped, +however, when Larcher did. + +“Where are you going?” the latter asked. + +“Home,” was the reply; thus amended the next instant: “To my room, that +is.” + +“I'll walk with you, if you don't mind. I feel like stretching my legs.” + +“Glad to have you,” said Davenport, indifferently. They turned from +Broadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of which +rose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larcher +called the artist's attention to it. Davenport replied by quoting, +mechanically: + +“'With how slow steps, O moon, thou clim'st the sky, +How silently, and with how wan a face!'” + +“I'm glad to see you out on so fine a night,” pursued Larcher. + +“I came out on business,” said the other. “I got a request by telegraph +from the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurry +call' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, to +look after a few matters in his absence.” + +“I trust you'll find them interesting,” said Larcher, comparing his own +failure with Bagley's success in obtaining Davenport's services. + +“Not in the slightest,” replied Davenport. + +“Then remunerative, at least.” + +“Not sufficiently to attract _me_,” said the other. + +“Then, if you'll pardon the remark, I really can't understand--” + +“Mere force of habit,” replied Davenport, listlessly. “When he summons, I +attend. When he entrusts, I accept. I've done it so long, and so often, I +can't break myself of the habit. That is, of course, I could if I chose, +but it would require an effort, and efforts aren't worth while at this +stage.” + +With little more talk, they arrived at the artist's house. + +“If you talk of moonlight,” said Davenport, in a manner of some +kindliness, “you should see its effect on the back yards, from my +windows. You know how half-hearted the few trees look in the daytime; +but I don't think you've seen that view on a moonlight night. The yards, +taken as a whole, have some semblance to a real garden. Will you come +up?” + +Larcher assented readily. A minute later, while his host was seeking +matches, he looked down from the dark chamber, and saw that the +transformation wrought in the rectangular space of back yards had not +been exaggerated. The shrubbery by the fences might have sheltered +fairies. The boughs of the trees, now leafless, gently stirred. Even the +plain house-backs were clad in beauty. + +When Larcher turned from the window, Davenport lighted the gas, but not +his lamp; then drew from an inside pocket, and tossed on the table, +something which Larcher took to be a stenographer's note-book, narrow, +thick, and with stiff brown covers. Its unbound end was confined by a +thin rubber band. Davenport opened a drawer of the table, and essayed +to sweep the book thereinto by a careless push. The book went too +far, struck the arm of a chair, flew open at the breaking of the +overstretched rubber, fell on its side by the chair leg, and disclosed a +pile of bank-notes. These, tightly flattened, were the sole contents of +the covers. As Larcher's startled eyes rested upon them, he saw that the +topmost bill was for five hundred dollars. + +Davenport exhibited a momentary vexation, then picked up the bills, and +laid them on the table in full view. + +“Bagley's money,” said he, sitting down before the table. “I'm to place +it for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carrying +out personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business to +the reliable Davenport.” + +“When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of so +much money,” said Larcher, who had taken a chair near his friend. + +“I don't suppose there's another man in New York to-night with so much +ready money on his person,” said Davenport, smiling. “These are large +bills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walking +about with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket.” + +“Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were--” Larcher checked +himself. + +“Yes,” said Davenport, unmoved. “Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that +morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to +very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could +make it go far--exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a +congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am +I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat +it as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?” + +He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them +in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying +there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this +up, and handed it to Larcher, saying: + +“You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you +make of this man's character?” + +Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise, +round hand: + +“MY DEAR DAVENPORT:--I will meet you at the place and time you suggest. +We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our different +ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, still less. +Yours truly, + +“FRANCIS TURL.” + +“Francis Turl,” repeated Larcher. “I never heard the name before.” + +“No, I suppose you never have,” replied Davenport, dryly. “But what +character would you infer from his penmanship?” + +“Well,--I don't know.” Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. “An +educated person, I should think; even scholarly, perhaps. Fastidious, +steady, exact, reserved,--that's about all.” + +“Not very much,” said Davenport, taking back the sheet. “You merely +describe the handwriting itself. Your characterization, as far as it +goes, would fit men who write very differently from this. It fits me, +for instance, and yet look at my angular scrawl.” He held up a specimen +of his own irregular hand, beside the elegant penmanship of the note, +and Larcher had to admit himself a humbug as a graphologist. + +“But,” he demanded, “did my description happen to fit that particular +man--Francis Turl?” + +“Oh, more or less,” said Davenport, evasively, as if not inclined to give +any information about that person. This apparent disinclination increased +Larcher's hidden curiosity as to who Francis Turl might be, and why +Davenport had never mentioned him before, and what might be between the +two for settlement. + +Davenport put Turl's writing back into the drawer, but continued to +regard his own. “'A vile cramped hand,'” he quoted. “I hate it, as I have +grown to hate everything that partakes of me, or proceeds from me. +Sometimes I fancy that my abominable handwriting had as much to do with +alienating a certain fair inconstant as the news of my reputed +unluckiness. Both coming to her at once, the combined effect was too +much.” + +“Why?--Did you break that news to her by letter?” + +“That seems strange to you, perhaps. But you see, at first it didn't +occur to me that I should have to break it to her at all. We met abroad; +we were tourists whose paths happened to cross. Over there I almost +forgot about the bad luck. It wasn't till both of us were back in New +York, that I felt I should have to tell her, lest she might hear it first +from somebody else. But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough to +make me put the revelation off from day to day. The more I put it off, +the more difficult it seemed--you know how the smallest matter, even the +writing of an overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So this +little ordeal got magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't brace +myself to go through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in his +affairs, and he kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I got +free, I was surprised to find she had left town. I hadn't the least idea +where she'd gone; till one day I received a letter from her. She wrote as +if she thought I had known where she was; she reproached me with +negligence, but was friendly nevertheless. I replied at once, clearing +myself of the charge; and in that same letter I unburdened my soul of the +bad luck secret. It was easier to write it than speak it.” + +“And what then?” + +“Nothing. I never heard from her again.” + +“But your letter may have miscarried,--something of that sort.” + +“I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. +She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. +But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a +one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history +of Murray Davenport.--She was a fine young woman, as the world judges; +she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines.” + +“Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You +remember his library--made up entirely of Scott?” + +“Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of +living did.” + +“I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the +country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless.” + +“I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in +the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short +spell,' as he calls it.” + +“You still keep in touch with him?” asked Larcher, in surprise. + +“Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable--allowing me the use of his room to +sketch in.” + +“Even during his absence?” + +“Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. +He's proud of them.” + +Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on +the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This +stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent +for a moment; then rose, with the words: + +“Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit +garden. When shall I see you again?” + +“Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't +find me here.” + +“I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I +shall have them day after to-morrow. Let's see--I'm engaged for that day. +How will the next day suit you?” + +“All right. Come the next day if you like.” + +“That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch +together.” + +“Just as you please.” + +“One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!” + +“Good night!” + +At the door, Larcher turned for a moment in passing out, and saw +Davenport standing by the table, looking after him. What was the +inscrutable expression--half amusement, half friendliness and +self-accusing regret--which faintly relieved for a moment the +indifference of the man's face? + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +MYSTERY BEGINS + +The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dull +person in not having yet put this and that together and associated the +love-affair of Murray Davenport with the “romance” of Miss Florence +Kenby. One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, and +her inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair of +connecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probably +judge otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought to +Larcher's notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation, +as she necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fully +in possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were the +circumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up his +life, as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's +“romance” had been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had given +up a lover to please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandoned +him because he was unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such a +woman, and so of a different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. To +be sure, he knew now that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but so +had most young women. In short, the small connecting facts had no such +significance in his mind, where they were not grouped away from other +facts, as they must have in these pages, where their very presence +together implies inter-relation. + +In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightly +upon the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessed +that those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But a +certain manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point in +spite of all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenport +ascribed the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's present +opinion of her. “He was thrown over by some woman whose name he never +mentions; since then he has steered clear of the sex,” was what Larcher +replied to Edna a hundred times, in a hundred different sets of phrases; +and it was all he replied on the subject. + +So matters stood until two days after the interview related in the +previous chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said that +for the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointed +the third day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement for +the second day was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at a +riding-school. Upon arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mild +protection of her easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in the +arrangement. To this he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well as +beautiful; and Larcher was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Edna +that he could play the cavalier to one pretty girl as well as to another. +He did not, however, manage to disturb her serenity at all during the +afternoon. The three returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of the +utmost readiness for afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. To +make things pleasanter, Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking a +nap. The three young people had the drawing-room, with its bright coal +fire, to themselves. + +Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid who +placed the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have been +transported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat was +her black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so clean +her slender hands. + +“What a sweet place you have, Edna,” remarked Florence Kenby, looking +around. + +“So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make it +sweeter, for good, you've only got to move in.” + +Florence laughed, but with something very like a sigh. + +“What, are you willing to take boarders?” said Larcher. “If that's the +case, put me down as the first applicant.” + +“Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, and +no gentlemen need apply. Two lumps, Flo dear?” + +“Yes, please.--If only your restrictions didn't keep out poor father--” + +“If only your poor father would consider your happiness instead of his +own selfish plans.” + +“Edna, dear! You mustn't.” + +“Why mustn't I?” replied Edna, pouring tea. “Truth's truth. He's your +father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would +do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have +better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why +doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the +reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own +projects. You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read +your father like a book the first time he ever met him.” + +Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked +very wise and penetrative. + +“I should think your father himself would be happier,” said he, “if he +lived less privately and had more of men's society.” + +“He's often in poor health,” replied Florence. + +“In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium, +where the life is as luxurious as can be.” + +“I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he--weren't altogether +unselfish about me, there would always be my promise.” + +“What does that matter--such a promise?” inquired Edna, between sips of +tea. + +“You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear,” said +Florence, smiling. “But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred.” + +“Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?” + +“No, not all,” replied Larcher. “It's like this: When you make a bad +promise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, you +perpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break the +promise.” + +“Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, and +your promise did inaugurate a wrong--a wrong against yourself.” + +“Well, then, it's allowable to wrong oneself,” said Florence. + +“But not one's friends--one's true, disinterested friends. And as for +that other promise of yours--that _fearful_ promise!--you can't deny you +wronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to wrong.” + +“It was a choice between him and my father,” replied Florence, in a low +voice, and turning very red. + +“Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?” cried Edna, her eyes and +tone showing that the subject was a heating one. “Which was likely to +suffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers _don't_ die +in those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics _must_ have been +put on for effect. Oh, don't tell me!--it makes me wild to think of it! +Your father would have been all right in a week; whereas the other man's +whole life is darkened.” + +“Don't say that, dear,” pleaded Florence, gently. “Men soon get over such +things.” + +“Not so awfully soon;--not sincere men. Their views of life are changed, +for all time. And _this_ man seems to grow more and more melancholy, if +what Tom says is true.” + +“What I say?” exclaimed Larcher. + +The two girls looked at each other. + +“Goodness! I _have_ given it away!” cried Edna. + +“More and more melancholy?” repeated Larcher. “Why, that must be Murray +Davenport. Was he the--? Then you must be the--! But surely _you_ +wouldn't have given him up on account of the bad luck nonsense.” + +“Bad luck nonsense?” echoed Edna, while Miss Kenby looked bewildered. + +“The silly idea of some foolish people, that he carried bad luck with +him,” Larcher explained, addressing Florence. “He sent you a letter about +it.” + +“I never got any such letter from him,” said Florence, in wonderment. + +“Then you didn't know? And that had nothing to do with your giving him +up?” + +“Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that--But the letter you +speak of--when was it? I never had a letter from him after I left town. +He didn't even answer when I told him we were going.” + +“Because he never heard you were going. He got a letter after you had +gone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There must +have been some strange defect in your mail arrangements.” + +“I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarried +between us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains to +clear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time--” She +stopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering. + +“Speaking of your father,” said Larcher, “you must have got a subsequent +letter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receipt +came back with your father's signature.” + +“No, I never got that, either,” said Florence, before the inference +struck her. When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless, +wounded look, and blushed as if the shame were her own. + +Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her +friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner. + +“Why didn't you tell me all this before?” + +“I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about +the letters till the night before last.” + +“And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him +over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?” + +“Well, more or less,--and the general fickleness of the sex.” + +“General fick--! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on thinking +so?” + +“But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told +me it was for her you wanted news of him--” + +“Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some +news of _her_. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such paltry, +childish motive.” + +“By George, I agree with you!” cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. “If +you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss +Kenby! I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to +that; he had causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away +all consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life.” + +“Has it made him so bitter?” asked Florence, sadly. + +“I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for +strong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to the +last stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch to +making his life a wearisome drudgery, without motive or hope.” + +Florence sighed deeply. + +“To think that he could believe such a thing of Florence,” put in Edna. +“I'm sure _I_ couldn't. Could you, Tom?” + +“When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions,” + said Larcher, authoritatively. “He exaggerates both the favors and the +rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he +thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his +sufferings. As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty +correspondingly great. Nobody will believe such good things of a woman +as the man who loves her; but nobody will believe such bad things if +matters go wrong.” + +“Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!” + +But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. “So I really think, +Miss Kenby, if you'll pardon me,” Larcher continued, “that Murray +Davenport ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if +matters never go any further, he ought to know that you still--h'm--feel +an interest in him--still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your +solicitude--how it was the cause of my looking him up--I can see through +all that now--” + +“I can never thank you enough--and Edna,” said Florence, in a tremulous +voice. + +“No thanks are due me,” replied Larcher, emphatically. “I value his +acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your +real motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to +see you again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life. +I'm sure it would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in +humanity. It would console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet +to him. It would change the color of his view of life; give him hope and +strength; make a new man of him.” + +Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. “I should be so glad,” she +said, gently, “if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort of +communication with him.” + +“Oh, that promise!” cried Edna. “Just think how it was obtained. And +think about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't +release you, I wonder what!” + +Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder. + +“Moreover,” said Larcher, “you won't be holding communication. The +matter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky +forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him +to-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I really +don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby.” + +Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and +a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared. + +“You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather +have than to see him made happy.” + +“If you'd like to see it with your own eyes,” said Larcher, “let me send +him to you for the news.” + +“Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came +to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of +meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York.” + +Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys +to anybody. “Well,” said he, “in that case, Murray Davenport shall be +made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon.” + +“And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it,” cried +Edna. “Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom +and kidnap you.” + +“I think I can come voluntarily,” said Florence, smiling through her +tears. + +“And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any +silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea +get cold. I must have another cup.” And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot +water. + +The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and +laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous +cause of love and truth against the old, old foes--mercenary design, +false appearance, and mistaken duty. + +Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time +previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out +his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the +disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his +friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the +appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. +Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's +lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day. + +“I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room,” he said to the negro boy at +the door. + +“All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,” + replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand. + +Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. “When did that +telegram come?” he inquired. + +“Last evening.” + +“It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he +hasn't been in?” + +Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming +of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, +with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly +look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady. + +“Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?” she asked, quickly. + +“No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock.” + +“Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that +engagement?” + +“On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?” + +“Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport +hasn't been home for two days!” + +“Two days! Why, that's rather strange!” + +“Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either +told me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about +saving me trouble or anxiety.” + +“And this time he said nothing about it?” + +“Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the +morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry +any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel +wrapped in brown paper.” + +“Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn't +soon turn up--What do you think about it?” + +“I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of +mysterious disappearance--that's what I think!” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + +Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher +spoke first. + +“He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now.” + +The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street. +But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady. + +“Perhaps he left a note for me on the table,” said Larcher. “I have the +freedom of his room, you know.” + +“Go up and see, then. I'll go with you.” + +The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a +person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. +None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or +covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing +addressed to Larcher or anybody else. + +“It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon,” remarked the +landlady. + +“It certainly does.” Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. +He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession +at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on +leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but +something checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a +way that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly +wished to keep it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything. + +“Of course,” said Larcher, “he might have met with an accident.” + +“I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's +nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked +down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache.” + +“And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd +meant to stay away so long?” + +“Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he +met me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in +advance.” + +“But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some +time.” + +“No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little +money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me +for another month.' He knew I gener'ly--had use for money whenever it +happened along. He was a kind-hearted--I mean he _is_ a kind-hearted man. +Hear me speakin' of him as if--What's that?” + +It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned +to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came +almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the +flight above. + +“It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up,” said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected +whisper. + +The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the +hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance +became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill +and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of +the landlady. + +“Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?” said +she, still in a lowered voice. + +“I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general +alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I +believe. There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened +without sufficient cause.” + +“I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send +out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make +a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun.” + +“That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better +wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he +hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment, +though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a +fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons +for this, how we shall all feel.” + +“He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only +friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good +many single men are,--that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days at +a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it. +But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow, +till you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?” + +“Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll +give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then, +if he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance +he might be. I've only just now thought of it.” + +The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had +spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might +have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance--a +bare chance--of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that place +or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of him +than Mrs. Haze had. + +That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the +very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled +Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything +in connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and +the solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say +to the girls when he met them at tea? + +At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went +down-stairs, and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised +to return about four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an +elevated car, and out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to +imagine his friend had by that time arrived home. This feeling remained +with him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the +house on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at +Mr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in +the ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the +thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked. + +“Evidently nobody at home,” said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs +again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had +seen on his first visit to the place. + +“I thought I might find a friend of mine here,” he said, after ordering a +drink. “Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeks +ago.” + +“I remember all right enough,” said the bar-keeper. “He ain't here now.” + +“He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?” + +“Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old +man Bud.” + +“What day was that?” + +“Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the day +before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did.” + +It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. “And so +you haven't seen my friend since Monday?” he asked, insistently. + +“That's what I said.” + +“And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?” + +“That's what I said.” + +“When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?” + +“You can search _me,_” was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all +knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions. + +Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling +that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he +was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. +It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The +telegram was still on the hat-stand. + +“Any news?” asked the landlady, appearing from the rear. + +“No. I was hoping you might have some.” + +After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his +engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat. + +“Here he is!” cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high +spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in +great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet +unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating. + +“Well? Well? Well?” said Edna. “How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your +good news, and then we'll tell you ours.” Florence only watched his face, +but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's +noise. + +“Well, the fact is,” began Larcher, embarrassed, “I can't tell you any +good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me +to-day, and I haven't been able to see him.” + +“Not able to see him?” Edna exclaimed, hotly. “Why didn't you go and +find him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with +men--always afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an +unreliable, helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!” + +Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied: + +“I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've +spent the afternoon doing that.” + +“A woman would have managed to find out where he was,” retorted Edna. + +“His landlady's a woman,” rejoined Larcher, doggedly, “and she hasn't +managed to find out.” + +“Has she been trying to?” + +“Well--no,” stammered Larcher, repenting. + +“Yes, she has!” said Edna, with a changed manner. “But what for? Why is +she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom--I can tell by your +looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?” + +A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier +or pleasanter. + +“I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away +from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his +landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all.” + +“And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?” + persisted Edna. + +“No. I suppose it slipped his mind.” + +“And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?” + +“Not when I saw her last--about half an hour ago.” + +“Well!” ejaculated Edna. “That _is_ a mysterious disappearance!” + +The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental +observation in the moment's silence that followed,--a silence broken by +a low cry from Florence Kenby. + +“Oh, if anything has happened to him!” + +The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which +Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time +he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed +by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport, +undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to +raise. + +“Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men +often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's +quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom +says.” + +“As I say!” exclaimed Larcher. “_I_ don't say it's bad at all. It's your +own imagination, Edna,--your sudden and sensational imagination. There's +no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says--” + +“But I must make sure,” interrupted Florence. “If anything _is_ wrong, +we're losing time. He must be sought for--the police must be notified.” + +“His landlady--a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze--spoke of that, +and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to wait +awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got +noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of +things--as of course he will--why, how foolish we should all feel!” + +“What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?” + +“Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how +he would hate that sort of publicity.” + +“That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if +you knew my anxiety!” + +“I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters +at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go +around to the--to other places where people inquire in such cases.” + +“And you'll let me know immediately--as soon as you find out anything?” + +“Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?” + +“Stay here to-night, Florence,” put in Edna. “It will be all right, +_now_.” + +“Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher.” + +Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little. + +“She's had an understanding with her father,” said Edna, having noted +his look. “She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was +yesterday.” + +“Yes,” said Florence, “I--I had a talk with him--I spoke to him about +those letters, and he finally--explained the matter. We settled many +things. He released me from the promise we were talking about yesterday.” + +“Good! That's excellent news!” + +“It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a +disappointment,” bemoaned Edna. + +“It's news that will change the world for Davenport,” replied Larcher. +“I _must_ find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he +wouldn't be long missing.” + +“It would be too cruel if any harm befell him”--Florence's voice quivered +as she spoke--“at this time, of all times. It would be the crowning +misfortune.” + +“I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby.” + +“I don't see how Heaven could allow it,” said Florence, earnestly. + +“Well, he's simply _got_ to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can +go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you +on the way?” + +“I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would +stop at a telegraph-office--” + +“Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “There's a call-box down-stairs. +I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom.” + +Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While +they waited for that, she asked, cautiously: + +“Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before +Florence?” + +A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again +he felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and +should be treated by him--for the present, at least--as non-existent. + +“No,” he replied. “I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So +far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves, +probably, for having been at all worked up over it.--She's a lovely girl, +isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself.” + +“She's proof against your charms,” said Edna, coolly. + +“I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm +brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern +if _I_ were missing?” + +“I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in +suspense. You're a dear boy! _Au revoir!_” + +With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish +motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This +time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home; +yet it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The +same deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was +mirrored in the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no +news. + +Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in +which, the choice being “optional,” sundry of the lodgers took their +rooms “with board.” Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of +“helping out” the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself +disguised as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and +threw on her things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There +she told all that was necessary, to an official at a desk,--a big, +comfortable man with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman, +after briefly questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible +notes, and setting a subordinate to looking through the latest entries +in a large record, dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was +proper to be done _would_ be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with +him, as if he doubted, not only that Murray Davenport was missing, but +that any such person as Murray Davenport existed to _be_ missing; as if +he merely indulged his visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as +if in any case the matter was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate +reported that nothing in the record for the past two days showed any +such man, or the body of any such man, to have come under the all-seeing +eye of the police. Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an +investigation should be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that +no dead body had been found, and repeated that all proper steps would be +taken. With this grain of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned +to her bread pudding, for which her boarders were by that time waiting. + +When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed +to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any +considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently +allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. “Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think +so,” she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so +short, and might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not +yet warrant the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished +to keep private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be +made from that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at +the inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard +his friend from that. + +Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he +required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine +at her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat +at one of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking +together are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in +the world. He soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely +given his order when in sauntered Barry Tompkins. + +“Stop right here,” cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and +pulling him into a seat. “You are commandeered.” + +“What for?” asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile. + +“Dinner first, and then--” + +“All right. Do you give me _carte blanche_ with the bill of fare? May I +roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?” + +“None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals, +station-houses, morgue, _et cetera_. There's a man missing. You've made +those rounds before.” + +“Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and +again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to +him in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest.” + +“I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening--” + +“Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have +search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's +the latest victim of the strenuous life?” + +“Murray Davenport!” + +“What! is he occurring again?” + +Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two +made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing +inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have +ever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the +experience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure +from a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, the +rebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless +information from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingled +hope and dread of coming upon the object of the search at the next place, +the recurring feeling that the whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose +chase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few features +of the disheartening business. The labors of Larcher and Tompkins +elicited nothing; lightened though they were by the impecunious lawyer's +tact, knowledge, and good humor, they left the young men dispirited and +dead tired. Larcher had nothing to telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of +her passing a sleepless night, waiting for news, the dupe and victim of +every sound that might herald a messenger. He slept ill himself, the +short time he had left for sleep. In the morning he made a swift +breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. Davenport's room was still +untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram still lay unclaimed in the +hall below. + +Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night, +for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the +morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an +indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was +the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her +lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair, +during the ensuing days,--for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or +heard of the missing one,--but of these Larcher was not often a witness. +Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an +unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time +between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was +subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek, +cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He +volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of +Davenport's disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His +diminution spoke volumes for the unexpected force of personality +Florence must have shown in that unrelated interview about the letters, +in which she had got back her promise. + +The burden of action during those ensuing days fell on Larcher. Besides +regular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house, +and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to every +place he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person he +had ever known Davenport to be acquainted with. Only, for a time Mr. +Bagley had to be excepted, he not having yet returned from Chicago. + +It appeared that the big man at police headquarters had really caused +the proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house and +searched the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most of +the newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that Murray +Davenport, “a song-writer,” was missing from his lodging-house. Larcher +hoped that this, if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoy +him, would certainly bring word from him. But the man remained as silent +as unseen. Was there, indeed, what the newspapers call “foul play”? And +was Larcher called upon yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? The +knowledge of that would give the case an importance in the eyes of the +police, but would it, even if the worst had happened, do any good to +Davenport? Larcher thought not; and held his tongue. + +One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance,--or, as Larcher +preferred to call it, non-appearance,--that gentleman, having just sat +down in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first page of +an evening paper--one of the yellow brand--which he had bought a minute +before. All at once he was struck in the face, metaphorically speaking, +by a particular set of headlines. He held his breath, and read the +following opening paragraph: + +“The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phase +on the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has not +been seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house,--East----th +Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a large amount of +cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposes the +previous night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when he +called this morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the money +should have been handed over, he found that not a cent of it had been +disposed of according to orders. Davenport had for some years frequently +acted as a secretary or agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousands +of dollars for the latter in such a manner as to gain the highest +confidence.” + +There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times over +on the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girls +were sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Edna +sprang to her feet, and Florence's lips parted. + +“What is it?” cried Edna. “You've got news! What is it?” + +“No. Not any news of _his_ whereabouts.” + +“What of, then? It's in that paper.” + +She seized the yellow journal, and threw her glance from headline to +headline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate of +utterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer. + +“Well! What do you think of _that_?” she said, and stopped to take +breath. + +“Do you think it is true?” asked Florence. + +“There is some reason to believe it is!” replied Larcher, awkwardly. + +Florence rose, in great excitement. “Then this affair _must_ be cleared +up!” she cried. “For don't you see? He may have been robbed--waylaid for +the money--made away with! God knows what else can have happened! The +newspaper hints that he ran away with the money. I'll never believe that. +It must be cleared up--I tell you it _must_!” + +Edna tried to soothe the agitated girl, and looked sorrowfully at +Larcher, who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve the +mystery. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + +A month passed, and it was not cleared up. Larcher became hopeless of +ever having sight or word of Murray Davenport again. For himself, he +missed the man; for the man, assuming a tragic fate behind the mystery, +he had pity; but his sorrow was keenest for Miss Kenby. No description, +nothing but experience, can inform the reader what was her torment of +mind: to be so impatient of suspense as to cry out as she had done, and +yet perforce to wait hour after hour, day after day, week after week, +in the same unrelieved anxiety,--this prolonged torture is not to be told +in words. She schooled herself against further outcries, but the evidence +of her suffering was no less in her settled look of baffled expectancy, +her fits of mute abstraction, the start of her eyes at any sound of bell +or knock. She clutched back hope as it was slipping away, and would not +surrender uncertainty for its less harrowing follower, despair. She had +resumed, as the probability of immediate news decreased, her former way +of existence, living with her father at the house in lower Fifth Avenue, +where Miss Hill saw her every day except when she went to see Miss Hill, +who denied herself the Horse Show, the football games, and the opera for +the sake of her friend. Larcher called on the Kenbys twice or thrice a +week, sometimes with Edna, sometimes alone. + +There was one possibility which Larcher never mentioned to Miss Kenby +in discussing the case. He feared it might fit too well her own secret +thought. That was the possibility of suicide. What could be more +consistent with Davenport's outspoken distaste for life, as he found it, +or with his listless endurance of it, than a voluntary departure from it? +He had never talked suicide, but this, in his state of mind, was rather +an argument in favor of his having acted it. No threatened men live +longer, as a class, than those who have themselves as threateners. It was +true, Larcher had seen in Davenport's copy of Keats, this passage marked: + +“... for many a time +I have been half in love with easeful Death.” + +But an unhappy man might endorse that saying without a thought of +possible self-destruction. So, for Davenport's very silence on that way +of escape from his tasteless life, Larcher thought he might have taken +it. + +He confided this thought to no less a person than Bagley, some weeks +after the return of that capitalist from Chicago. Two or three times, +meeting by chance, they had briefly discussed the disappearance, each +being more than willing to obtain whatever light the other might be able +to throw on the case. Finally Bagley, to whom Larcher had given his +address, had sent for him to call at the former's rooms on a certain +evening. These rooms proved to be a luxurious set of bachelor apartments +in one of the new tall buildings just off Broadway. Hard wood, stamped +leather, costly rugs, carved furniture, the richest upholstery, the art +of the old world and the inventiveness of the new, had made this a +handsome abode at any time, and a particularly inviting one on a cold +December night. Larcher, therefore, was not sorry he had responded to +the summons. He found Bagley sharing cigars and brandy with another man, +a squat, burly, middle-aged stranger, with a dyed mustache and the dress +and general appearance of a retired hotel-porter, cheap restaurant +proprietor, theatre doorkeeper, or some such useful but not interesting +member of society. This person, for a time, fulfilled the promise of +his looks, of being uninteresting. On being introduced to Larcher as Mr. +Lafferty, he uttered a quick “Howdy,” with a jerk of the head, and +lapsed into a mute regard of tobacco smoke and brandy bottle, which he +maintained while Bagley and Larcher went more fully into the Davenport +case than they had before gone together. Larcher felt that he was being +sounded, but he saw no reason to withhold anything except what related +to Miss Kenby. It was now that he mentioned possible suicide. + +“Suicide? Not much,” said Bagley. “A man _would_ be a chump to turn on +the gas with all that money about him. No, sir; it wasn't suicide. We +know that much.” + +“You _know_ it?” exclaimed Larcher. + +“Yes, we know it. A man don't make the preparations he did, when he's +got suicide on his mind. I guess we might as well put Mr. Larcher on, +Lafferty, do you think?” + +“Jess' you say,” replied Mr. Lafferty, briefly. + +“You see,” continued Bagley to Larcher, “I sent for you, so's I could +pump you in front of Lafferty here. I'm satisfied you've told all you +know, and though that's absolutely nothing at all--ain't that so, +Lafferty?” + +“Yep,--nothin' 'tall.” + +“Though it's nothing at all, a fair exchange is no robbery, and I'm +willing for you to know as much as I do. The knowledge won't do you any +good--it hasn't done me any good--but it'll give you an insight into your +friend Davenport. Then you and his other friends, if he's got any, won't +roast me because I claim that he flew the coop and not that somebody did +him for the money. See?” + +“Not exactly.” + +“All right; then we'll open your eyes. I guess you don't happen to know +who Mr. Lafferty here is, do you?” + +“Not yet.” + +“Well, he's a central office detective.” (Mr. Lafferty bore Larcher's +look of increased interest with becoming modesty.) “He's been on this +case ever since I came back from Chicago, and by a piece of dumb luck, +he got next to Davenport's trail for part of the day he was last seen. +He'll tell you how far he traced him. It's up to you now, Lafferty. +Speak out.” + +Mr. Lafferty, pretending to take as a good joke the attribution of his +discoveries to “dumb luck,” promptly discoursed in a somewhat thick but +rapid voice. + +“On the Wednesday morning he was las' seen, he left the house about nine +o'clock, with a package wrapt in brown paper. I lose sight of'm f'r a +couple 'f hours, but I pick'm up again a little before twelve. He's still +got the same package. He goes into a certain department store, and buys +a suit o' clothes in the clothin' department; shirts, socks, an' +underclothes in the gents' furnishin' department; a pair o' shoes in the +shoe department, an' s'mother things in other departments. These he has +all done up in wrappin'-paper, pays fur 'em, and leaves 'em to be called +fur later. He then goes an' has his lunch.” + +“Where does he have his lunch?” asked Bagley. + +“Never mind where he has his lunch,” said Mr. Lafferty, annoyed. “That's +got no bearin' on the case. After he has his lunch, he goes to a certain +big grocer's and provision dealer's, an' buys a lot o' canned meats and +various provisions,--I can give you a complete list if you want it.” + +This last offer, accompanied by a movement of a hand to an inner pocket, +was addressed to Bagley, who declined with the words, “That's all right. +I've seen it before.” + +“He has these things all done up in heavy paper, so's to make a dozen'r +so big packages. Then he pays fur 'em, an' leaves 'em to be called fur. +It's late in the afternoon by this time, and comin' on dark. Understand, +he's still got the 'riginal brown paper package with him. The next thing +he does is, he hires a cab, and has himself druv around to the department +store he was at before. He gets the things he bought there, an' puts 'em +on the cab, an' has himself druv on to the grocer's an' provision +dealer's, an' gets the packages he bought there, an' has them put _in_ +the cab. The cab's so full o' his parcels now, he's only got just room +fur himself on the back seat. An' then he has the hackman drive to a +place away down-town.” + +Mr. Lafferty paused for a moment to wet his throat with brandy and +water. Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shown +in withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reserving +something to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that the +man he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. + +“By the description, of course,” replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust at +Larcher's inferiority of intelligence. “D'yuh s'pose I'd foller a man's +trail as fur as that, if everything didn't tally--face, eyes, nose, +height, build, clo'es, hat, brown paper parcel, everything?” + +“Then it's simply marvellous,” said Larcher, with genuine astonishment, +“how you managed to get on his track, and to follow it from place to +place.” + +“Oh, it's my business to know how to do them things,” replied Mr. +Lafferty, deprecatingly. + +“Your business!” said Bagley. “Dumb luck, I tell you. Can't you see how +it was?” He had turned to Larcher. “The cabman read of Davenport's +disappearance, and putting together the day, and the description in the +papers, and the queer load of parcels, goes and tells the police. +Lafferty is put on the case, pumps the cabman dry, then goes to the +stores where the cab stopped to collect the goods, and finds out the +rest. Only, when he comes to tell the story, he tells the facts not in +their order as he found them out, but in their order as they occurred.” + +“You know all about it, Mr. Bagley,” said Lafferty, taking refuge in +jocular irony. “You'd ought 'a' worked up the case yourself.” + +“You left Davenport being driven down-town,” Larcher reminded the +detective. + +“Yes, an' that about lets me out. The cabman druv 'im to somewhere on +South Street, by the wharves. It was dark by that time, and the driver +didn't notice the exact spot--he just druv along the street till the man +told him to stop, that was his orders,--an' then the man got out, took +out his parcels, an' carried them across the sidewalk into a dark +hallway. Then he paid the cabman, an' the cabman druv off. The last the +cabman seen of 'im, he was goin' into the hallway where his goods were, +an' that's the last any one seen of 'im in New York, as fur as known. +Prob'ly you've got enough imagination to give a guess what became of him +after that.” + +“No, I haven't,” said Larcher. + +“Jes' think it over. You can put two and two together, can't you? A new +outfit o' clo'es, first of all. Then a stock o' provisions. To make it +easier, I'll tell yuh this much: they was the kind o' provisions people +take on yachts, an' he even admitted to the salesman they was for that +purpose. And then South Street--the wharves; does that mean ships? Does +the whole business mean a voyage? But a man don't have to stock up extry +food if he's goin' by any regular steamer line, does he? What fur, then? +And what kind o' ships lays off South Street? Sailin' ships; them that +goes to South America, an' Asia, and the South Seas, and God knows where +all. Now do you think you can guess?” + +“But why would he put his things in a hallway?” queried Larcher. + +“To wait fur the boat that was to take 'em out to the vessel late at +night. Why did he wait fur dark to be druv down there? You bet, he was +makin' his flittin' as silent as possible. He'd prob'ly squared it with +a skipper to take 'im aboard on the dead quiet. That's why there ain't +much use our knowin' what vessels sailed about that time. I _do_ know, +but much good we'll get out o' that. What port he gets off at, who'll +ever tell? It'll be sure to be in a country where we ain't got no +extradition treaty. And when this particular captain shows up again at +this port, innocent enough _he'll_ be; _he_ never took no passenger +aboard in the night, an' put 'im off somewheres below the 'quator. I +guess Mr. Bagley can about consider his twenty thousand to the bad, +unless his young friend takes a notion to return to his native land +before he's got it all spent.” + +“And that's your belief?” said Larcher to Bagley, “--that he went to some +other country with the money?” + +“Absconded,” replied the ready-money man. “Yes; there's nothing else to +believe. At first I thought you might have some notion where he was; +that's what made me send for you. But I see he left you out of his +confidence. So I thought you might as well know his real character. +Lafferty's going to give the result of his investigation to the newspaper +men, anyhow. The only satisfaction I can get is to show the fellow up.” + +When Larcher left the presence of Bagley, he carried away no definite +conclusion except that Bagley was an even more detestable animal than he +had before supposed. If the man whom Lafferty had traced was really +Davenport, then indeed the theory of suicide was shaken. There remained +the possibility of murder or flight. The purchases indeed seemed to +indicate flight, especially when viewed in association with South Street. +South Street? Why, that was Mr. Bud's street. And a hallway? Mr. Bud's +room was approached through a hallway. Mr. Bud had left town the day +before that Wednesday; but if Davenport had made frequent visits there +for sketching, was it not certain that he had had access to the room in +Mr. Bud's absence? Larcher had knocked at that room two days after the +Wednesday, and had got no answer, but this was no evidence that Davenport +might not have made some use of the room in the meanwhile. If he had made +use of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to his +subsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley's +apartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quarters +before saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one. + +He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soon +as he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs +from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more +answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to +the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. + +“Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?” inquired Larcher, having observed the +usual preliminaries to interrogation. + +“Not to my knowledge.” + +“When was he here last?” + +“Not for a long time. 'Most two months, I guess.” + +“But I was here five or six weeks ago, and he'd been gone only three days +then.” + +“Then you know more about it than I do; so don't ast me.” + +“He hasn't been here since I was?” + +“He hasn't.” + +“And my friend who was here with me the first time--has he been here +since?” + +“Not while I've been.” + +“When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?” + +“Give it up. I ain't his private secretary.” + +Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a +man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud +himself. + +“I was just looking for you,” cried Larcher. + +“That so?” replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. “I just +got into town. It's blame cold out.” He set his hand-bag on the bar, +saying to the bartender, “Keep my gripsack back there awhile, Mick, will +yuh? I got to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plate +o' soup on that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Two +plates o' soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, set +down, sir. Make yourself at home.” + +Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and the +old man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject. + +“Do you know what's become of my friend Davenport?” he asked, in a low +tone. + +“No. Hope he's well and all right. What makes you ask like that?” + +“Haven't you read of his disappearance?” + +“Disappearance? The devil! Not a word! I been too busy to read the +papers. When was it?” + +“Several weeks ago.” Larcher recited the main facts, and finished thus: +“So if there isn't a mistake, he was last seen going into your hallway. +Did he have a key to your room?” + +“Yes, so's he could draw pictures while I was away. My hallway? Let's +go and see.” + +In some excitement, without waiting for partiallars, the farmer rose +and led the way out. It was already quite dark. + +“Oh, I don't expect to find him in your room,” said Larcher, at his +heels. “But he may have left some trace there.” + +Mr. Bud turned into the hallway, of which the door was never locked till +late at night. The hallway was not lighted, save as far as the rays of a +street-lamp went across the threshold. Plunging into the darkness with +haste, closely followed by Larcher, the old man suddenly brushed against +some one coming from the stairs. + +“Excuse _me_” said Mr. Bud. “I didn't see anybody. It's all-fired dark in +here.” + +“It _is_ dark,” replied the stranger, and passed out to the street. +Larcher, at the words of the other two, had stepped back into a corner +to make way. Mr. Bud turned to look at the stranger; and the stranger, +just outside the doorway, turned to look at Mr. Bud. Then both went their +different directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs. + +“Must be a new lodger,” said Mr. Bud. “He was comin' from these stairs +when I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before.” + +“You can't truly say you saw him even then,” replied Larcher, guiding +himself by the stair wall. + +“Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. A +good-lookin' young chap, to be roomin' on these premises.” + +“I didn't see his face,” replied Larcher, stumbling. + +“Look out fur yur feet. Here we are at the top.” + +Mr. Bud groped to his door, and fumblingly unlocked it. Once inside his +room, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners. + +“Everything same as ever,” said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centre +of the room. “Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I left +it--” + +“Hello, what's this?” exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollow +metallic object on the floor and knocked his head against a ropey, +rubbery something in the air. + +“That's a gas-heater--Mr. Davenport made me a present of it. It's +convenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas it +burned when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that.” + +The ropey, rubbery something was the tube connecting the heater with the +gas-fixture. + +“I move we light 'er up, and make the place comfortable; then we can talk +this matter over,” continued Mr. Bud. “Shet the door, an' siddown.” + +Seated in the waves of warmth from the gas-stove, the two went into the +details of the case. + +Larcher not withholding the theory of Mr. Lafferty, and even touching +briefly on Davenport's misunderstanding as to Florence Kenby. + +“Well,” said Mr. Bud, thoughtfully, “if he reely went into a hallway in +these parts, it would prob'ly be the hallway he was acquainted with. But +he wouldn't stay in the hallway. He'd prob'ly come to this room. An' he'd +no doubt bring his parcels here. But one thing's certain: if he did that, +he took 'em all away again. He might 'a' left somethin' in the closet, or +under the bed, or somewheres.” + +A search was made of the places named, as well as of drawers and +wash-stand, but Mr. Bud found no additions to his property. He even +looked in the coal-box,--and stooped and fished something out, which he +held up to the light. “Hello, I don't reco'nize this!” + +Larcher uttered an exclamation. “He _has_ been here! That's the note-book +cover the money was in. He had it the night before he was last seen. I +could swear to it.” + +“It's all dirty with coal-dust,” cautioned Mr. Bud, as Larcher seized it +for closer examination. + +“It proves he's been here, at least. We've got him traced further than +the detective, anyhow.” + +“But not so very fur, at that. What if he was here? Mind, I ain't +a-sayin' one thing ur another,--but if he _was_ contemplatin' a voyage, +an' had fixed to be took aboard late at night, what better place to wait +fur the ship's boat than just this here?” + +“But the money must have been handled here--taken out of this cover, and +the cover thrown away. Suppose somebody _had_ seen him display that money +during the day; _had_ shadowed him here, followed him to this room, taken +him by surprise?” + +“No signs of a struggle, fur as I c'n see.” + +“But a single blow with a black-jack, from behind, would do the +business.” + +“An' what about the--remains?” + +“The river is just across the street. This would occur at night, +remember.” + +Mr. Bud shook his head. “An' the load o' parcels--what 'ud become o' +them?” + +“The criminal might convey them away, too, at his leisure during the +night. They would be worth something.” + +Evidently to test the resourcefulness of the young man's imagination, Mr. +Bud continued, “But why should the criminal go to the trouble o' removin' +the body from here?” + +“To delay its discovery, or create an impression of suicide if it were +found,” ventured Larcher, rather lamely. “The criminal would naturally +suppose that a chambermaid visited the room every day.” + +“The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don't +stand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take any +chances f'r the sake o' the parcels. No; your the'ry's got as much agin' +it, as the detective's has fur it. It's built on nothin' but random +guesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with the +money,--you say the other fellow'd done him out o' that much, anyhow. +I'd rather that than somebody else got away with him.” + +“So would I--in the circumstances,” confessed Larcher. + +Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and “tackle the +soup.” Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As +they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the +coal-dust on the covers. + +“There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there,” said +Mr. Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the +light of matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein +were an ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other +products of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the +aid of light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs. + +“Yes,” spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, “one 'ud almost +imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of +the young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just +in time to miss the news! That beats me!” + +“And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?” said Larcher. “It +breaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's really +an angel of a girl.” + +They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the stranger +he had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves in +the saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to the +bartender: + +“I see there's a new roomer, Mick?” + +“Where?” asked Mick. + +“In the house here. Somewheres up-stairs.” + +“If there is, he's a new one on me,” said Mick, decidedly. + +“What? _Ain't_ there a new roomer come in since I was here last?” + +“No, sir, there ain't there.” + +“Well, that's funny,” said Mr. Bud, looking to Larcher for comment. But +Larcher had no thought just then for any subject but Davenport, and to +that he kept the farmer's attention during the rest of their talk. When +the talk was finished, simultaneously with the soup, it had been agreed +that Mr. Bud should “nose around” thereabouts for any confirmation of +Lafferty's theory, or any trace of Davenport, and should send for Larcher +if any such turned up. + +“I'll be in town a week ur two,” said the old man, at parting. “I +been kep' so long up-country this time, 'count o' the turkey +trade--Thanksgivin' and Chris'mas, y'know. I do considerable in poultry.” + +But some days passed, and Larcher heard nothing from Mr. Bud. A few of +the newspapers published Detective Lafferty's unearthings, before Larcher +had time to prepare Miss Kenby for them. She hailed them with gladness as +pointing to a likelihood that Davenport was alive; but she ignored all +implications of probable guilt on his part. That the amount of Bagley's +loss through Davenport was no more than Bagley's rightful debt to +Davenport, Larcher had already taken it on himself delicately to inform +her. She had not seemed to think that fact, or any fact, necessary to her +lover's justification. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + +Meanwhile Larcher was treated to an odd experience. One afternoon, as +he turned into the house of flats in which Edna Hill lived, he chanced +to look back toward Sixth Avenue. He noticed a pleasant-looking, +smooth-faced young man, very erect in carriage and trim in appearance, +coming along from that thoroughfare. He recalled now that he had observed +this same young man, who was a stranger to him, standing at the corner of +his own street as he left his lodgings that morning; and again sauntering +along behind him as he took the car to come up-town. Doubtless, thought +he, the young man had caught the next car, and, by a coincidence, got off +at the same street. He passed in, and the matter dropped from his mind. + +But the next day, as he was coming out of the restaurant where he usually +lunched, his look met that of the same neat, braced-up young man, who was +standing in the vestibule of a theatre across the way. “It seems I am +haunted by this gentleman,” mused Larcher, and scrutinized him rather +intently. Even across the street, Larcher was impressed anew with the +young man's engagingness of expression, which owed much to a whimsical, +amiable look about the mouth. + +Two hours later, having turned aside on Broadway to greet an +acquaintance, his roving eye fell again on the spruce young man, this +time in the act of stepping into a saloon which Larcher had just passed. +“By George, this _is_ strange!” he exclaimed. + +“What?” asked his acquaintance. + +“That's the fifth time I've seen the same man in two days. He's just gone +into that saloon.” + +“You're being shadowed by the police,” said the other, jokingly. “What +crime have you committed?” + +The next afternoon, as Larcher stood on the stoop of the house in lower +Fifth Avenue, and glanced idly around while waiting for an answer to his +ring, he beheld the young man coming down the other side of the avenue. +“Now this is too much,” said Larcher to himself, glaring across at the +stranger, but instantly feeling rebuked by the innocent good humor that +lurked about the stranger's mouth. As the young man came directly +opposite, without having apparently noticed Larcher, the latter's +attention was called away by the coming of the servant in response to +the bell. He entered the house, and, as he awaited the announcement of +his name to Miss Kenby, he asked himself whether this haunting of his +footsteps might indeed be an intended act. “Do they think I may be in +communication with Davenport? and _are_ they having me shadowed? That +would be interesting.” But this strange young man looked too intelligent, +too refined, too superior in every way, for the trade of a shadowing +detective. Besides, a “shadow” would not, as a rule, appear on three +successive days in precisely the same clothes and hat. + +And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he see +gazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same side +of the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to the +probability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight to +the young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man's +reflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casual +manner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed his +contemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the young +man's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face, +disarmed resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an +interest in the show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way, +leaving the young man before the window. Larcher presently looked back; +the young man was still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he +was not taking further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end of +Larcher's odd experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself +followed. + +The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not +been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door. +Florence rose and opened it. + +“I beg your pardon, Miss Kenby,” said a very masculine, almost husky +voice in the hall; “these are the cigars I was speaking of to your +father. May I leave them?” + +“Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Turl,” called out Miss Kenby's father himself +from the fireside. + +“Thank you, no; I won't intrude.” + +“But you must; I want to see you,” Mr. Kenby insisted, fussily getting +to his feet. + +Larcher asked himself where he had heard the name of Turl. Before his +memory could answer, the person addressed by that name entered the room +in a politely hesitating manner, bowed, and stood waiting for father +and daughter to be seated. He was none other than the smooth-faced, +pleasant-looking young man with the trim appearance and erect attitude. +Larcher sat open-eyed and dumb. + +Mr. Kenby was for not only throwing his attention entirely around the +newcomer, but for snubbing Larcher utterly forthwith; seeing which, +Florence took upon herself the office of introducing the two young men. +Mr. Turl, in resting his eyes on Larcher, showed no consciousness of +having encountered him before. They were blue eyes, clear and soft, and +with something kind and well-wishing in their look. Larcher found the +whole face, now that it was animated with a sense of his existence, +pleasanter than ever. He found himself attracted by it; and all the +more for that did he wonder at the young man's appearance in the house +of his acquaintances, after those numerous appearances in his wake in +the street. + +Mr. Kenby now took exclusive possession of Mr. Turl, and while those two +were discussing the qualities of the cigars, Larcher had an opportunity +of asking Florence, quietly: + +“Who is your visitor? Have you known him long?” + +“Only three or four days. He is a new guest in the house. Father met +him in the public drawing-room, and has taken a liking to him.” + +“He seems likeable. I was wondering where I'd heard the name. It's not a +common name.” + +No, it was not common. Florence had seen it in a novel or somewhere, but +had never before met anybody possessing it. She agreed that he seemed +likeable,--agreed, that is to say, as far as she thought of him at all, +for what was he, or any casual acquaintance, to a woman in her state of +mind? + +Larcher regarded him with interest. The full, clear brow, from which the +hair was tightly brushed, denoted intellectual qualities, but the rest +of the face--straight-bridged nose, dimpled cheeks, and quizzical +mouth--meant urbanity. The warm healthy tinge of his complexion, evenly +spread from brow to chin, from ear-tip to ear-tip, was that of a social +rather than bookish or thoughtful person. He soon showed his civility by +adroitly contriving to include Florence and Larcher in his conversation +with Mr. Kenby. Talk ran along easily for half an hour upon the shop +windows during the Christmas season, the new calendars, the picture +exhibitions, the “art gift-books,” and such topics, on all of which Mr. +Turl spoke with liveliness and taste. (“Fancy my supposing this man a +detective,” mused Larcher.) + +“I've been looking about in the art shops and the old book stores,” said +Mr. Turl, “for a copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, as it was +called. You know, of course,--engravings from the Boydell collection of +Shakespearean paintings. It was convenient to have them in a volume. I'm +sorry it has disappeared from the shops. I'd like very much to have +another look through it.” + +“You can easily have that,” said Larcher, who had impatiently awaited a +chance to speak. “I happen to possess the book.” + +“Oh, indeed? I envy you. I haven't seen a copy of it in years.” + +“You're very welcome to see mine. I wouldn't part with it permanently, +of course, but if you don't object to borrowing--” + +“Oh, I wouldn't deprive you of it, even for a short time. The value of +owning such a thing is to have it always by; one mayn't touch it for +months, but, when the mood comes for it, there it is. I never permit +anybody to lend me such things.” + +“Then if you deprive me of the pleasure of lending it, will you take the +trouble of coming to see it?” Larcher handed him his card. + +“You're very kind,” replied Turl, glancing at the address. “If you're +sure it won't be putting you to trouble. At what time shall I be least +in your way?” + +“I shall be in to-morrow afternoon,--but perhaps you're not free till +evening.” + +“Oh, I can choose my hours; I have nothing to do to-morrow afternoon.” + +(“Evidently a gentleman of leisure,” thought Larcher.) + +So it was settled that he should call about three o'clock, an appointment +which Mr. Kenby, whose opinion of Larcher had not changed since their +first meeting, viewed with decided lack of interest. + +When Larcher left, a few minutes later, he was so far under the spell of +the newcomer's amiability that he felt as if their acquaintance were +considerably older than three-quarters of an hour. + +Nevertheless, he kept ransacking his memory for the circumstances in +which he had before heard the name of Turl. To be sure, this Turl might +not be the Turl whose name he had heard; but the fact that he _had_ heard +the name, and the coincidences in his observation of the man himself, +made the question perpetually insistent. He sought out Barry Tompkins, +and asked, “Did you ever mention to me a man named Turl?” + +“Never in a state of consciousness,” was Tompkins's reply; and an equally +negative answer came from everybody else to whom Larcher put the query +that day. + +He thought of friend after friend until it came Murray Davenport's turn +in his mental review. He had a momentary feeling that the search was +warm here; but the feeling succumbed to the consideration that Davenport +had never much to say about acquaintances. Davenport seemed to have put +friendship behind him, unless that which existed between him and Larcher +could be called friendship; his talk was not often of any individual +person. + +“Well,” thought Larcher, “when Mr. Turl comes to see me, I shall find, +out whether there's anybody we both know. If there is, I shall learn more +of Mr. Turl. Then light may be thrown on his haunting my steps for three +days, and subsequently turning up in the rooms of people I visit.” + +The arrival of Mr. Turl, at the appointed hour the next afternoon, +instantly put to rout all doubts of his being other than he seemed. In +the man's agreeable presence, Larcher felt that to imagine the +coincidences anything _but_ coincidences was absurd. + +The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, which +lay on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher had +never observed. + +“You talk like an artist,” said Larcher. + +“I have dabbled a little,” was the reply. “I believe I can draw, when put +to it.” + +“You ought to be put to it occasionally, then.” + +“I have sometimes thought of putting myself to it. Illustrating, I mean, +as a profession. One never knows when one may have to go to work for a +living. If one has a start when that time comes, so much the better.” + +“Perhaps I might be of some service to you. I know a few editors.” + +“Thank you very much. You mean you would ask them to give me work to +illustrate?” + +“If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be done +first, and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some success +with me that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and the +combination took its chances. We did very well. My friend was Murray +Davenport, who disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him.” + +“I think I read something in the papers,” replied Turl. “He went to +South America or somewhere, didn't he?” + +“A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery,” said +Larcher, making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known +Davenport, it could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. “Hasn't +Mr. Kenby or his daughter ever spoken of it to you?” added Larcher, +after a moment. + +“No. Why should they?” asked the other, turning over a page of the +volume. + +“They knew him. Miss Kenby is very unhappy over his disappearance.” + +Did a curious look come over Mr. Turl's face for an instant, as he +carefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it passed. + +“I've noticed she has seemed depressed, or abstracted,” he replied. “It's +a pity. She's very beautiful and womanly. She loved this man, do you +mean?” + +“Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on +his part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That +aggravates her unhappiness.” + +“I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort.” + +“I hope it will in this case--if it doesn't turn it to joy by bringing +Davenport back.” + +Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When the +visitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at the +fire, resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsome +easy-chairs--new specimens of an old style--in which Larcher indulged +himself. + +“A pleasant place you have here,” said the guest, while Larcher was +bringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty as +sideboard. + +“It ought to be,” replied Larcher. “Some fellows in this town only sleep +in their rooms, but I work in mine.” + +“And entertain,” said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things +were placed on a little round table at his elbow. “Here's variety of +choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a +sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out +of conceit with my own.” + +“Why, you live in a good house,” said Larcher, helping himself in turn. + +“Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fashionable +boarding-house.' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!” He smiled. “But +my own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present I +come under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom +has supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding +geniuses; but I prefer comfort to romance.” + +“How did you happen to go to that house?” + +“I saw its advertisement in the 'boarders wanted' column. I liked the +neighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not much +of the old Knickerbocker atmosphere left. It's my first experience as a +'boarder' in New York. I think, on the whole, I prefer to be a 'roomer' +and 'eat out.' I have been a 'paying guest' in London, but fared better +there as a mere 'lodger.'” + +“You're not English, are you?” + +“No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood and +political principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to the +resources of any one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but of +course before the era of sky-scrapers, multitudinous noises, and +perpetual building operations.” + +“I thought there was something of an English accent in your speech now +and then.” + +“Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took us +to England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to a +private school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greek +at all, that I boast of. Do you know Folkestone? The wind on the cliffs, +the pine-trees down their slopes, the vessels in the channel, the faint +coast of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to one +of the universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after,--the +only sorrows I've ever had,--and I decided, on my own, to cut the +university career, and jump into the study of pictorial art. Since then, +I've always done as I liked.” + +“You don't seem to have made any great mistakes.” + +“No. I've never gone hunting trouble. Unlike most people who are doomed +to uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure.” + +“Then your life has been uneventful since you jumped into the study of +art?” + +“Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first in +a London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe and +the United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I've +never had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone--I +spent the principal because I had other expectations. And now this other +little fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may be +deprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shall +have to earn my mutton chops like many a better man.” + +“You seem to take the prospect very cheerfully.” + +“Oh, I shall be fortunate. Good fortune is my destiny. Things come my +way. My wants are few. I make friends easily. I have to make them easily, +or I shouldn't make any, changing my place so often. A new place, new +friends. Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form new +friendships that chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones. +I must confess I find new friends the more interesting, the more suited +to my new wants. Old friends so often disappoint on revisitation. You +change, they don't; or they change, you don't; or they change, and you +change, but not in the same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brown +of yesterday were eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones of +to-day and the Brown of to-day are different men, through different +experiences, and don't harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?” + +As he sipped his wine and ate his sandwich, gazing contentedly into the +fire the while, Mr. Turl looked the living justification of his +philosophy. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + +During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys, +living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable +that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She +declared him “nice,” and was not above trying to make Larcher a little +jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was +not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the +slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded, +or spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it. +The newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image +filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelings +indeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should take +hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to warn him. + +If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's +heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With +Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his +thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of +inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. +That good woman had his address “in case anything turned up.” She had +rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed +by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed +by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of +his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all. + +It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his +writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was +surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara. + +“Well, this is jolly!” he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face. + +“It's not half bad,” said Edna, applying the expression to the room. “I +don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man.” + +She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs +before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the +stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other. + +“But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see,” he replied, with a +gesture toward the table. + +“Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?” asked +Edna. “Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, +auntie?” + +“Charming,” said Aunt Clara, still panting. “You must miss an elevator +in the house, Mr. Larcher.” + +“If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there +was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the +lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up.” + +“We're keeping you from your work, Tommy,” said Edna, with sudden +seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell. + +“Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea +made for you? Or will you take some wine?” + +“No, thanks; we've just had tea.” + +“I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb,” + suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a +chair for himself. + +“I just came in to tell you what I've discovered,” said Edna. “Mr. Turl +is in love with Florence Kenby!” + +“How do you know?” asked Larcher. + +“By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, +too--I can see that.” + +“And what does she appear to think about it?” + +“What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of +course it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know +that yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid +him as much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity.” + +“What is?” + +“That she isn't open to--new impressions,--you know what I mean. He's an +awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,--they would look so well +together.” + +“Edna, you amaze me!” said Larcher. “How can you want her to be +inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to +Davenport.” + +“So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was +alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out +between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that.” + +“I know you like to play the goddess from the machine,” observed Larcher. + +“She's prematurely given to match-making,” said Aunt Clara, now restored +to her placidity. + +“Be good, auntie, or I'll make a match between you and Mr. Kenby,” + threatened Edna. “Well, now that the best we can hope for about Davenport +is that he went away with another man's money--” + +“But I've told you the other man morally owed him that much money.” + +“That won't make it any safer for him to come back to New York. And you +know what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got an +awfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chance +is there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one of +those impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place where +he'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if she +isn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried to +forget the absent.” + +“I suppose you're right,” said Larcher. + +“So I came in to say that I'm going to do all I quietly can to distract +her thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I see +any way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. And +what I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints or +allusions--to Davenport, you understand.” + +“Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm +neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him--and +yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl, +much as I like him.” + +“All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his +plan of going to work?” + +“Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of +black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no +trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with.” + +“Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?” + +“I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately.” + +“He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep +Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken +her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive +with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?” + +“I jump at the chance--if there's room.” + +“There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr. +Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit.” + +“Neither do I, but for the sake of your society--” + +“All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way +to the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to +cheer up Florence.” + +This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's +pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave +himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and +listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna +was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and +then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have +eyes for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating +afternoon. In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more +than the usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in +handsome wraps and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was +adroit enough not to prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and +melancholy. She had just ordered the coachman to drive home, when the +rear of the carriage suddenly sank a little and a wheel ground against +the side. Edna screamed, and the driver stopped the horses. People came +running up from the walks, and the words “broken axle” went round. + +“We shall have to get out,” said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly +helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby. + +“Oh, what a nuisance!” cried Edna. “We can't go home in this carriage, of +course.” + +“No, miss,” said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park +policeman, and was examining the break. “But you'll be able to pick up a +cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so.” + +“What a bore!” said Edna, vexatiously. + +Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble +was. From one of them--an automobile--a large, well-dressed man strode +over and greeted Larcher with the words: + +“How are you? Had an accident?” + +It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, “Broken axle.” + +“Well,” said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, “I suppose +we'd better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab.” + +“You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party,” said +Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party. + +As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher +with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He +did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls +exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward +a man who owned an automobile and had an air of money. + +“I'm sorry you've had this break-down,” said Bagley, addressing the +party collectively. “Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're +not likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood.” + +“Thank you,” said Edna Hill, chillily. “We can't think of putting you +out.” + +“Oh, you won't put _me_ out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. My +car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when mine's +here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your homes +without any trouble.” + +During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr. +Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went +back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him. + +“Your kindness is most opportune, sir,” said Mr. Kenby, mustering +cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. “I'm not at +my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the +cold, I don't know what would happen.” + +He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the +girls to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for +Larcher to do but follow the girls. + +Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he +turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His +glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with +Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and +Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was +reached, as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her +flat; but Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by +automobile than wait and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to +the escort of Larcher, and remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger. + +“That was _the_ Mr. Bagley, was it?” asked Florence, as the three young +people turned into the house. + +“Yes,” said Larcher. “I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But +Edna's look was so imperative.” + +“I didn't know who he was, then,” put in Edna. + +“But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile.” + +“Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his +money,” said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna. + +“Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and +the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,--men like +that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, coarse-looking +creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him.” + +“I trust not,” said Larcher; “but he's one of the pushful sort. He +doesn't know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man +anywhere. I'm sorry he turned up at that moment.” + +“So am I,” said Florence, and added, explanatorily, “you know how ready +my father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider.” + +That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days +later, when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great +red roses in a vase on the table. + +“Oh, what beauties!” cried Edna. + +“Mr. Bagley sent them,” replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless, +perplexed air. “Father invited him to call.” + +“H'm! Why didn't you send them back?” + +“I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And +then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send +flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to +treat flowers badly. _They_ can't help it.” + +“Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?” + +“I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father +says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can +understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other +countries.” + +“It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners,” + said Edna. “But what would you expect of men who consider money-making +the greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be +afflicted with any more visits from Mr. Bagley.” + +“I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he +did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise.” + +When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first +sent him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from +the introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his +verbal self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying: + +“Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned +out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with +the other man they see much of,--I mean Turl, not you. The more she +loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good +qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to +tolerate Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after +all, to try for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way, +he'll be at his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because +Turl makes no secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing +for Turl is to have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?” + +“Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so +heartily? We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance, +after all.” + +“Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right +by just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!” + +“So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best +fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember--” + +“Well, what? What do you remember?” + +“Oh, nothing,--only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and that +sort of thing.” + +In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more +appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the +immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that +Turl was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young +man's own story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory +that Bagley, if he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence +of a rival. As Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl +eventually met in the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna +Hill's last recorded talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words +were wasted between them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the +younger man as of no consequence, because lacking the signs of a +money-grabber; and the younger man, having shown a moment's curiosity, +dropped Bagley as beneath interest for possessing those signs. Bagley +tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the advantage of later arrival and +of perfect control of temper. Bagley took his departure, therefore, with +the dry voice and set face of one who has difficulty in holding his +wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. Kenby made a pretext to +accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the design of leaving him in a +better humor. In magnifying his newly discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby +committed the blunder of taking too little account of Turl; and thus +Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence. + +The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the +fire was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take +second place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking +absently out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear +profile of the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her +face, with a softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking +of the clock on the mantel grew very loud. + +Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner. + +“You must not be unhappy.” + +She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew +her heart. + +“I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're +doing,” he said. + +“If you mean that I seem grave,” she replied, with a faint smile, “it's +only my way. I've always been a serious person.” + +“But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of +brooding anxiety.” + +“How do you know?” she asked, wonderingly. + +“I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have +heard the cause mentioned.” There was an odd expression for a moment on +his face, an odd wavering in his voice. + +“Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause.” + +“But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to +be, when the cause belongs to the past,--unless there's reason for +self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to +carry the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed +by it. We should put it where it belongs,--behind us. We should sweep +the old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness +the present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too +great a claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You +needn't be unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob +yourself,--you rob others.” + +She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: “But you +don't understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past. +It's a matter of--of absence.” + +“I think,” he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could +not have taken offence, “it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you +do wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to +believe that all is of the past; and then try to forget.” + +“How do you know?” she cried, turning pale. + +Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single +twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor. + +“One can see how much you cared for him,” was his reply, sadly uttered. + +“Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past? +What makes you say that?” + +“I only--look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more calmly +than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again in +New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your whole +life will be darkened if you don't.” + +“Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I +believe I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened +by being true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened! +I'll never give him up! Never!” + +Pain showed on Turl's countenance. “You mustn't doom yourself--you +mustn't waste your life,” he protested. + +“Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?” + +He waited a moment; then answered, simply, “I love you.” + +The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to +her question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when +she spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality. + +“I belong to the absent--entirely and forever. Nothing can change my +hope; or make me forget or want to forget.” + +Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which +he had shown before; but this time it was more poignant. + +“I see I must wait,” he said, quietly. + +There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient +laugh, “It will be a long time of waiting.” + +He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous +manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed +him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + +Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher, +incidentally to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of +an hour in a gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, +whose name was not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the +stairs, he met the other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just +directed to Larcher's room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer +and outgoer passed each other; but, the servant at that instant lighting +the gas, Turl glanced around for a better look, and encountered the +other's glance at the same time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl +for a scarce perceptible instant, the other for a moment longer. Then +Turl passed out, the servant having run to open the door; and the new +visitor went on up the stairs. + +The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either +bored or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. +But when a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black +clothes appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling. + +“Why, Mr. Bud! This _is_ a pleasant surprise!” + +Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into +heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat +and be comfortable before the fire. “I thought, as you'd gev me your +address, you wouldn't object--” Mr. Bud began with a beaming countenance; +but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. “Say--I met a young man +down-stairs, goin' out.” + +“Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young +man, smartly dressed.” + +“That's him. What name did you say?” + +“Turl.” + +“Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's +funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as +if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But +I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that +same place.” + +“We often have that feeling--of precisely the same thing having happened +a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' There's a +scientific theory--” + +“Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm +dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny +thing is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like +you are in this.” + +“Well, that's interesting,” said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once +seemed to be haunting his footsteps. + +“I've got it!” cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. “D'yuh mind that night you +came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?--and we went up an' +searched my room fur a trace?” + +“And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes.” + +“Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, +an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now +down-stairs.” + +“Are you sure?” + +“Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' +the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times +him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a +good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, +that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?” + +“Turl--T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?” + +“Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new +lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers +knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that +evening. So what the dickens _was_ he doin' there?” + +“It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been +some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed +to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow--here are some +comic sketches he brought me this afternoon.” Larcher got the drawings +from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. “I don't know how good these +are; I haven't examined them yet.” + +The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the +name, “F. Turl.” + +“Oh, has he signed this lot?” asked Larcher. “I told him he ought to. +Let's see what his signature looks like.” He glanced at the corner of the +sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: “By George, I've seen that name!--and +written just like that!” + +“Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'.” + +“Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since +I've known him. Where the deuce?” He shut his eyes, and made a strong +effort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at +the signature. “Yes, sir! _Francis_ Turl--that was the name. And who do +you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very +handwriting?” + +“Give it up.” + +“Murray Davenport.” + +“Yuh don't say.” + +“Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me +to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about +a meeting between the two. Now I wonder--was that an old note, and had +the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, +the next day Davenport disappeared.” + +“H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway +Davenport was seen goin' into.” + +“But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there +was a meeting _after_ Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have +been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur +there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there +in search of Davenport--or for some other purpose connected with him.” + +“H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?” + +“Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with +Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet +he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.--And then +his following me about!--Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed him +several times apparently on my track. And when I _did_ make his +acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in +love with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her +father had taken him up. His going there to live looks like another +queer thing.” + +“There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I +guess he's wuth studyin'.” + +“I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in +chronological order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting +to occur between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place +Murray Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he +shadows the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few +more days he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's +sweetheart lives, and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when +Davenport is mentioned, lets it be assumed that he didn't know the man.” + +“And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr. +Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make +out o' all that?” + +“To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and +Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do +_you_ make out of it?” + +“That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl +to the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin' +too big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance. +This Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as +you c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin' +in the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game.” + +“You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll +be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course, +where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair +object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me.” + +“If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all +you know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her +interest in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp +eyes fur anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to +live, you say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to +study him in. She might find out considerable.” + +“That's true,” said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna +would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. +But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not +prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He +resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after +first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna. + +“Between you an' the young lady,” Mr. Bud went on, “you may discover +enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about +Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They +may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's +confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid +o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had +anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to +knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. +The thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver +up what he knows.” + +Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive. +Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man +declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and +finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel +like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town +car, with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had +turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. +His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised +himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal +way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of +suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her +former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence +straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the +instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about. +Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day; +she would send a cab for her, to make sure. + +The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly +impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared. + +“What is it, dear?” were almost her first words. “Why do you look +so serious?” + +“I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom +will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very +delicate matter.” + +Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her +wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough +to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had +to be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly +lady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so +the young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who +have lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the +inmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile. + +Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand +before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the +blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an +armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies. + +Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. “Now tell Florence +all about it, from the beginning.” + +“Have you told her whom it concerns?” he asked Edna. + +“I haven't told her a word.” + +“Well, then, I think she'd better know first”--he turned to +Florence--“that it concerns somebody we met through her--through you, +Miss Kenby. But we think the importance of the matter justifies--” + +“Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “He's nothing to Florence. We're +perfectly free to speak of him as we like.--It's about Mr. Turl, dear.” + +“Mr. Turl?” There was something eager in Florence's surprise, a more than +expected readiness to hear. + +“Why,” said Larcher, struck by her expression, “have _you_ noticed +anything about his conduct--anything odd?” + +“I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made me +think.” + +“Things in connection with somebody we know?” queried Larcher. + +“Yes.” + +“With--Murray Davenport?” + +“Yes--tell me what you know.” Florence's eyes were poignantly intent. + +Larcher made rapid work of his story, in impatience for hers. His +relation deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, in +suppressed excitement: + +“With all those circumstances--there can be no doubt he knows something. +And two things I can add. He spoke once as if he had seen me in the +past;--I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange is, I +don't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the other +thing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back”--her +voice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: “He _must_ know something +about the disappearance. What could he have had to do with Murray?” + +Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud--without credit to +that gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turl +might still be in Davenport's confidence. “For all we know,” said +Larcher, “it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with us +through Turl. Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed about +our welfare. In some way or other he may be acting for Davenport, +secretly, of course.” + +Florence slowly shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said. + +“Why not?” asked Edna, quickly, with a searching look. “Has he been +making love to you?” + +Florence blushed. “I can hardly put it as positively as that,” she +answered, reluctantly. + +“He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen in +love,” suggested Larcher. + +“Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of,” put in +Edna. “But if he did that--if he was in Davenport's confidence, and yet +spoke of love, or showed it--he was false to Davenport. And so in any +case he's got to give an account of himself.” + +“How are we to make him do it?” asked Larcher. + +Edna, by a glance, passed the question on to Florence. + +“We must go cautiously,” Florence said, gazing into the fire. “We don't +know what occurred between him and Murray. He may have been for Murray; +or he may have been against him. They may have acted together in bringing +about his--departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for his +own purposes. We must draw the truth from him--we must have him where +he can't elude us.” + +Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacability +toward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part toward +Davenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to stand +in her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised. + +“You mean that we should force matters?--not wait and watch for other +circumstances to come out?” queried Larcher. + +“I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with what +we already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantage +against him--first make sure to have him alone with us three, and then +suddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'll +startle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary--I'll put the +worst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him to +tell all in self-defence.” Florence was scarlet with suppressed energy +of purpose. + +“The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us,” said +Larcher, yielding at once to her initiative. + +“As soon as possible,” replied Florence, falling into thought. + +“We might send for him to call here,” suggested Edna, who found the +situation as exciting as a play. “But then Aunt Clara would be in the +way. I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come to +your rooms, and you invite him there.” + +Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to invite +another to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on this +occasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough at +best, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before he +could be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief. + +“Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairs +who always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms to +ourselves--and Mr. Turl. I'll see to it that he comes. I'll go home now, +and give orders requesting him to call. But you two must be there when he +arrives. Come to dinner--or come back with me now. You will stay all +night, Edna.” + +After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompany +Florence home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. +This arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to Aunt +Clara and go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for the +afternoon. As Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, +nervously: “It's quite thrilling, isn't it?” He faced the blizzard again +with a feeling that the anticipatory thrill of the coming evening's +business was anything but pleasant. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + +The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive than +those to which the ordinary residents of boarding-houses are subject. +Father and daughter had their meals served in their own principal room, +the one with the large fireplace, the piano, the big red easy chairs, and +the great window looking across the back gardens to the Gothic church. +The small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby. +Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above. + +The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when +Mr. Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had +confided to the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the +shape of claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in +from a restaurant at eleven o'clock. + +“So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three +hours,” said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together. + +“How excited you are, dear!” was the reply. “You're almost shaking.” + +“No, I'm not--it's from the cold.” + +“Why, I don't think it's cold here.” + +“It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see +the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!” She gazed out at the +whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between +the furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the +pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the +gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and +shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever +augmented by the myriad rushing particles. + +Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was +already seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall. + +“It's Tom,” cried Edna. “Good boy!--ahead of time.” But the negro man +servant announced Mr. Bagley. + +A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. “Tell him my father is +not here--is spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence.” + +“Mr. Bagley!--he _must_ be devoted, to call on such a night!” remarked +Edna, when the servant had gone. + +“He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations--he's forever +wanting us to go to the theatre--or on his automobile--or to dine at +Delmonico's--or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals don't +discourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to give +us some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father sometimes +accepts--for himself.” + +Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentleman +wished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenby +for her father. + +“Very well,” she sighed. “Show him in.” + +“If he threatens to stay two minutes, I'll see what I can do to make it +chilly,” volunteered Edna. + +Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted and +undauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on Miss +Kenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he took +somewhat aback by barely noticing at all. + +He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voice +about the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed a +mind for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read an +evening paper. + +She had not. + +“I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, in +spite of the blizzard,” said Mr. Bagley. “I s'pose he wasn't going to +take any chances of losing his heiress.” + +Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could not +keep silent. + +“Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of her +title--poor thing!” + +“Oh, you mustn't say that,” interposed Florence, gently. “Perhaps they +love each other.” + +“Titled Europeans don't marry American girls for love,” said Edna. +“Haven't you been abroad enough to find out that? Or if they ever do, +they keep that motive a secret. You ought to hear them talk, over there. +They can't conceive of an American girl being married for anything _but_ +money. It's quite the proper thing to marry one for that, but very bad +form to marry one for love.” + +“Oh, I don't know,” said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling to +Edna's knowledge, “they've got to admit that our girls are a very +charming, superior lot--with a few exceptions.” His look placed Miss +Kenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else. + +“Have they, really?” retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. “I know +some of them admit it,--and what they say and write is published and +quoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written in +Europe about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresay +that's the reason of your one-sided impression.” + +Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for the +approval of Miss Kenby: + +“Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if they +don't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, and +cleverest, they're a long way off the truth, that's all.” + +“I'd like to know what you mean by _the_ American girl. There are all +sorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations: +pretty girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girls +and silly ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've got +a larger proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any other +country. But then we make up for that by so many of us having frightful +_ya-ya_ voices and raw pronunciations. As for our wonderful cleverness, +we have the assurance to talk about things we know nothing of, in such a +way as to deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nations +haven't, and that's the chief difference.” + +Bagley looked as if he knew not exactly where he stood in the argument, +or exactly what the argument was about; but he returned to the business +of impressing Florence. + +“Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothing +of. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question which +nation had the most beautiful and sensible women.” + +Florence winced at the crude directness. “You are too kind,” she said, +perfunctorily. + +“As for me,” he went on, “I've got my opinion of these European gentlemen +that marry for money.” + +“We all have, in this country, I hope,” said Edna; “except, possibly, the +few silly women that become the victims.” + +“I should be perfectly willing,” pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watching +for the effect on Florence, “to marry a girl without a cent.” + +“And no doubt perfectly able to afford it,” remarked Edna, serenely. + +He missed the point, and saw a compliment instead. + +“Well, you're not so far out of the way there, if I do say it myself,” he +replied, with a stony smile. “I've had my share of good luck. Since the +tide turned in my affairs, some years ago, I've been a steady winner. +Somehow or other, nothing seems able to fail that I go into. It's really +been monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousand +dollars that a trusted agent absconded with.” + +“You're mistaken,” Florence broke in, with a note of indignation that +made Bagley stare. “He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and your +money may be gone for the present. But there was no crime on his part.” + +“Why, do you know anything about it?” asked Bagley, in a voice subdued by +sheer wonder. + +“I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers said +about your money; that is all.” + +“Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? I +inquire merely for information.” Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he could +be in his manner of inquiry. + +“I _know_ Murray Davenport,” was her reply. + +“You knew him well?” + +“Very well.” + +“You--took a great interest in him?” + +“Very great.” + +“Indeed!” said Bagley, in pure surprise, and gazing at her as if she +were a puzzle. + +“You said you had a message for my father,” replied Florence, coldly. + +Bagley rose slowly. “Oh, yes,”--he spoke very dryly and looked very +blank,--“please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I wish +you and he would go sleighing to-morrow. I'll call at half-past two.” + +“Thank you; I'll tell him.” + +Bagley summoned up as natural a “good night” as possible, and went. As he +emerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any one +who had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of the +blank expression with which he had left the room. “She gave me the dead +freeze-out,” he muttered. “The dead freeze-out! So she knew Davenport! +and cared for the poverty-stricken dog, too!” + +Startled by a ring at the door-bell, Bagley turned into the common +drawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heard +Larcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed by +the two girls. He paced the drawing-room floor, with a wrathful frown; +then sat down and meditated. + +“Well, if he ever does come back to New York, I won't do a thing to him!” + was the conclusion of his meditations, after some minutes. + +Some one came down the stairs, and walked back toward the Kenby rooms. +Bagley strode to the drawing-room door, and peered through the hall, in +time to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knocked +at the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed it +after him. + +“That young dude Turl,” mused Bagley, with scorn. “But she won't freeze +him out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, compared +to what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own at +a time!--and now this light-weight!--compared with _me_ I--I'd give +thirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get.” + +Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, the +characteristics of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill. + +“And did you notice,” said that young lady, in conclusion, “how he simply +couldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? Because +Davenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of the +Bagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance of +having their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to see +impecunious Davenports--and Larchers--preferred to them.” + +“Thank you,” said Larcher. “I didn't know you were so observant. But +it's easy to imagine the reasoning of the money-grinders in such cases. +The satisfaction of money-greed is to them the highest aim in life; so +what can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent of +that aim? They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest of +society, though most people court and flatter them on account of their +money. They never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be a +money-grinder and good company at the same time.” + +“Why is it?” asked Florence. + +“Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has to +neglect so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But even +before that, the very nature that made him choose money-getting as the +chief end of man was incapable of the finer qualities. There _are_ +charming rich men, but either they inherited their wealth, or made it in +some high pursuit to which gain was only an incident, or they are +exceptional cases. But of course Bagley isn't even a fair type of the +regular money-grinder--he's a speculator in anything, and a boor compared +with even the average financial operator.” + +This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young people +while they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock neared +the appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher found +himself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as she +sat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up a +request to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and had +promptly received the desired answer. + +In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was able +to break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard in +the hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose and +opened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile. + +Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting of +Larcher and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairs +near the fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so far +toward a recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, when +the others had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them and +the piano. Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcher +faced him from the other side of the fireplace. + +The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, with +a remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, with +her eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely: + +“I asked you here to speak of something else--a matter we are all +interested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want to +know--we all want to know--what has become of Murray Davenport.” + +Turl's face blenched ever so little, but he made no other sign of being +startled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry; +then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but +finally returned to hers. + +“Why do you ask me?” he said, quietly. “What have I to do with Murray +Davenport?” + +Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically: + +“You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for +one thing.” + +“Oh, was I?” + +“Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was +about a meeting you were to have with him.” + +Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack. + +“We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we +do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in +New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about +the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use +in your denying that you had some part in his affairs.” + +She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with +a thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on: + +“We don't say--yet--whether that part was friendly, +indifferent,--or evil.” + +The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift +though quiet answer: + +“It wasn't evil, I give you my word.” + +“Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?” said +Larcher, quickly. + +“I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have +been clever--or I have been stupid.--I'm sorry Davenport showed you +my letter.” + +“Then, as your part was not evil,” pursued Florence, with ill-repressed +eagerness, “you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?” + +“Pardon me, but I do object. I have strong reasons. You must excuse me.” + +“We will not excuse you!” cried Florence. “We have the right to +know--the right of friend-ship--the right of love. I insist. I will not +take a refusal.” + +Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him, +Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. A +brief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace the +floor, for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape from +the room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to his +passage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind. +He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, at +last, his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spoke +in a tone less than ordinarily conciliating: + +“I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no way +accountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I have +nothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again; +he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance there +was nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. There +is no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as he +desired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear,--and +that no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Let +him rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future.” + +To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst of +passionate menace: + +“I _will_ know! I'll resort to anything, everything, to make you speak. +As yet we've kept our evidence to ourselves; but if you compel us, we +shall know what to do with it.” + +Turl let a frown of vexation appear. “I admit, that would put me out. +It's a thing I would go far to avoid. Not that I fear the law; but to +make matters public would spoil much. And I wouldn't make them public, +except in self-defence if the very worst threatened me. I don't think +that contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof is +to be feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make me +speak. Be reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what Murray +Davenport himself desired above all things.” + +“Who authorized you to tell _me_ what Murray Davenport desired? He would +have desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off with a +quiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force you to +speak. You admit you would go far to avoid the test.” + +“That's because I shouldn't like to be involved in a raking over of the +affairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I do +admit. The man is best forgotten.” + +“I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold you +answerable to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way +to bring you to account!” + +Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver +to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened: + +“In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know? +If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you. It will +end her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows.” + +“She will grow out of that feeling,” said Turl, still watching her +compassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain her +composure. + +“No, she won't!” put in Edna Hill, warmly. “You don't know her. I must +say, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse to +divulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she's +been undergoing for months, is too much for me!” + +Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed her +eyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him. + +“If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request,” said he, “you +wouldn't make it.” + +“It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, is +to me,” said Florence, in a broken voice. + +“It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closest +secret. You don't know how earnestly he wished that.” + +“Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through _my_ knowledge of +any secret,” Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl was +again visibly moved. “But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart, +he would not have had this secret from me. And to think!--he disappeared +the very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now you +would keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learned +too well that fate is pitiless; and I find that men are no less so.” + +Turl's face was a study, showing the play of various reflections. Finally +his ideas seemed to be resolved. “Are we likely to be interrupted here?” + he asked, in a tone of surrender. + +“No; I have guarded against that,” said Florence, eagerly. + +“Then I'll tell you Davenport's story. But you must be patient, and let +me tell it in my own way, and you must promise--all three--never to +reveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and great +reason for keeping it secret.” + +On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken a +moment's preliminary thought, began his account. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +A STRANGE DESIGN + +“Perhaps,” said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, “you know already +what was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediately +before his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall on +enterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, either +inseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that his +affairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he played +the merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for the +profit, of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect, +equivalent to the thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunities +in the theatrical market, with people not above the superstitions of +their guild; also it produced in him a discouragement, a +self-depreciation, which kept the quality of his work down to the level +of hopeless hackery. For yielding to this influence; for stooping, in his +necessity, to the service of Bagley, who had wronged him; for failing to +find a way out of the slough of mediocre production, poor pay, and +company inferior to him in mind, he began to detest himself. + +“He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helped +measuring his taste and intellect with those of average people, and he +had valued himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him to +think well of himself. On his trip to Europe he had met--I needn't say +more; but to have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable was +bound to elevate him in his own esteem. This event in his life had roused +his ambition and filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, or +rather had braced him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputed +bad luck. You can imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause of +hope, the reason for striving, was--as he believed--withdrawn from him. +He assumed that this calamity was due to your having learned about the +supposed shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. And +while he did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time found +cause in himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must be +worthless and undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope that +went with you, was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, he +had ever apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fancied +ill-luck, and his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colors +than ever before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded on +them. And so he got into the state I just now described. + +“He was dejected, embittered, wearied; sick of his way of livelihood, +sick of the atmosphere he moved in, sick of his reflections, sick of +himself. Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. His +self-loathing, which steadily grew, would have become a maddening torture +if he hadn't found refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved this +by an outburst of bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood found +anybody at hand for his confidences. But for the most part he lived in a +lethargic indifference, mechanically going through the form of earning +his living. + +“You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. It +may have been partly because he lacked the instinct--or perhaps the +initiative--for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at the +expense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause, +which of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said--or given the +impression--that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worth +having out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for the +not-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reserve +somewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it. + +“That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though its +existence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea which +he had conceived,--he no longer knew when, nor in what mental +circumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave of +things for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth by +association. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden new +attractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grown +to look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and develop +it. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the time +of Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a region +of his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath his +languid, uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he had +adopted as a design of action for himself to realize,--perfecting it to +the smallest incidental detail. + +“This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or less +capable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believe +that a thing is true--except where the physical condition is concerned, +or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct--he can give +himself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from its +really being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves believe +that the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted man is +Orlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we make +ourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We _know_ these +make-believes are not realities, but we _feel_ that they are; we have the +sensations that would be effected by their reality. Now this +self-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how children +content themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift, +or a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A man +will tell a false tale of some exploit or experience of his youth until, +after years, he can't for his life swear whether it really occurred or +not. Many people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories, +and come finally to believe them. Even where the _knowing_ part of the +mind doesn't grant belief, the imagining part--and through it the feeling +part--does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the effect +of a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition--on +one's life, in short--may be much the same as that of actuality. All +depends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe is +supported. + +“Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; not +only that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, as +that man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel and +act, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in time +sufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes, +he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mind +he should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of his +imagination and feeling would in time be so potent that the man he coldly +_knew_ himself to be--the actual Murray Davenport--would be the stranger, +while the man he _felt_ himself to be would be his more intimate self. +Needless to say, this new self would be a very different man from the old +Murray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from the old self, the +old recollections, the old environment, and all the old adverse +circumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time when +you, Larcher, were working with him. + +“He imagined a man such as would be produced by the happiest conditions; +one of those fortunate fellows who seem destined for easy, pleasant paths +all their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all the +cheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenport +believed that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by the +name or suspicion of ill-luck. + +“I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this new +personality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite the +history he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he made +it as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. One +circumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwing +over his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all the +surroundings with which it had been closely intimate,--not cities and +public resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, but +rooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the old +identity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have made +many acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in the +places where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some of +these people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shifting +life, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanent +claim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places which +Davenport had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollections +of, but would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of a +too definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about old +friends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginning +to have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lasting +associations and friendships could be formed, and these could be +cherished as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time a +good number could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on. + +“But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for the +new self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man should +find himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter, +a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefully +cultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough to +avoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far and +still be in hourly risk of running against one of the old Murray +Davenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to the +constant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport by +himself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glass +window, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt at +mental transformation with the reminder of his physical identity. +Even if he could avoid being confronted many times a day by the +reflected face of Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually brought +back to his inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of the +face on the glances of other people,--for you know that different faces +evoke different looks from observers, and the look that one man is +accustomed to meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not precisely +the same as that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to the +point, Murray Davenport saw that to make his change of identity really +successful, to avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, to +make himself another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all the +more so in his own through finding himself so in the world's, he must +transform himself physically--in face and figure--beyond the recognition +of his closest friend--beyond the recognition even of himself. How was it +to be done? + +“Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problem +as if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see. + +“In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished by +the touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort of +fairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real life +there have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dual +identity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts from +one to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor is +such a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenport +wasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if he +had been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, or +ensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise of +imagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in those +cases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change in +facial expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such as +Davenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to work +the mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He must +resort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, the +magic of witches, and the drugs of romance,--he must employ Science and +the physical means it afforded. + +“Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had never +arrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interest +in them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. His +general reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curious +odds and ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employed +by criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition: +not merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removing +beards, changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening or +thinning the face by dietary means,--devices that won't fool a close +acquaintance for half a minute,--not merely these, but the practice of +tampering with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alter +the very hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certain +muscle, the cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over the +wound, makes a very great alteration of outward effect. The result of +this operation, however, is not an improvement in looks, and as +Davenport's object was to fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance, +he could not resort to it without modifications, and, besides that, he +meant to achieve a far more thorough transformation than it would +produce. But the knowledge of this operation was something to start with. +It was partly to combat such devices of criminals, that Bertillon +invented his celebrated system of identification by measurements. A +slight study of that system gave Davenport valuable hints. He was +reminded by Bertillon's own words, of what he already knew, that the skin +of the face--the entire skin of three layers, that is, not merely the +outside covering--may be compared to a curtain, and the underlying +muscles to the cords by which it is drawn aside. The constant drawing of +these cords, you know, produces in time the facial wrinkles, always +perpendicular to the muscles causing them. If you sever a number of these +cords, you alter the entire drape of the curtain. It was for Davenport to +learn what severances would produce, not the disagreeable effect of the +operation known to criminals, but a result altogether pleasing. He was to +discover and perform a whole complex set of operations instead of the +single operation of the criminals; and each operation must be of a +delicacy that would ensure the desired general effect of all. And this +would be but a small part of his task. + +“He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formed +noses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call +'plastic surgery,' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery.' From the 'beauty +shops,' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changing +his nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminating +the hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as to +produce perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came the +hint of cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks,--a detail that fell +in admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimples +would be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. What +are commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made to +serve the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face where +such furrows would aid his plan,--at the ends of his lips, for +instance, where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth could +be imitated by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirth +form in good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free from +wrinkles, perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had taken +refuge in. It was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say in +regard to make-up. + +“But changing the general shape of the face--the general drape of the +curtain--and the form of the prominent features, would not begin to +suffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hair +arrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, the +complexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hair +rather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of the +head and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead was +usually concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, and +having it cut in a new fashion, he could materially change the +appearance of his forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, he +could do as much for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If the +forehead needed still more change, the line of implantation could be +altered by removing hairs with tweezers; and the same painful but +possible means must be used to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. By +removing hairs from the tops of the ends, and from the bottom of the +middle, he would be able to raise the arch of each eyebrow noticeably. +This removal, along with the clearing of hair from the forehead, and +thinning the eyelashes by plucking out, would contribute to another +desirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what are commonly called gray. In +the course of his study of Bertillon, he came upon the reminder that--to +use the Frenchman's own words--'the gray eye of the average person is +generally only a blue one with a more or less yellowish tinge, which +appears gray solely on account of the shadow cast by the eyebrows, etc.' +Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, and the clearing of the +forehead of its hanging locks, must considerably decrease that shadow. +The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes would be helped by +something else, which I shall come to later. The use of the tweezers on +the eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, 'no part of +the face contributes a more important share to the general expression of +the physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow.' The complexion +would be easy to deal with. His way of life--midnight hours, +abstemiousness, languid habits--had produced bloodless cheeks. A summary +dosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a reformation of +diet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, air, proper +food, and rational living would not only preserve but intensify. + +“But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, would +not do. As long as his bodily form, walk, attitude, carriage of the head, +remained the same, so would his general appearance at a distance or when +seen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against the +disillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected in +some distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by some +former acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might be +endangered, if some particularly curious and discerning person should go +in for solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenport +in a man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, and +so forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto he +had leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of the +strongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give him +tightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame, +alter the swing of his arms, and entail--without effort on his part--a +change in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way of +placing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequent +throwing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration, +too: it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequently +further affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticed +the great difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward or +thrown back,--as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accounts +for the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they're +taken of,--a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to get +a stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their faces +slightly averted. + +“You understand, of course, that only his entire _appearance_ would have +to be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be unable to +recognize him, even vaguely as resembling some one they couldn't 'place.' +But there was, of course, no anthropometric record of him in existence, +such as is taken of criminals to ensure their identification by the +Bertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected without +the least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to his +hands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the body +make on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts to +identify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible. +Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and that +rather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity to +the observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borne +out by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decided +that his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degeneration +of the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the new +character he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taught +in most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a little +care and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small he +could soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to go +carefully until habituated to the new style, with which he might defy +even the handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man who +would disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that of +an uneducated person. + +“There would still remain the voice to be made over,--quite as important +a matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict an +identification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkable +resemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail to +notice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-way +knowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music and +elocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll come +to that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operations +which he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightest +beginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete and +every facility offered. That was not till the last night you saw him, +Larcher,--the night before his disappearance. + +“For operations so delicate, meant to be so lasting in their effect, so +important to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity of +a perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not erase +errors, or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub out +misplaced lines and try again, as an actor can in 'making up.' He had +learned a good deal about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contact +with the stage. His plan was to use first the materials employed by +actors, until he should succeed in producing a countenance to his +liking; and then, by surgical means, to make real and permanent the sham +and transient effects of paint-stick and pencil. He would violently +compel nature to register the disguise and maintain it. + +“He was favored in one essential matter--that of a place in which to +perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at +leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would +spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock +himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and +remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would +probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more +under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort, +in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat, +water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited +solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a +living soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. He +couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigations +would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by the +intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed to +you, Larcher,--one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to the +old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for his +design,--that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on the +water-front. + +“He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his +permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his +absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept +away in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--and +you, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you +two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that +access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been +there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it +wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport +could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing +whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need +only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr. +Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that +the shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old +man busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was +now all ready to put his design into execution.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + +“On the very afternoon,” Turl went on, “before the day when Davenport +could have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order to +confide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence, +and, rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport went +and received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot of +money, in bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placed +the next day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather in +passively letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as to +whether he would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that evening +of anything but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on the +morrow. As not an hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessary +for the healing of the operations, he would either have to despatch +Bagley's business very quickly or neglect it altogether. In the latter +case, what about the money in his hands? The sum was nearly equal to +that which Bagley had morally defrauded him of. + +“This coincidence, coming at that moment, seemed like the work of fate. +Bagley was to be absent from town a week, and Murray Davenport was about +to undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. It +really appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poetic +justice; had deliberately planned a restitution; had determined to +befriend the new man as it had afflicted the old. For the new man would +have to begin existence with a very small cash balance, unless he +accepted this donation from chance. If there were any wrong in accepting +it, that wrong would not be the new man's; it would be the bygone Murray +Davenport's; but Murray Davenport was morally entitled to that much--and +more--of Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach of +trust; but Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and common +humanity. Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred times +more than this sum now represented to Bagley. + +“Well, Davenport was pondering this on his way home from Bagley's rooms, +when he met Larcher. Partly a kind feeling toward a friend he was about +to lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting the +question of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made him +invite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrived +to introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteer +on the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. As +for your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and your +eventual inferences if he should disappear without using it for Bagley, +the fact would come out anyhow as soon as Bagley returned to New York. +And whatever you would think, either in condemnation or justification, +would be thought of the old Murray Davenport. It wouldn't matter to the +new man. During that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse of +communicativeness--such a desire for a moment's relief from his +long-maintained secrecy--that he was on the verge of confiding his +project to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; and +you had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations. + +“He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as few +belongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides the +Bagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result of +his collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a few +instruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set of +shaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought the +day before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to their +fate. He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn't +help feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a new +tenant accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act. + +“He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines of +tonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healing +preparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel. +His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed as +for travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward, +whereas a trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put out +of sight. Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put into +wrapping-paper. His second visit was to a department store, where he got +the linen and other articles he would need during his seclusion,--sheets, +towels, handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. He +provided himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear in +immediately after his transformation, until he could be supplied by +regular tailors, haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes, +everything,--particularly shoulder braces; he put those on when he came +to be fitted with the suit and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the old +Davenport's was to emerge with the new man. + +“Well, he left his purchases to be called for. His paper parcel, +containing the instruments, drugs, and so forth, he thought best to +cling to. From the department store he went to some other shops in the +neighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in his +pockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of the +money again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing the +funds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the bills +themselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His next +important call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He had +got up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large part +of the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that he +was buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcels +here made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he went +out, hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and was +driven to the department store. The things he had bought there were put +on the cab seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, and +had his parcels from there stowed inside the cab, which they almost +filled up. But he managed to make room for himself, and ordered the man +to drive to and along South Street until told to stop. It was now quite +dark, and he thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory of +the exact place if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by being +mentioned and looked for. + +“However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, when +Mr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no great +interest in the locality,--it was a cold night, and he was doubtless +thinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying his +parcels into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying the +cabman. As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving his +things up to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the door +locked, and the gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eye +fell on Bagley's money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to use +it as Bagley had ordered. Davenport wondered what he would do with it, +but postponed the problem; he thrust the package of bills out of view, +behind the books on Mr. Bud's shelf, and turned to the business he had +come for. No one had seen him take possession of the room; no eye but +the cabman's had followed him to the hallway below, and the cabman would +probably think he was merely housing his goods there till he should go +aboard some vessel in the morning. + +“A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It was +the healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room was +well enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused the +gas-stove to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep the +coal-stove in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too great +a problem. As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its light +couldn't reach the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield for +the keyhole. For water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to a +bath-room, of which Mr. Bud kept a key hung up in his own apartment. +During his secret residence in the house, Davenport visited the bath-room +only at night, taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had first +been puzzled by the laundry problem, but it proved very simple. His +costume during his time of concealment was limited to pajamas and +slippers. Of handkerchiefs he had provided a large stock. When the towels +and other articles did require laundering, he managed it in a wash-basin. +On the first night, he only unpacked and arranged his things, and slept. +At daylight he sat down before a mirror, and began to design his new +physiognomy with the make-up pencils. By noon he was ready to lay aside +the pencils and substitute instruments of more lasting effect. Don't +fear, Miss Hill, that I'm going to describe his operations in detail. +I'll pass them over entirely, merely saying that after two days of work +he was elated with the results he could already foresee upon the healing +of the cuts. Such pain as there was, he had braced himself to endure. The +worst of it came when he exchanged knives for tweezers, and attacked his +eyebrows. This was really a tedious business, and he was glad to find +that he could produce a sufficient increase of curve without going the +full length of his design. In his necessary intervals of rest, he +practised the new handwriting. He was most regular in his diet, sleep, +and use of medicines. After a few days, he had nothing left to do, as far +as the facial operations were concerned, but attend to their healing. He +then began to wear the shoulder-braces, and took up the matter of voice. + +“But meanwhile, in the midst of his work one day,--his second day of +concealment, it was,--he had a little experience that produced quite as +disturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he came +across the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in the +afternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, as +usual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in and +out. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by a +knock. He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fear +the knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heard +again, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them as +yours, Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days that +they might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned. +Later, in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many little +alarms at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as people +went to and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after he +had begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he made +was low, it might have been audible to a person just outside his door. +But he kept his ear alert, and the voice-practice was shut off at the +slightest intimation of a step on the stairs. + +“The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard many +feet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If it +had been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuous +sort of growl, difficult to place or identify. + +“You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than their +possessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of American +voices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, we +speak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middle +notes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice is +naturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases is +to glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had done +this. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading verse +aloud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in the +slang phrase, 'all there.' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way of +bringing the lower voice into predominance; of making it become the +habitual voice, to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one can +do this in time by studied practice, but the constant watchfulness is +irksome and may lapse at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and for +all, so that the quick unconscious response to the mind's order to speak +would be from the lower voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud's +dictionary, opened it at U, and recited one after another all the words +beginning with that letter as pronounced in 'under.' This he did through +the whole list, again and again, hour after hour, monotonously, in the +lower register of his voice. He went through this practice every day, +with the result that his deeper notes were brought into such activity as +to make them supplant the higher voice entirely. Pronunciation has +something to do with voice effect, and, besides, his complete +transformation required some change in that on its own account. This was +easy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of imitating dialects, +foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier in life he had +naturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, which is +somewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in his +association with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed into +the slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only to +return to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as in +other details of the well-ordered life his new self was to lead. + +“As I said, he was provided with shaving materials. But he couldn't cut +his own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in the +old fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the end +of that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could do +about it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longest +locks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After the +first two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention each +day. His vocal and handwriting exercises weren't to be carried to excess, +and so he had a good deal of time on his hands. Some of this, after his +face was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise, +using chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenic +implements. He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave the +utmost care to their composition from the preserved foods at his +disposal. He slept from nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed no +artificial light. For pure air, he kept a window open all night, being +well wrapped up, but in the daytime he didn't risk leaving open more than +the cracks above and below the sashes, for fear some observant person +might suspect a lodger in the room. Sometimes he read, renewing an +acquaintance which the new man he was beginning to be must naturally have +made, in earlier days, with Scott's novels. He had necessarily designed +that the new man should possess the same literature and general knowledge +as the bygone Davenport had possessed. For already, as soon as the +general effect of the operations began to emerge from bandages and +temporary discoloration, he had begun to consider Davenport as +bygone,--as a man who had come to that place one evening, remained a +brief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving behind him his clothes and +sundry useful property which he, the new man who found himself there, +might use without fear of objection from the former owner. + +“The sense of new identity came with perfect ease at the first bidding. +It was not marred by such evidences of the old fact as still remained. +These were obliterated one by one. At last the healing was complete; +there was nothing to do but remove all traces of anybody's presence in +the room during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of a +barber. The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove, +starting it with the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feeding +it first with Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and other +inflammable things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He made +one large bundle of the shoes, cans, jars, surgical instruments, +everything that couldn't be easily burnt, and wrapped them in a sheet, +along with the dead ashes of the conflagration in the stove. He then made +up Mr. Bud's bed, restored the room to its original appearance in every +respect, and waited for night. As soon as access to the bath-room was +safe, he made his final toilet, as far as that house was concerned, and +put on his new clothes for the first time. About three o'clock in the +morning, when the street was entirely deserted, he lugged his +bundle--containing the unburnable things--down the stairs and across the +street, and dropped it into the river. Even if the things were ever +found, they were such as might come from a vessel, and wouldn't point +either to Murray Davenport or to Mr. Bud's room. + +“He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his new +sensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a market +restaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop--one of those that +open in time for early-rising customers--and had his hair cut in the +desired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought a +supply of linen and so forth, with a trunk and hand-bag, so that he could +'arrive' properly at a hotel. He did arrive at one, in a cab, with bag +and baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, he +called at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, he +recalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind the +books on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, but +in any case it oughtn't to remain where it was; so he went back to Mr. +Bud's room, entering the house unnoticed. + +“He took the money from the cover it was in, and put it in an inside +pocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effects +of this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quite +irresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhile +before going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, was +only increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked very +tempting. To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down on +the bed, with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed. + +“He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, and +the lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on the +floor and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; he +then sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed down +the cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left the +room for the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to the +foot of the stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One of +them happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had already +seen their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked his +stars for the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Bud +and Larcher.” + +Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florence +and Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was now +complete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have to +make, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeed +was Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder shared +with him, could not be guessed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + +The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often +than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no +great stupidity in her remark to Turl: + +“But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that +hallway one night, but it turned out to be you.” + +“Yes, it was I,” was the quiet answer. “The name of the new man, you see, +was Francis Turl.” + +As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a +certain doubt: “But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you +before he--before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the night +before he disappeared--it was signed Francis Turl.” + +Turl smiled. “Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's +character. He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character +he had constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun +practical experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some +of that practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could +better mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than +letters between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief +acquaintance, which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray +Davenport's affairs ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This +has already happened in the matter of the money, for example. The name, +too, was selected long before the disappearance. That explains the +letter you saw. I didn't dare tell this earlier in the story,--I feared +to reveal too suddenly what had become of Murray Davenport. It was best +to break it as I have, was it not?” + +He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an +involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something +almost like repulsion. + +“It's so strange,” she said, in a hushed voice. “I can't believe it. I +don't know what to think.” + +Turl sighed patiently. “You can understand now why I didn't want to tell. +Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,--to +interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to +perfect it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it, +of course. I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll +support the illusion.” + +“Of course,” replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead +to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind +was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered +aversion in her look. + +“I had meant to leave New York,” he went on, watching her with cautious +anxiety, “in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the +friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the +street that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell +into a strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about +Davenport. This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the +disappearance, so I was pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. +Also, I wondered whether he would detect any trace of my long occupancy +of his room. I found I'd forgot to bring out the cover taken from the +bankbills. Suppose that were seen, and you recognized it, what theories +would you form? For the sake of my purpose I ought to have put curiosity +aside, but it was too keen; I resolved to gratify it this one time only. +The hallway was perfectly dark, and all I had to do was to wait there +till you and Mr. Bud should come out. I knew he would accompany you +down-stairs for a good-night drink in the saloon when you left. The +slightest remark would give me some insight into your general views of +the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came down together. I stood +well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. And you can imagine +what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. Do you remember? +Davenport--it couldn't be anybody else--had disappeared just too soon to +learn that 'the young lady'--so Mr. Bud called her--had been true, after +all! And it broke your heart to have nothing to report when you saw her!” + +“I do remember,” said Larcher. Florence's lip quivered. + +“I stood there in the darkness, like a man stunned, for several minutes,” + Turl proceeded. “There was so much to make out. Perhaps there had been +something going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I--that +Davenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought out +things that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but the +end of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' was +deeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw her +frequently. + +“I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. Had +I--had Davenport--(the distinction between the two was just then more +difficult to preserve)--mistakenly imagined himself deprived of that +which was of more value than anything else in life? had he--I--in +throwing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyond +recovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of my +soul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's last +crudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could I +remain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfully +carried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering the +happiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! I +couldn't give it up. But the great design--should all that skill and +labor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't be +undone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and the +coveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if the +transformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved at +least. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, there +was no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to the +old unlucky name and history!--it was asking too much! + +“Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile the +alternatives--to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the happiness. +Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should remain, and +should play to win the happiness for himself. I would change my plans +somewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do was to +find you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit of +seeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch the +houses where he called. Knowing where he lived, and his favorite resorts, +I had never any difficulty in getting on his track. In that way, I came +to keep an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himself +in with a door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room I +still occupy, and managed very easily to throw myself in your father's +way. You know the rest, and how through you I met Miss Hill and Larcher. +In this room, also, I have had the--experience--of meeting Mr. Bagley.” + +“And what of his money?” asked Florence. + +“That has remained a question. It is still undecided. No doubt a third +person would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, the +creditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But the +creditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather than +thought, was sincere enough in considering the case at least debatable. +As for me, you will say, if I am Francis Turl, I am logically a third +person. Even so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems against +nature. As Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly Murray +Davenport's claims, perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing what +my course would ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim to +certain money was in dispute--that a decision might deprive me of it. I +didn't explain, of course, that the decision would be my own. If the +money goes back to Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. I +made up my mind not to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport had +been; to rely entirely on the one which seemed to promise most. I have to +thank you, Larcher, for having caused me to learn what that was, in my +former iden--in the person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old and +new selves will still overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense of +being Francis Turl as much as you might imagine; and the lapses will +necessarily be fewer and fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fall +back on my ability as an artist in black and white. But my work should be +of a different line from that which Murray Davenport had followed--not +only to prevent recognition of the style, but to accord with my new +outlook--with Francis Turl's outlook--on the world. That is why my work +has dealt with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comic +sketches, and shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decided +against keeping the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming in +soon. What I received--what Davenport received for illustrating your +articles, Larcher, though it made him richer than he had often found +himself, had been pretty well used up incidentally to the transformation +and my subsequent emergence to the world. So I resorted to you to +facilitate my introduction to the market. When I met you here one day, I +expressed a wish that I might run across a copy of the Boydell +Shakespeare Gallery. I knew--it was another piece of my inherited +information from Davenport--that you had that book. In that way I drew an +invitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that began resulted as I +desired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful to you from the +bottom of my heart.” + +“The pleasure has been mine, I assure you,” replied Larcher, with a +smile. + +“And the profit mine,” said Turl. “The check for those first three +sketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn't +been alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me--Francis Turl was +born to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagley +money would unlock a good store of the sweets of life.” + +He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found no +answer there--nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how to +regard him, how to place him in her heart. + +“But the matter of livelihood, or the question of the money,” he resumed, +humbly and patiently, “wasn't what gave me most concern. You will +understand now--Florence”--his voice faltered as he uttered the +name--“why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said what +I did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway that +night: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. What +had caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I dared +not--as Turl--inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but it +wasn't for me--Turl--to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, now was +that you would forget Davenport--that the way would be free for the +newcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old love, I was +both touched and baffled--touched infinitely at your loyalty to Murray +Davenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis Turl. I should +have thought less of you--loved you less--if you had so soon given up the +unfortunate man who had passed; and yet my dearest hopes depended on your +giving him up. I even urged you to forget him; assured you he would never +reappear, and begged you to set your back to the past. Though your +refusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked you for it--thanked you in +behalf of the old self, the old memories which had again become dear to +me. It was a puzzling situation,--my preferred rival was my former self; +I had set the new self to win you from constancy to the old, and my +happiness lay in doing so; and yet for that constancy I loved you more +than ever, and if you had fallen from it, I should have been wounded +while I was made happy. All the time, however, my will held out against +telling you the secret. I feared the illusion must lose something if it +came short of being absolute reality to any one--even you. I'm afraid I +couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any divulgence that +might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate self. It seemed +better to wait till time should become my ally against my rival in your +heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival--the old +Murray Davenport--was installed there; when I saw how much you +suffered--how much you would still suffer--from uncertainty about his +fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out.” + +“It _was_ cruel,” said Florence. “I have suffered.” + +“Forgive me,” he replied. “I didn't fully realize--I was too intent on +my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!--it was more than cruel. +I shall not forgive myself for that, at least.” + +She made no answer. + +“And now that you know?” he asked, in a low voice, after a moment. + +“It is so strange,” she replied, coldly. “I can't tell what I think. You +are not the same. I can see now that you are he--in spite of all your +skill, I can see that.” + +He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back, +saying quickly: + +“And yet you are not he.” + +“You are right,” said Turl. “And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am +Francis Turl--” + +“And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me,” she answered. “Oh, I see +now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost--more lost than ever. Your design +has been all too successful.” + +“It was _his_ design, remember,” pleaded Turl. “And I am the result of +it--the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. Surely +all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, severed +from the unhappy, and made fortunate.” + +“But what was it in him that I loved?” she asked, looking at Turl as if +in search of something missing. + +He could only say: “If you reject me, he is stultified. His plan +contemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you so +far bring disaster on his plan.” + +She shook her head, and repeated sadly: “You are not the same.” + +“But surely the love I have for you--that is the same--the old love +transmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport survives +in me--and I'm willing that he should.” + +Again she vainly asked: “What was it in him that I loved--that I still +love when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray Davenport I +knew, but--” + +“But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if I +wished to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myself +is impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, the +return would be mental only, and even mentally it would never be +complete. You say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it you +loved in him? Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, if +you doom me to unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for my +unhappiness.” He smiled despondently. + +“I don't know,” she said. “It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or even +by thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It's +so strange as yet. We must wait.” She rose, rather weakly, and supported +herself with the back of a chair. “When I'm ready for you to call, I'll +send you a message.” + +There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, and +Larcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and rather +embarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to the +company of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once the +effect of comparative speechlessness. + +Out in the hall, when the door of the Kenby suite had closed behind them, +Turl said to Larcher: “You've had a good deal of trouble over Murray +Davenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize for +the trouble,--as his representative, you know,--and thank you for the +kindness.” + +“Don't mention either,” said Larcher, cordially. “I take it from your +tone,” said Turl, smiling, “that my story doesn't alter the friendly +relations between us.” + +“Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for the +sake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do for +a conception like yours--so original and bold--to come to failure. Are +you going to turn in now?” + +“Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worth +being out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat.” + +He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came face +to face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold--a bulky man +with overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was a +look of vengeful triumph. + +“Just the fellow I was lookin' for,” said this person to Turl. “Good +evening, Mr. Murray Davenport! How about my bunch of money?” + +The speaker, of course, was Bagley. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +BAGLEY SHINES OUT + +“I beg pardon,” said Turl, coolly, as if he had not heard aright. + +“You needn't try to bluff _me_,” said Bagley. “I've been on to your game +for a good while. You can fool some of the people, but you can't fool me. +I'm too old a friend, Murray Davenport.” + +“My name is Turl.” + +“Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll +just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my +money back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's +left of it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist, +you are. We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like. +We'll see how clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you.” + +Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed +perfectly at ease. + +“You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion,” he replied. +“Your name, I believe, is Bagley.” + +“You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go +through; it's not like your _ill_usion, as you call it--and very ill +you'll be--” + +“How do you know I call it that?” asked Turl, quickly. “I never spoke of +having an illusion, in your presence--or till this evening.” + +Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish. + +“You must have been overhearing,” added Turl. + +“Well, I don't mind telling you I have been,” replied Bagley, with +recovered insolence. + +“It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick +one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole.” + +“Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely +I've got the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and +sportsmanlike”--Bagley's eyes gleamed facetiously--“to let you know +before I notify the police. But if you can disappear again before I do +that, it'll be a mighty quick disappearance.” + +He started for the hall, to leave the house. + +Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. “You'll have a simple +task proving that I am Murray Davenport.” + +“We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation well +enough to convince the authorities.” + +“They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous--and +the story is so probable.” + +“You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though I +couldn't catch it all. You can make it as probable again.” + +“But I sha'n't have to tell it again. As the accused person, I sha'n't +have to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking is +necessary, I shall have a clever lawyer to do it.” + +“Well, I can swear to what I heard from your own lips.” + +“Through a keyhole? Such a long story? so full of details? Your having +heard it in that manner will add to its credibility, I'm sure.” + +“I can swear I recognize you as Murray Davenport.” + +“As the accuser, you'll have to support your statement with the testimony +of witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. What +do you suppose they'll swear? His landlady, for instance? Do you think, +Larcher, that Murray Davenport's landlady would swear that I'm he?” + +“I don't think so,” said Larcher, smiling. + +“Here's Larcher himself as a witness,” said Bagley. + +“I can swear I don't see the slightest resemblance between Mr. Turl and +Murray Davenport,” said Larcher. + +“You can swear you _know_ he is Murray Davenport, all the same.” + +“And when my lawyer asks him _how_ he knows,” said Turl, “he can only +say, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, of +his own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn for +amusement? No.” + +“I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of,” put +in Larcher, “if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can take +a holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some other +city, if necessary.” + +“There are others,--the ladies in there, who heard the story,” said +Bagley, lightly. + +“One of them didn't know Murray Davenport,” said Turl, “and the other--I +should be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of the +witness-stand on my account. I hardly think you would subject her to it, +Mr. Bagley,--I do you that credit.” + +“I don't know about that,” said Bagley. “I'll take my chances of showing +you up one way or another, just the same. You _are_ Murray Davenport, +and I know it; that's pretty good material to start with. Your story has +managed to convince _me_, little as I could hear of it; and I'm not +exactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that--” + +“It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of the +traits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that sense +to any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager you +can't tell it so as to convince a lawyer.” + +“How much will you wager?” said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spirit +lighting up in him. + +“I merely used the expression,” said Turl. “I'm not a betting man.” + +“I am,” said Bagley. “What'll you bet I can't convince a lawyer?” + +“I'm not a betting man,” repeated Turl, “but just for this occasion I +shouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyer +were accessible at this hour.” + +He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as a +request to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quite +sure whether he interpreted correctly, Larcher put in: + +“I think there's one to be found not very far from here. I mean Mr. +Barry Tompkins; he passes most of his evenings at a Bohemian resort near +Sixth Avenue. He was slightly acquainted with Murray Davenport, though. +Would that fact militate?” + +“Not at all, as far as I'm concerned,” said Turl, taking a bank-bill from +his pocket and handing it to Larcher. + +“I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins,” said Bagley. “He'd do all right. But +if he's a friend of Davenport's--” + +“He isn't a friend,” corrected Larcher. “He met him once or twice in my +company for a few minutes at a time.” + +“But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport's +friend,” rejoined Bagley to Larcher. + +“I hadn't thought of that,” said Turl. “I only meant I was willing to +undergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you told +the story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be some +other lawyer at the place Larcher speaks of.” + +“All right; I'll cover your money quick enough,” said Bagley, doing so. +“I guess we'll find a lawyer to suit in that crowd. I know the place +you mean.” + +Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. When +he returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. The +snowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; but +the white mass, little trodden in that part of the city since nightfall, +was so thick that the feet sank deep at every step. The labor of walking, +and the cold, kept the party silent till they reached the place where +Larcher had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's first +orders about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door to +enter, the burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast to +the snowy night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway led +them into this scene,--the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talking +people, who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles and +glasses. An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. One +would have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words for +the general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noise +was but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of three +or four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possible +under cover of the general noise. + +Before the three newcomers had finished their survey of the room, +Larcher saw Barry Tompkins signalling, with a raised glass and a grinning +countenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions. + +“Let's go over to him,” said Bagley, abruptly. “I see there's room +there.” + +Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. The +latter merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeed +leaped suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly not +yet in Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all was +friendly between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why should +Tompkins, supposing he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion, +conceal the fact? + +Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairs +by the time Larcher had threaded a way to him. Larcher, looking around, +saw that Bagley had followed close. He therefore introduced Bagley first; +and then Turl. Tompkins had the same brief, hearty handshake, the same +mirthful grin--as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting were +an occasion for chuckling at it--for both. + +“I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport,” remarked Bagley to +Larcher, as soon as all in the party were seated. + +“Certainly,” replied Larcher. + +“Then, Mr. Tompkins, you don't seem to live up to your reputation as a +quick-sighted man,” said Bagley. + +“I beg pardon?” said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one of +his vanities. + +“Is it possible you don't recognize this gentleman?” asked Bagley, +indicating Turl. “As somebody you've met before, I mean?” + +“Extremely possible,” replied Tompkins, with a sudden curtness in his +voice. “I do _not_ recognize this gentleman as anybody I've met before. +But, as I never forget a face, I shall always recognize him in the future +as somebody I've met to-night.” Whereat he grinned benignly at Turl, who +acknowledged with a courteous “Thank you.” + +“You never forget a face,” said Bagley, “and yet you don't remember this +one. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, and +look close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, and +don't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down over +the forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don't +make out your old acquaintance--and my old friend--Murray Davenport.” + +Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally--with a +wondering inquiry--at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry. + +“Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious,” said he. “He declares I am +the Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks you +ought to be able to identify me as that person.” + +“If you gentlemen are working up a joke,” replied Tompkins, “I hope I +shall soon begin to see the fun; but if you're not, why then, Mr. Bagley, +I should earnestly advise you to take something for this.” + +“Oh, just wait, Mr. Tompkins. You're a well-informed man, I believe. Now +let's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing his +appearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so as +almost to defy recognition?” + +“I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defy +recognition by _me_. So much for your general question. As to this +gentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can only +wonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work.” + +Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he said +to Larcher: “I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I was +a bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night.” + +“Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduce +you,” suggested Turl. + +“You want a lawyer?” said Tompkins. “There are three or four here. Over +there's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, I +suppose,--a well-known criminologist.” + +“I should think he'd be the very man for you,” said Turl to Bagley. +“Besides being a lawyer, he knows surgery, and he's an authority on the +habits of criminals.” + +“Is he a friend of yours?” asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyes +lighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity of +ignorance. + +“I never met him,” said Turl. + +“Nor I,” said Larcher; “and I don't think Murray Davenport ever did.” + +“Then if Mr. Tompkins will introduce Mr. Larcher and me, and come away at +once without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet's +concerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way.” + +Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legal +criminologist--a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely gray +hair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression--and, +having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagley +was not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear. + +“Doctor, I've wanted to meet you,” he began, “to speak about a remarkable +case that comes right in your line. I'd like to tell you the story, just +as I know it, and get your opinion on it.” + +The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness to +hear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he kept +during the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimes +turned penetratingly on Bagley, sometimes dropping idly to the table. + +“There's a young fellow in this town, a friend of mine,” Bagley went on, +“of a literary turn of mind, and altogether what you'd call a queer Dick. +He'd got down on his luck, for one reason and another, and was dead sore +on himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took the +most remarkable notion you ever heard of.” And Bagley gave what Larcher +had inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the whole +transaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyes +affected the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by they +occasionally sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that those +of Barry Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the careful +heeding of every word, was maintained to the end of the story. + +“And now, sir,” said Bagley, triumphantly, “I'd like to ask what you +think of that?” + +The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the last +time his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: “It's +impossible.” + +“But I know it to be true!” blurted Bagley. + +“Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way you +describe,” said the medico-legal man. “But not such as would insure +against recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciable +length of time.” + +“But surely you know what criminals have done to avoid identification?” + +“Better than any other man in New York,” said the other, simply, without +any boastfulness. + +“And you know what these facial surgeons do?” + +“Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientific +monograph yet published on the art they profess.” + +“And yet you say that what my friend has done is impossible?” + +“What you say he has done is quite impossible. Mr. Tompkins, for +example, whom you cite as having once met your friend and then failed to +recognize him, would recognize him in ten seconds after any +transformation within possibility. If he failed to recognize the man you +take to be your friend transformed, make up your mind the man is +somebody else.” + +Bagley drew a deep sigh, curtly thanked the criminologist, and rose, +saying to Larcher: “Well, you better turn over the stakes to your +friend, I guess.” + +“You're not going yet, are you?” said Larcher. + +“Yes, sir. I lose this bet; but I'll try my story on the police just the +same. Truth is mighty and will prevail.” + +Before Bagley could make his way out, however, Turl, who had been +watching him, managed to get to his side. Larcher, waving a good-night to +Barry Tompkins, followed the two from the room. In the hall, he handed +the stakes to Turl. + +“Oh, yes, you win all right enough,” admitted Bagley. “My fun will +come later.” + +“I trust you'll see the funny side of it,” replied Turl, accompanying him +forth to the snowy street. “You haven't laughed much at the little +foretaste of the incredulity that awaits you.” + +“Never you mind. I'll make them believe me, before I'm through.” He had +turned toward Sixth Avenue. Turl and Larcher stuck close to him. + +“You'll have them suggesting rest-cures for the mind, and that sort of +thing,” said Turl, pleasantly. + +“And the newspapers will be calling you the Great American Identifier,” + put in Larcher. + +“There'll be somebody else as the chief identifier,” said Bagley, glaring +at Turl. “Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much.” + +“Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley.” Turl enforced obedience by stepping in +front of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, +while an elevated train rumbled along overhead. “I don't think you +really mean that. I don't think that, as an American, you would really +subject a woman--such a woman--to such an ordeal, to gain so little. +Would you now?” + +“Why shouldn't I?” Despite his defiant look, Bagley had weakened a bit. + +“I can't imagine your doing it. But if you did, my lawyer would have to +make you tell how you had heard this wonderful tale.” + +“Through the door. That's easy enough.” + +“We could show that the tale couldn't possibly be heard through so thick +a door, except by the most careful attention--at the keyhole. You would +have to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole--at the +keyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, +attempting to answer that question--with the reporters eagerly awaiting +your reply to publish it to the town.” + +Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. At +last he growled: + +“If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that money +have you got left?” + +“If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before he +disappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't it +the case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to that +amount from you?” + +Bagley gave a contemptuous grunt; then, suddenly brightening up, he said: +“S'pose Davenport _was_ entitled to it. As you ain't Davenport, why, of +course, you ain't entitled to it. Now what have you got to say?” + +“Merely, that, as you're not Davenport, neither are you entitled to it.” + +“But I was only supposin'. I don't admit that Davenport was entitled +to it. Ordinary law's good enough for me. I just wanted to show you +where you stand, you not bein' Davenport, even if he had a right to +that money.” + +“Suppose Davenport had given me the money?” + +“Then you'd have to restore it, as it wasn't lawfully his.” + +“But you can't prove that I have it, to restore.” + +“If I can establish any sort of connection between you and Davenport, I +can cause your affairs to be thoroughly looked into,” retorted Bagley. + +“But you can't establish that connection, any more than you can convince +anybody that I'm Murray Davenport.” + +Bagley was fiercely silent, taking in a deep breath for the cooling of +his rage. He was a man who saw whole vistas of probability in a moment, +and who was correspondingly quick in making decisions. + +“We're at a deadlock,” said he. “You're a clever boy, Dav,--or Turl, I +might as well call you. I know the game's against me, and Turl you shall +be from now on, for all I've ever got to say. I did swear this evening to +make it hot for you, but I'm not as hot myself now as I was at that +moment. I'll give up the idea of causing trouble for you over that money; +but the money itself I must have.” + +“Do you need it badly?” asked Turl. + +“_Need_ it!” cried Bagley, scorning the imputation. “Not me! The loss of +it would never touch me. But no man can ever say he's done me out of that +much money, no matter how smart he is. So I'll have that back, if I've +got to spend all the rest of my pile to get it. One way or another, I'll +manage to produce evidence connecting you with Murray Davenport at the +time he disappeared with my cash.” + +Turl pondered. Presently he said: “If it were restored to you, +Davenport's moral right to it would still be insisted on. The restoration +would be merely on grounds of expediency.” + +“All right,” said Bagley. + +“Of course,” Turl went on, “Davenport no longer needs it; and certainly +_I_ don't need it.” + +“Oh, don't you, on the level?” inquired Bagley, surprised. + +“Certainly not. I can earn a very good income. Fortune smiles on me.” + +“I shouldn't mind your holding out a thousand or two of that money when +you pay it over,--say two thousand, as a sort of testimonial of my +regard,” said Bagley, good-naturedly. + +“Thank you very much. You mean to be generous; but I couldn't accept +a dollar as a gift, from the man who wouldn't pay Murray Davenport +as a right.” + +“Would you accept the two thousand, then, as Murray Davenport's +right,--you being a kind of an heir of his?” + +“I would accept the whole amount in dispute; but under that, not a cent.” + +Bagley looked at Turl long and hard; then said, quietly: “I tell you +what I'll do with you. I'll toss up for that money,--the whole amount. If +you win, keep it, and I'll shut up. But if I win, you turn it over and +never let me hear another word about Davenport's right.” + +“As I told you before, I'm not a gambling man. And I can't admit that +Davenport's right is open to settlement.” + +“Well, at least you'll admit that you and I don't agree about it. You +can't deny there's a difference of opinion between us. If you want to +settle that difference once and for ever, inside of a minute, here's your +chance. It's just cases like this that the dice are good for. There's a +saloon over on that corner. Will you come?” + +“All right,” said Turl. And the three strode diagonally across +Sixth Avenue. + +“Gimme a box of dice,” said Bagley to the man behind the bar, when they +had entered the brightly lighted place. + +“They're usin' it in the back room,” was the reply. + +“Got a pack o' cards?” then asked Bagley. + +The barkeeper handed over a pack which had been reposing in a cigar-box. + +“I'll make it as sudden as you like,” said Bagley to Turl. “One cut +apiece, and highest wins. Or would you like something not so quick?” + +“One cut, and the higher wins,” said Turl. + +“Shuffle the cards,” said Bagley to Larcher, who obeyed. “Help yourself,” + said Bagley to Turl. The latter cut, and turned up a ten-spot. Bagley +cut, and showed a six. + +“The money's yours,” said Bagley. “And now, gentlemen, what'll you have +to drink?” + +The drinks were ordered, and taken in silence. “There's only one thing +I'd like to ask,” said Bagley thereupon. “That keyhole business--it +needn't go any further, I s'pose?” + +“I give you my word,” said Turl. Larcher added his, whereupon Bagley +bade the barkeeper telephone for a four-wheeler, and would have taken +them to their homes in it. But they preferred a walk, and left him +waiting for his cab. + +“Well!” exclaimed Larcher, as soon as he was out of the saloon. “I +congratulate you! I feared Bagley would give trouble. But how easily he +came around!” + +“You forget how fortunate I am,” said Turl, smiling. “Poor Davenport +could never have brought him around.” + +“There's no doubting your luck,” said Larcher; “even with cards.” + +“Lucky with cards,” began Turl, lightly; but broke off all at once, and +looked suddenly dubious as Larcher glanced at him in the electric light. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +FLORENCE + +The morning brought sunshine and the sound of sleigh-bells. In the +wonderfully clear air of New York, the snow-covered streets dazzled the +eyes. Never did a town look more brilliant, or people feel more blithe, +than on this fine day after the long snow-storm. + +“Isn't it glorious?” Edna Hill was looking out on the shining white +gardens from Florence's parlor window. “Certainly, on a day like this, it +doesn't seem natural for one to cling to the past. It's a day for +beginning over again, if ever there are such days.” Her words had +allusion to the subject on which the two girls had talked late into the +night. Edna had waited for Florence to resume the theme in the morning, +but the latter had not done so yet, although breakfast was now over. +Perhaps it was her father's presence that had deterred her. The incident +of the meal had been the arrival of a note from Mr. Bagley to Mr. Kenby, +expressing the former's regret that he should be unavoidably prevented +from keeping the engagement to go sleighing. As Florence had forgotten to +give her father Mr. Bagley's verbal message, this note had brought her in +for a quantity of paternal complaint sufficient for the venting of the +ill-humor due to his having stayed up too late, and taken too much +champagne the night before. But now Mr. Kenby had gone out, wrapped up +and overshod, to try the effect of fresh air on his headache, and of +shop-windows and pretty women on his spirits. Florence, however, had +still held off from the all-important topic, until Edna was driven to +introduce it herself. + +“It's never a day for abandoning what has been dear to one,” + replied Florence. + +“But you wouldn't be abandoning him. After all, he really is the +same man.” + +“But I can't make myself regard him as the same. And he doesn't regard +himself so.” + +“But in that case the other man has vanished. It's precisely as if he +were dead. No, it's even worse, for there isn't as much trace of him as +there would be of a man that had died. What's the use of being faithful +to such an utterly non-existent person? Why, there isn't even a grave, to +put flowers on;--or an unknown mound in a distant country, for the +imagination to cling to. There's just nothing to be constant to.” + +“There are memories.” + +“Well, they'll remain. Does a widow lose her memories of number one when +she becomes Mrs. Number Two?” + +“She changes the character of them; buries them out of sight; kills them +with neglect. Yes, she is false to them.” + +“But your case isn't even like that. In these peculiar circumstances the +old memories will blend with the new.--And, dear me! he is such a nice +man! I don't see how the other could have been nicer. You couldn't find +anybody more congenial in tastes and manners, I'm sure.” + +“I can't make you understand, dear. Suppose Tom Larcher went away for a +time, and came back so completely different that you couldn't see the old +Tom Larcher in him at all. And suppose he didn't even consider himself +the same person you had loved. Would you love him then as you do now?” + +Edna was silenced for a moment; but for a moment only. “Well, if he came +back such a charming fellow as Turl, and if he loved me as much as Turl +loves you, I could soon manage to drop the old Tom out of my mind. But of +course, you know, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't forget for a moment +that he really was the old Tom.” + +The talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. The servant gave the +name of Mr. Turl. Florence turned crimson, and stood at a loss. + +“You can't truly say you're out, dear,” counselled Edna, in an undertone. + +“Show him in,” said Florence. + +Turl entered. + +Florence looked and spoke coldly. “I told you I'd send a message when I +wished you to call.” + +He was wistful, but resolute. “I know it,” he said. “But love doesn't +stand on ceremony; lovers are importunate; they come without +bidding.--Good morning, Miss Hill; you mustn't let me drive you away.” + +For Edna had swished across the room, and was making for the hall. + +“I'm going to the drawing-room,” she said, airily, “to see the +sleighs go by.” + +In another second, the door slammed, and Turl was alone with Florence. He +took a hesitating step toward her. + +“It's useless,” she said, raising her hand as a barrier between them. “I +can't think of you as the same. I can't see _him_ in you. I should have +to do that before I could offer you his place. All that I can love now +is the memory of him.” + +“Listen,” said Turl, without moving. “I have thought it over. For your +sake, I will be the man I was. It's true, I can't restore the old face; +but the old outlook on life, the old habits, the old pensiveness, will +bring back the old expression. I will resume the old name, the old set of +memories, the old sense of personality. I said last night that a +resumption of the old self could be only mental, and incomplete even so. +But when I said that, I had not surrendered. The mental return can be +complete, and must reveal itself more or less on the surface. And the old +love,--surely where the feeling is the same, its outer showing can't be +utterly new and strange.” + +He spoke with a more pleading and reverent note than he had yet used +since the revelation. A moist shine came into her eyes. + +“Murray--it _is_ you!” she whispered. + +“Ah!--sweetheart!” His smile of the utmost tenderness seemed more of a +kind with sadness than with pleasure. It was the smile of a man deeply +sensible of sorrow--of Murray Davenport,--not that of one versed in good +fortune alone--not that which a potent imagination had made habitual to +Francis Turl. + +She gave herself to his arms, and for a time neither spoke. It was she +who broke the silence, looking up with tearful but smiling eyes: + +“You shall not abandon your design. It's too marvellous, too successful; +it has been too dear to you for that.” + +“It was dear to me when I thought I had lost you. And since then, the +pride of conceiving and accomplishing it, the labor and pain, kept it +dear to me. But now that I am sure of you, I can resign it without a +murmur. From the moment when I decided to sacrifice it, it has been +nothing to me, provided I could only regain you.” + +“But the old failure, the old ill luck, the old unrewarded drudgery,--no, +you sha'n't go back to them. You shall be true to the illusion--we shall +be true to it--I will help you in it, strengthen you in it! I needed only +to see the old Murray Davenport appear in you one moment. Hereafter you +shall be Francis Turl, the happy and fortunate! But you and I will have +our secret--before the world you shall be Francis Turl--but to me you +shall be Murray Davenport, too--Murray Davenport hidden away in Francis +Turl. To me alone, for the sake of the old memories. It will be another +tie between us, this secret, something that is solely ours, deep in our +hearts, as the knowledge of your old self would always have been deep in +yours if you hadn't told me. Think how much better it is that I share +this knowledge with you; now nothing of your mind is concealed from me, +and we together shall have our smile at the world's expense.” + +“For being so kind to Francis Turl, the fortunate, after its cold +treatment of Murray Davenport, the unlucky,” said Turl, smiling. “It +shall be as you say, sweetheart. There can be no doubt about my good +fortune. It puts even the old proverb out. With me it is lucky in love as +well as at cards.” + +“What do you mean, dear?” + +“The Bagley money--” + +“Ah, that money. Listen, dear. Now that I have some right to speak, you +must return that money. I don't dispute your moral claim to it--such +things are for you to settle. But the danger of keeping it--” + +“There's no longer any danger. The money is mine, of Bagley's own free +will and consent. I encountered him last night. He is in my secret now, +but it's safe with him. We cut cards for the money, and I won. I hate +gambling, but the situation was exceptional. He hoped that, once the +matter was settled by the cards, he should never hear a word about it +again. As he hadn't heard a word of it from me--Davenport--for years, +this meant that his own conscience had been troubling him about it all +along. That's why he was ready at last to put the question to a toss-up; +but first he established the fact that he wouldn't be 'done' out of the +money by anybody. I tell you all this, dear, in justice to the man; and +so, exit Bagley. As I said, my secret--_our_ secret--is safe with him. So +it is, of course, with Miss Hill and Larcher. Nobody else knows it, +though others besides you three may have suspected that I had something +to do with the disappearance.” + +“Only Mr. Bud.” + +“Larcher can explain away Mr. Bud's suspicions. Larcher has been a good +friend. I can never be grateful enough--” + +A knock at the door cut his speech short, and the servant announced +Larcher himself. It had been arranged that he should call for Edna's +orders. That young lady had just intercepted him in the hall, to prevent +his breaking in upon what might be occurring between Turl and Miss Kenby. +But Florence, holding the door open, called out to Edna and Larcher to +come in. Something in her voice and look conveyed news to them both, and +they came swiftly. Edna kissed Florence half a dozen times, while Larcher +was shaking hands with Turl; then waltzed across to the piano, and for a +moment drowned the outside noises--the jingle of sleigh-bells, and the +shouts of children snowballing in the sunshine--with the still more +joyous notes of a celebrated march by Mendelssohn. + +THE END. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery of Murray Davenport, by +Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + +***** This file should be named 9185-0.txt or 9185-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/8/9185/ + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mystery of Murray Davenport + A Story of New York at the Present Day + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9185] +This file was first posted on September 12, 2003 +Last updated: May 29, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + _A Story of New York at the Present Day_ + + By + + Robert Neilson Stephens + + 1903 + + + +Works of Robert Neilson Stephens + +An Enemy to the King + +The Continental Dragoon + +The Road to Paris + +A Gentleman Player + +Philip Winwood + +Captain Ravenshaw + +The Mystery of Murray Davenport + + + + +[Illustration: "'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A "JONAH" IS?'"] + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + + II. ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + + III. A READY-MONEY MAN + + IV. AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + + V. A LODGING BY THE RIVER + + VI. THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + + VII. MYSTERY BEGINS + + VIII. MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + + IX. MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + + X. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + + XI. FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + + XII. LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + + XIII. MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + + XIV. A STRANGE DESIGN + + XV. TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + + XVI. AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + + XVII. BAGLEY SHINES OUT + +XVIII. FLORENCE + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + +"'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A "JONAH" IS?'" + +"THE PLAY BECAME THE PROPERTY OF BAGLEY" + +"'I'M AFRAID IT'S A CASE OF MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE'" + +"'YOU'RE QUITE WELCOME TO THE USE OF MY AUTOMOBILE'" + +"TURL, HAVING TAKEN A MOMENT'S PRELIMINARY THOUGHT, BEGAN HIS ACCOUNT" + +"'GOOD EVENING, MR. MURRAY DAVENPORT! HOW ABOUT MY BUNCH OF MONEY?'" + + + + +THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + +The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was +August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than +they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the +basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and +dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the +reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw +were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down +their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry +in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy +chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called +him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited +though home was to a second-story "bed sitting-room" in a house of +"furnished rooms to let" on a crosstown street traversing the part of New +York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. + +Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium +appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon +sat good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, +and made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and +a negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram. + +"Who the deuce--?" began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he opened +the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise. +"Can I call?" he said, aloud. "Well, rather!" He let his book drop +forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The +telegram read merely: + +"In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA." + +The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has +already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young +man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no +sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with +impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying +feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after +due announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was +kept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end +of that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. + +She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for +indoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in +a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and +she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair +arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless +skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's +conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility +in the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thing +compared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon +her with a serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made +it much less noticeable. + +"Well, this is a pleasure!" he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet +her. + +"Hello, Tom!" she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. "You +needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of +course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We +have at least an hour to ourselves." + +"An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at +this time of year. When I got your telegram--" + +"I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York in +August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot +wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I +invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a +cab. But I came just to see you." + +"How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true." +The young man spoke sincerely. + +"It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down +and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's +some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't +order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if +you'd prefer a cup of tea--and I could manage some toast." + +"No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing--with you to share +them. How thoughtful of you!" + +She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small +table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly +across at his hostess. + +"There's something I want you to do for me," she answered, sitting +composedly back in her chair, in an attitude as graceful as comfortable. + +"Nothing would make me happier." + +"Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?" she asked. + +"No," replied Larcher, wonderingly. + +"I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I +should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or +less--that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, +besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do +with theatres." + +"I never heard of him. But," said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, +"there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers." + +"I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, +of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?--going +about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be +easy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know +him." + +"Oh, am I to do that?" Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper. + +"Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting +along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or +the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he +fares." + +"Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man," said Larcher, +somewhat poutingly. + +"Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man," +she said, with lofty coolness. "But there are reasons why I must find out +about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you +hesitate, and hem and haw--" She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the +shoulders. + +"You might tell me the reasons, dear," he said, humbly. + +"I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this +information got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get +it, and not ask any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment." + +"Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts +to--prying into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather +intrusive, private detective sort of business." + +"Oh, but you don't know the reason--the object in view. Somebody's +happiness depends on it,--perhaps more than one person's; I may tell you +that much." + +"Whose happiness?" + +"It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't _my_ happiness, you +may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in +doing this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you should +be inquisitive beyond that." + +"You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you +ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to +think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and +question--" + +"Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this +particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon +my word, you don't flatter me!" + +"Don't be angry, dear. If you're really _sure_ it's all right--" + +"_If_ I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had +asked somebody else! It isn't too late--" + +Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand. + +"Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve +you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can +handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say; +writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has +something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start +with?" + +"No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly +good-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and takes +his meals at restaurants." + +"Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There _might_ +possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't +like to be looking up the wrong man." + +"Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means. +But I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course _I_ never +saw him." + +"There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a +writer and an artist and connected with theatres," said Larcher. "And it +isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a +thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidences +do occur." + +"He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember," added the young +lady. + +"He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want this +report?" + +"As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his +circumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and +when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to +Easthampton to-morrow, you know." + +A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up his +umbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue and a +car. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additional +minutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last to +consideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangeness +thereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate news +about a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on getting +that news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher could +only give it up, and think upon means for the early accomplishment of his +part in the matter. He had decided to begin immediately, for his first +inquiries would be made of men who kept late hours, and with whose +midnight haunts he was acquainted. + +He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below Fourteenth +Street. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement, +where he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an atmosphere +of tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap wine, and the +noisy talk of a numerous company sitting--for the most part--at long +tables whereon were the traces of a _table d'hte_ dinner. Coffee and +claret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and glasses, but +also on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but youth +preponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of saying +it. The ladies were, as to the majority, unattractive in appearance, +nasal in voice, and unabashed in manner. The assemblage was, in short, +a specimen of self-styled, self-conscious Bohemia; a far-off, +much-adulterated imitation of the sort of thing that some of the young +men with halos of hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen in +Paris in their days of art study. Larcher made his way through the crowd +in the front room to that in the back, acknowledging many salutations. +The last of these came from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose +round, humorous face was made additionally benevolent by spectacles, and +whose forward bend of the shoulders might be the consequence of studious +pursuits, or of much leaning over caf-tables, or of both. + +"Hello, Barry Tompkins!" said Larcher. "I've been looking for you." + +Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their meeting +were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut manner: + +"You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius." Whereat he looked +around and chuckled afresh. + +Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low: + +"You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man named Murray +Davenport?" + +"I believe there is such a man--an illustrator. Is that the one you +mean?" + +"I suppose so. Where can I find him?" + +"I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of +his work--in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think." + +"I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence, +by the way." + +"All right. Have you looked in the directory?" + +"Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are +some things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting +acquainted with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So the +trouble is to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead up +to a pretty close acquaintance." + +"No trouble in that," said Tompkins, decidedly. "Look here. He's an +illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives, +call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. +That will begin an acquaintance." + +"And terminate it, too, don't you think? Would any self-respecting +illustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certainty +of his work ever appearing?" + +"Well, then, the next time you have anything accepted for publication, +get to the editor as fast as you can, and recommend this Davenport to do +the illustrations." + +"Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?" + +"Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider it +presumptuous if _I_ did it. Suppose it happened to be one of those +editors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in the +manuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport as +illustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editor +to make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even if +Davenport refused the job,--which he wouldn't,--you'd have an opportunity +to pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms of mind and +manner." + +"Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose he +turned out to be a bad illustrator?" + +"I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't have +remembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in my +room to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend him +intelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of yours +in hand just now?" + +"Why, yes," said Larcher, brightening, "I got a notice of acceptance +to-day from the _Avenue Magazine_, of a thing about the rivers of New +York City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration." + +"That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet for +illustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'll +think I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now and +tackle the old magazines in my room, to see what my praises of Mr. +Davenport shall rest on. As we go, we'll look the gentleman up in the +directory at the drug-store--unless you'd prefer to tarry here at the +banquet of wit and beauty." Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved a +hand over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and conceit +it largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances regularly +to inhabit. + +Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather for +the pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins led the +way up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign old +woman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that she, who +was on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent in the shape +of her customers, might know of Murray Davenport; or, indeed, as he had +whispered to Larcher, that the illustrator might be one of the crowd in +the restaurant at that very moment. But the proprietress knew no such +person, a fact which seemed to rate him very low in her estimation and +somewhat high in Mr. Tompkins's. The two young men thereupon hastened to +board a car going up Sixth Avenue. Being set down near Greeley Square, +they went into a drug-store and opened the directory. + +"Here's a Murray Davenport, all right enough," said Tompkins, "but he's +a playwright." + +"Probably the same," replied Larcher, remembering that his man had +something to do with theatres. "He's a gentleman of many professions, +let's see the address." + +It was a number and street in the same part of the town with Larcher's +abode, but east of Madison Avenue, while his own was west of Fifth. But +now his way was to the residence of Barry Tompkins, which proved to be a +shabby room on the fifth floor of an old building on Broadway; a room +serving as Mr. Tompkins's sleeping-chamber by night, and his law office +by day. For Mr. Tompkins, though he sought pleasure and forage under the +banners of literature and journalism, owned to no regular service but +that of the law. How it paid him might be inferred from the oldness of +his clothes and the ricketiness of his office. There was a card saying +"Back in ten minutes" on the door which he opened to admit Larcher and +himself. And his friends were wont to assert that he kept the card +"working overtime," himself, preferring to lay down the law to +companionable persons in neighboring cafs rather than to possible +clients in his office. When Tompkins had lighted the gas, Larcher saw a +cracked low ceiling, a threadbare carpet of no discoverable hue, an old +desk crowded with documents and volumes, some shelves of books at one +side, and the other three sides simply walled with books and magazines +in irregular piles, except where stood a bed-couch beneath a lot of +prints which served to conceal much of the faded wall-paper. + +Tompkins bravely went for the magazines, saying, "You begin with that +pile, and I'll take this. The names of the illustrators are always in the +table of contents; it's simply a matter of glancing down that." + +After half an hour's silent work, Tompkins exclaimed, "Here we are!" and +took a magazine to the desk, at which both young men sat down. "'A Heart +in Peril,'" he quoted; "'A Story by James Willis Archway. Illustrated by +Murray Davenport. Page 38.'" He turned over the leaves, and disclosed +some rather striking pictures in half-tone, signed "M.D." Two men and two +women figured in the different illustrations. + +"This isn't bad work," said Tompkins. "I can recommend 'M.D.' with a +clear conscience. His women are beautiful in a really high way,--but +they've got a heartless look. There's an odd sort of distinction in his +men's faces, too." + +"A kind of scornful discontent," ventured Larcher. "Perhaps the story +requires it." + +"Perhaps; but the thing I mean seems to be under the expressions +intended. I should say it was unconscious, a part of the artist's +conception of the masculine face in general before it's individualized. +I'll bet the chap that drew these illustrations isn't precisely the man +in the street, even among artists. He must have a queer outlook on life. +I congratulate you on your coming friend!" At which Mr. Tompkins, +chuckling, lighted a pipe for himself. + +Mr. Larcher sat looking dubious. If Murray Davenport was an unusual sort +of man, the more wonder that a girl like Edna Hill should so strangely +busy herself about him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + +Two days later, toward the close of a sunny afternoon, Mr. Thomas Larcher +was admitted by a lazy negro to an old brown-stone-front house half-way +between Madison and Fourth Avenues, and directed to the third story back, +whither he was left to find his way unaccompanied. Running up the dark +stairs swiftly, with his thoughts in advance of his body, he suddenly +checked himself, uncertain as to which floor he had attained. At a +hazard, he knocked on the door at the back of the dim, narrow passage he +was in. He heard slow steps upon the carpet, the door opened, and a man +slightly taller, thinner, and older than himself peered out. + +"Pardon me, I may have mistaken the floor," said Larcher. "I'm looking +for Mr. Murray Davenport." + +"'Myself and misery know the man,'" replied the other, with quiet +indifference, in a gloomy but not unpleasing voice, and stepped back to +allow his visitor's entrance. + +A little disconcerted at being received with a quotation, and one of such +import,--the more so as it came from the speaker's lips so naturally +and with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on a +stranger,--Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper, the +upholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in one +corner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the table +which stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk, were +all of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The same was +to be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black garment +of the square-cut "sack" or "lounge" shape. Books filled the mantel, the +flat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table, which held +also a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript paper, and the +paraphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the walls, and standing +about on top of books and elsewhere, were water-colors, drawings in +half-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many unfinished, besides a few +photographs of celebrated paintings and statues. But long before he had +sought more than the most general impression of these contents of the +room, Larcher had bent all his observation upon their possessor. + +The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by these +and kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose distinguished +by a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty of form was in +the distinctness of its lines. The complexion was colorless but clear, +the face being all smooth shaven. The slightly haggard eyes were gray, +rather of a plain and honest than a brilliant character, save for a tiny +light that burned far in their depths. The forehead was ample and smooth, +as far as could be seen, for rather longish brown hair hung over it, with +a negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an odd +painwearied dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an +unquenchable humor. + +"This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself," said Larcher, handing +it. + +"Mr. Rogers?" inquired Murray Davenport. + +"Editor of the _Avenue Magazine_." + +Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without +diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself +took a chair before the table. + +"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher," he said, conventionally; then, with +a change to informality, "I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers, +or any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any +offered me before." + +"Oh, but I've seen some of your work," contradicted Larcher. "The +illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'" + +"That wasn't offered me; I begged for it," said Davenport, quietly. + +"Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were +recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this +stuff of mine," and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from +under his coat. + +"It's so unprecedented," resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective +way of speaking. "I can scarcely help thinking there must be some +mistake." + +"But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril' +story?" + +"Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to +_me_--" + +"Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out new +illustrators they hear of." + +"Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer +to _me_--an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, like a +gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called good +luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen to me +before; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in spite +of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case." This was +said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling. + +Larcher smiled. "Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse to +do the pictures." + +"Oh, no," returned Davenport, indolently. "I won't refuse. I'll accept +the commission with pleasure--a certain amount of pleasure, that is. +There was a time when I should have danced a break-down for joy, +probably, at this opportunity. But a piece of good luck, strange as it +is to me, doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'll +receive it politely. In as much as I have plenty of time for this work, +and as Mr. Rogers seems to wish me to do it, I should be churlish if I +declined. The money too, is an object--I won't conceal that fact. To +think of a chance to earn a little money, coming my way without the +slightest effort on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'm +still tempted to think this is all a dream." + +Larcher laughed. "Well, as to effort," said he, "I don't think I should +be here now with that accepted manuscript for you to illustrate, if I +hadn't taken a good deal of pains to press my work on the attention of +editors." + +"Oh, I don't mean to say that your prosperity, and other men's, is due +to having good things thrust upon you in this way. But if you do owe all +to your own work, at least your work does bring a fair amount of reward, +your efforts are in a fair measure successful. But not so with me. The +greatest fortune I could ever have asked would have been that my pains +should bring their reasonable price, as other men's have done. Therefore, +this extreme case of good luck, small as it is, is the more to be +wondered at. The best a man has a right to ask is freedom from what +people call habitual bad luck. That's an immunity I've never had. My +labors have been always banned--except when the work has masqueraded +as some other man's. In that case they have been blessed. It will seem +strange to you, Mr. Larcher, but whatever I've done in my own name has +met with wretched pay and no recognition, while work of mine, no better, +when passed off as another man's, has won golden rewards--for him--in +money and reputation." + +"It does seem strange," admitted Larcher. + +"What can account for it?" + +"Do you know what a 'Jonah' is, in the speech of the vulgar?" + +"Yes; certainly." + +"Well, people have got me tagged with that name. I bring ill luck to +enterprises I'm concerned in, they say. That's a fatal reputation, Mr. +Larcher. It wasn't deserved in the beginning, but now that I have it, see +how the reputation itself is the cause of the apparent ill luck. Take +this thing, for instance." He held up a sheet of music paper, whereon he +had evidently been writing before Larcher's arrival. "A song, supposed to +be sentimental. As the idea is somewhat novel, the words happy, and the +tune rather quaint, I shall probably get a publisher for it, who will +offer me the lowest royalty. What then? Its fame and sale--or whether it +shall have any--will depend entirely on what advertising it gets from +being sung by professional singers. I have taken the precaution to submit +the idea and the air to a favorite of the music halls, and he has +promised to sing it. Now, if he sang it on the most auspicious occasion, +making it the second or third song of his turn, having it announced with +a flourish on the programme, and putting his best voice and style into +it, it would have a chance of popularity. Other singers would want it, it +would be whistled around, and thousands of copies sold. But will he do +that?" + +"I don't see why he shouldn't," said Larcher. + +"Oh, but he knows why. He remembers I am a Jonah. What comes from me +carries ill luck. He'll sing the song, yes, but he won't hazard any +auspicious occasion on it. He'll use it as a means of stopping encores +when he's tired of them; he'll sing it hurriedly and mechanically; he'll +make nothing of it on the programme; he'll hide the name of the author, +for fear by the association of the names some of my Jonahship might +extend to him. So, you see, bad luck _will_ attend my song; so, you see, +the name of bad luck brings bad luck. Not that there is really such a +thing as luck. Everything that occurs has a cause, an infinite line of +causes. But a man's success or failure is due partly to causes outside +of his control, often outside of his ken. As, for instance, a sudden +change of weather may defeat a clever general, and thrust victory upon +his incompetent adversary. Now when these outside causes are adverse, +and prevail, we say a man has bad luck. When they favor, and prevail, he +has good luck. It was a rapid succession of failures, due partly to folly +and carelessness of my own, I admit, but partly to a run of adverse +conjunctures far outside my sphere of influence, that got me my unlucky +name in the circles where I hunt a living. And now you are warned, Mr. +Larcher. Do you think you are safe in having my work associated with +yours, as Mr. Rogers proposes? It isn't too late to draw back." + +Whether the man still spoke seriously, Larcher could not exactly tell. +Certainly the man's eyes were fixed on Larcher's face in a manner that +made Larcher color as one detected. But his weakness had been for an +instant only, and he rallied laughingly. + +"Many thanks, but I'm not superstitious, Mr. Davenport. Anyhow, my +article has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish the +amount I'm to receive for it." + +"But consider the risk to your future career," pursued Davenport, with a +faint smile. + +"Oh, I'll take the chances," said Larcher, glad to treat the subject as +a joke. "I don't suppose the author of 'A Heart in Peril,' for instance, +has experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story." + +"As a matter of fact," replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy +humor, "the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital. +But I believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I +thank you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the _Avenue Magazine_, +it can afford a little bad luck." + +"Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as +a result of your contact with it." + +"Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are +right; Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must +know, Mr. Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure +in the world,--a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of +injustice. Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than +that. I never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up +apropos; but people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about +it, and find a moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused +at it, and benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For +it's been a part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should +often work for his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to +fall back on; he always has some little matter I can be useful in. He +poses then as my constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And +so he is, in fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on +the profits of the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr. +Larcher, to forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak of +me where my name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that the +wrong is an imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to +deserve the name of a man with a grievance." + +His composed, indifferent manner was true to his words. He spoke, indeed, +as one to whom things mattered little, yet who, being originally of a +social and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the first +intelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to make +the most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the man's +acquaintance. + +"You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject ever +comes up in my presence," said Larcher. "I can certainly testify to the +cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it." + +"I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about," +said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously. + +"Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?" + +"In my present environment." + +"Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings." + +Davenport shook his head. "My immediate environment would still be the +same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my old, +tiresome, unsuccessful self." + +"But if you got about more among mankind,--not that I know what your +habits are at present, but I should imagine--" Larcher hesitated. + +"You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary," said Davenport. +"That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'--to +fall back on Hamlet again--at least not from my present point of view." + +"'Nor woman neither'?" quoted Larcher, interrogatively. + +"'No, nor woman neither,'" said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming upon +his face. "I don't know what your experience may have been. We have only +our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing from +women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and are +unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is to +be worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love, +with a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment they +are bored with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injured +if the man complains. We take the beauty of their faces, the softness of +their eyes, for the outward signs of tenderness and fidelity; and for +those supposed qualities, and others which their looks seem to express, +we love them. But they have not those qualities; they don't even know +what it is that we love them for; they think it is for the outward +beauty, and that that is enough. They don't even know what it is that we, +misled by that outward softness, imagine is beyond; and when we are +disappointed to find it isn't there, they wonder at us and blame us for +inconstancy. The beautiful woman who could be what she looks--who could +really contain what her beauty seems the token of--whose soul, in short, +could come up to the promise of her face,--there would be a creature! +You'll think I've had bad luck in love, too, Mr. Larcher." + +Larcher was thinking, for the instant, about Edna Hill, and wondering +how near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women. For +himself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never seemed +the outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered conventionally: +"Well, one _would_ suppose so from your remarks. Of course, women like +to be amused, I know. Perhaps we expect too much from them. + + 'Oh, woman in our hours of ease, + Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, + And variable as the shade + By the light quivering aspen made.' + +I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines." Mr. Larcher sighed at +certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. "But then, you know,-- + + 'When pain and anguish wring the brow, + A ministering angel them.'" + +"I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish," said Davenport. "I've +experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on +women. But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on an +undeserving, but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, +after a time, she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck that +clung to him. What would she do then?" + +"Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil +influence," replied Larcher, laughingly. + +"Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she would +take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil +influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she would +doubtless live happy ever after." + +For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the +faintest cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face. + +"And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'" said Larcher, +looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject gaily, lest +he might betray his inquisitive purpose. + +"Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes +up a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations +here. I have amused myself a little in science, too,--you see the cabinet +over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, +but I wasn't fitted--or didn't care--to follow that profession in a +money-making way." + +"You are exceedingly versatile." + +"Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business. +When are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many are +wanted? I'm afraid I've been wasting your time." + +In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of +better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to +certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details +settled, Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked: + +"Have you any engagement for dining?" + +"No," said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion. + +"Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone." + +"Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say--it depends on where you +dine." + +"Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any +particular one." + +"I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,--on one or two good things well +cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'hte_ menu is +really too wearisome--even to a man who is used to weariness." + +"Well, I know a place--Giffen's chop-house--that will just suit you. As +a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get an +unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of +delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says +that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and +better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents." + +"I know the place, and your friend is quite right." + +Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle. +When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which +in that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already +heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating +respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway +and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner. + +"What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!" remarked +Larcher. + +Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest: + +'The shadows lay along Broadway, +'Twas near the twilight tide--And slowly there a lady fair +Was walking in her pride.' + +"Poe praised those lines," he added. "But it was a different Broadway +that Willis wrote them about." + +"Yes," said Larcher, "but in spite of the skyscrapers and the +incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?" + +"I used to," said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, +who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many +failures? Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had +been played by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? +And, finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's +reasons for seeking information? + +Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the +chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level +with the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about +to enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, +overbearing voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as +both young men turned around. A tall, broad man, with a coarse, red face; +a man with hard, glaring eyes and a heavy black mustache; a man who had +intruded into a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a large +diamond in his tie; a man who swung his arms and used plenty of the +surrounding space in walking, as if greedy of it,--this man came across +the street, and, with an air of proprietorship, claimed Murray +Davenport's attention. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +A READY-MONEY MAN + +"I want you," bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rustic +washerwoman summoning her offspring to a task. "I've got a little matter +for you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talk +it over." + +"I'm engaged to dine with this gentleman," said Davenport, coolly. + +"Well, that's all right," said the newcomer. "This gentleman can come, +too." + +"We prefer to dine here," said Davenport, with firmness. "We have our own +reasons. I can meet you later." + +"No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're +determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and +dine." + +Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then +introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a +brief condescending glance and a rough "How are you," Mr. Bagley led the +way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and +Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. + +Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the +state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from +the narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment +adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from +another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out +his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in +various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of +walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the +company's hearing capacity. + +As soon as dinner had been ordered,--a matter much complicated by Mr. +Bagley's calling for things which the house didn't serve, and then +wanting to know why it didn't,--he plunged at once into the details of +some business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulking +behind an evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By the +time the chops and potatoes had been brought, the business had been +communicated, and Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. He +suddenly took notice of Larcher. + +"So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?" quoth he, looking with benign +patronage from one young man to the other. + +"I've known Mr. Davenport a--short while," said Larcher, with all the +iciness of injured conceit. + +"Same business?" queried Bagley. + +"I beg your pardon," said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreign +language. + +"Are you in the same business he's in?" said Bagley, in a louder voice. + +"I--write," said Larcher, coldly. + +Bagley looked him over, and, with evident approval of his clothes, +remarked: "You seem to've made a better thing of it than Dav has." + +"I make a living," said Larcher, curtly, with a glance at Davenport, who +showed no feeling whatever. + +"Well, I guess that's about all Dav does," said Bagley, in a jocular +manner. "How is it, Dav, old man? But you never had any business sense." + +"I can't return the compliment," said Davenport, quietly. + +Bagley uttered a mirthful "Yah!" and looked very well contented with +himself. "I've always managed to get along," he admitted. "And a good +thing for you I have, Dav. Where'ud you be to-day if you hadn't had me +for your good angel whenever you struck hard luck?" + +"I haven't the remotest idea," said Davenport, as if vastly bored. + +"Neither have I," quoth Bagley, and filled his mouth with mutton and +potato. When he had got these sufficiently disposed of to permit further +speech, he added: "No, sir, you literary fellows think yourselves very +fine people, but I don't see many of you getting to be millionaires by +your work." + +"There are other ambitions in life," said Larcher. + +Mr. Bagley emitted a grunt of laughter. "Sour grapes! Sour grapes, young +fellow! I know what I'm talking about. I've been a literary man myself." + +Larcher arrested his fork half-way between his plate and his mouth, in +order to look his amazement. A curious twitch of the lips was the only +manifestation of Davenport, except that he took a long sip of ale. + +"Nobody would ever think it," said Larcher. + +"Yes, sir; I've been a literary man; a playwright, that is. Dramatic +author, my friend Dav here would call it, I s'pose. But I made it pay." + +"I must confess I don't recognize the name of Bagley as being attached to +any play I ever heard of," said Larcher. "And yet I've paid a good deal +of attention to the theatre." + +"That's because I never wrote but one play, and the money I made out of +that--twenty thousand dollars it was--I put into the business of managing +other people's plays. It didn't take me long to double it, did it, Dav? +Mr. Davenport here knows all about it." + +"I ought to," replied Davenport, coldly. + +"Yes, that's right, you ought to. We were chums in those days, Mr.--I +forget what your name is. We were both in hard luck then, me and Dav. But +I knew what to do if I ever got hold of a bit of capital. So I wrote that +play, and made a good arrangement with the actor that produced it, and +got hold of twenty thousand. And that was the foundation of _my_ fortune. +Oh, yes, Dav remembers. We had hall rooms in the same house in East +Fourteenth Street. We used to lend each other cuffs and collars. A man +never forgets those days." + +With Davenport's talk of the afternoon fresh in mind, Larcher had +promptly identified this big-talking vulgarian. Hot from several +affronts, which were equally galling, whether ignorant or intended, he +could conceive of nothing more sweet than to take the fellow down. + +"I shouldn't wonder," said he, "if Mr. Davenport had more particular +reasons to remember that play." + +Davenport looked up from his plate, but merely with slight surprise, not +with disapproval. Bagley himself stared hard at Larcher, then glanced at +Davenport, and finally blurted out a laugh, and said: + +"So Dav has been giving you his fairy tale? I thought he'd dropped it as +a played-out chestnut. God knows how the delusion ever started in his +head. That's a question for the psychologists--or the doctors, maybe. But +he used to imagine--I give him credit for really imagining it--he used to +imagine he had written that play. I s'pose that's what he's been telling +you. But I thought he'd got over the hallucination; or got tired telling +about it, anyhow." + +But, in the circumstances, no nice consideration of probabilities was +necessary to make Larcher the warm partisan of Davenport. He answered, +with as fine a derision as he could summon: + +"Any unbiased judge, with you two gentlemen before him, if he had to +decide which had written that play, wouldn't take long to agree with Mr. +Davenport's hallucination, as you call it." + +Mr. Bagley gazed at Larcher for a few moments in silence, as if not +knowing exactly what to make of him, or what manner to use toward him. He +seemed at last to decide against a wrathful attitude, and replied: + +"I suppose you're a very unbiased judge, and a very superior person all +round. But nobody's asking for your opinion, and I guess it wouldn't +count for much if they did. The public has long ago made up its mind +about Mr. Davenport's little delusion." + +"As one of 'the public,' perhaps I have a right to dispute that," +retorted Larcher. "Men don't have such delusions." + +"Oh, don't they? That's as much as you know about the eccentricities of +human nature,--and yet you presume to call yourself a writer. I guess you +don't know the full circumstances of this case. Davenport himself admits +that he was very ill at the time I disposed of the rights of that play. +We were in each other's confidence then, and I had read the play to him, +and talked it over with him, and he had taken a very keen interest in it, +as any chum would. And then this illness came on, just when the marketing +of the piece was on the cards. He was out of his head a good deal during +his illness, and I s'pose that's how he got the notion he was the author. +As it was, I gave him five hundred dollars as a present, to celebrate the +acceptance of the piece. And I gave him that at once, too--half the amount +of the money paid on acceptance, it was; for anything I knew then, it +might have been half of all I should ever get for the play, because +nobody could predict how it would pan out. Well, I've never borne him an +ounce of malice for his delusion. Maybe at this very moment he still +honestly thinks himself the author of that play; but I've always stood by +him, and always will. Many's the piece of work I've put in his hands; and +I will say he's never failed me on his side, either. Old Reliable Dav, +that's what I call him; Old Reliable Dav, and I'd trust him with every +dollar I've got in the world." He finished with a clap of good fellowship +on Davenport's shoulder, and then fell upon the remainder of his chop and +potato with a concentration of interest that put an end to the dispute. + +As for Davenport, he had continued eating in silence, with an +expressionless face, as if the matter were one that concerned a stranger. +Larcher, observing him, saw that he had indeed put that matter behind +him, as one to which there was nothing but weariness to be gained in +returning. The rest of the meal passed without event. Mr. Bagley made +short work of his food, and left the two others with their coffee, +departing in as self-satisfied a mood as he had arrived in, and without +any trace of the little passage of words with Larcher. + +A breath of relief escaped Davenport, and he said, with a faint smile: + +"There was a time when I had my say about the play. We've had scenes, I +can tell you. But Bagley is a man who can brazen out any assertion; he's +a man impossible to outface. Even when he and I are alone together, he +plays the same part; won't admit that I wrote the piece; and pretends to +think I suffer under a delusion. I _was_ ill at the time he disposed of +my play; but I had written it long before the time of my illness." + +"How did he manage to pass it off as his?" + +"We were friends then, as he says, or at least comrades. We met through +being inmates of the same lodging-house. I rather took to him at first. +I thought he was a breezy, cordial fellow; mistook his loudness for +frankness, and found something droll and pleasing in his nasal drawl. +That brass-horn voice!--ye gods, how I grew to shudder at it afterward! +But I liked his company over a glass of beer; he was convivial, and told +amusing stories of the people in the country town he came from, and of +his struggles in trying to get a start in business. I was struggling as +hard in my different way--a very different way, for he was an utter +savage as far as art and letters were concerned. But we exchanged +accounts of our daily efforts and disappointments, and knew all about +each other's affairs,--at least he knew all about mine. And one of mine +was the play which I wrote during the first months of our acquaintance. +I read it to him, and he seemed impressed by it, or as much of it as he +could understand. I had some idea of sending it to an actor who was then +in need of a new piece, through the failure of one he had just produced. +My play seemed rather suitable to him, and I told Bagley I thought of +submitting it as soon as I could get it typewritten. But before I could +do that, I was on my back with pneumonia, utterly helpless, and not +thinking of anything in the world except how to draw my breath. + +"The first thing I did begin to worry about, when I was on the way to +recovery, was my debts, and particularly my debt to the landlady. She +was a good woman, and wouldn't let me be moved to a hospital, but took +care of me herself through all my illness. She furnished my food during +that time, and paid for my medicines; and, furthermore, I owed her for +several weeks' previous rent. So I bemoaned my indebtedness, and the +hopelessness of ever getting out of it, a thousand times, day and night, +till it became an old song in the ears of Bagley. One day he came in +with his face full of news, and told me he had got some money from the +sale of a farm, in which he had inherited a ninth interest. He said he +intended to risk his portion in the theatrical business--he had had some +experience as an advance agent--and offered to buy my play outright for +five hundred dollars. + +"Well, it was like an oar held out to a drowning man. I had never before +had as much money at the same time. It was enough to pay all my debts, +and keep me on my feet for awhile to come. Of course I knew that if my +play were a fair success, the author's percentage would be many times +five hundred dollars. But it might never be accepted,--no play of mine +had been, and I had hawked two or three around among the managers,--and +in that case I should get nothing at all. As for Bagley, his risk in +producing a play by an unknown man was great. His chances of loss seemed +to me about nine in ten. I took it that his offer was out of friendship. +I grasped at the immediate certainty, and the play became the property +of Bagley. + +"I consoled myself with the reflection that, if the play made a real +success, I should gain some prestige as an author, and find an easier +hearing for future work. I was reading a newspaper one morning when the +name of my play caught my eye. You can imagine how eagerly I started to +read the item about it, and what my feelings were when I saw that it was +immediately to be produced by the very actor to whom I had talked of +sending it, and that the author was George A. Bagley. I thought there +must be some mistake, and fell upon Bagley for an explanation as soon as +he came home. He laughed, as men of his kind do when they think they have +played some clever business trick; said he had decided to rent the play +to the actor instead of taking it on the road himself; and declared that +as it was his sole property, he could represent it as the work of anybody +he chose. I raised a great stew about the matter; wrote to the +newspapers, and rushed to see the actor. He may have thought I was a +lunatic from my excitement; however, he showed me the manuscript Bagley +had given him. It was typewritten, but the address of the typewriter +copyist was on the cover. I hastened to the lady, and inquired about the +manuscript from which she had made the copy. I showed her some of my +penmanship, but she assured me the manuscript was in another hand. I ran +home, and demanded the original manuscript from Bagley. 'Oh, certainly,' +he said, and fished out a manuscript in his own writing. He had copied +even my interlineations and erasures, to give his manuscript the look of +an original draft. This was the copy from which the typewriter had +worked. My own handwritten copy he had destroyed. I have sometimes +thought that when the idea first occurred to him of submitting my play to +the actor, he had meant to deal fairly with me, and to profit only by an +agent's commission. But he may have inquired about the earnings of plays, +and learned how much money a successful one brings; and the discovery may +have tempted him to the fraud. Or his design may have been complete from +the first. It is easy to understand his desire to become the sole owner +of the play. Why he wanted to figure as the author is not so clear. It +may have been mere vanity; it may have been--more probably was--a desire +to keep to himself even the author's prestige, to serve him in future +transactions of the same sort. In any case, he had created evidence of +his authorship, and destroyed all existing proof of mine. He had made +good terms,--a percentage on a sliding scale; one thousand dollars down +on account. It was out of that thousand that he paid me the five hundred. +The play was a great money-winner; Bagley's earnings from it were more +than twenty thousand dollars in two seasons. That is the sum I should +have had if I had submitted the play to the same actor, as I had intended +to do. I made a stir in the newspapers for awhile; told my tale to +managers and actors and reporters; started to take it to the courts, but +had to give up for lack of funds; in short, got myself the name, as I +told you today, of a man with a grievance. People smiled tolerantly at my +story; it got to be one of the jokes of the Rialto. Bagley soon hit on +the policy of claiming the authorship to my face, and pretending to treat +my assertion charitably, as the result of a delusion conceived in +illness. You heard him tonight. But it no longer disturbs me." + +"Has he ever written any plays of his own? Or had any more produced over +his name?" asked Larcher. + +"No. He put the greater part of his profits into theatrical management. +He multiplied his investment. Then he 'branched out;' tried Wall Street +and the race-tracks; went into real estate. He speculates now in many +things. I don't know how rich he is. He isn't openly in theatrical +management any more, but he still has large interests there; he is what +they call an 'angel.'" + +"He spoke of being your good angel." + +"He has been the reverse, perhaps. It's true, many a time when I've been +at the last pinch, he has come to my rescue, employing me in some affair +incidental to his manifold operations. Unless you have been hungry, and +without a market for your work; unless you have walked the streets +penniless, and been generally 'despised and rejected of men,' you, +perhaps, can't understand how I could accept anything at his hands. But +I could, and sometimes eagerly. As soon as possible after our break, he +assumed the benevolent attitude toward me. I resisted it with proper +scorn for a time. But hard lines came; 'my poverty but not my will' +consented. In course of time, there ceased to be anything strange in the +situation. I got used to his service, and his pay, yet without ever +compounding for the trick he played me. He trusts me thoroughly--he +knows men. This association with him, though it has saved me from +desperate straits, is loathsome to me, of course. It has contributed as +much as anything to my self-hate. If I had resolutely declined it, I +might have found other resources at the last extremity. My life might +have taken a different course. That is why I say he has been, perhaps, +the reverse of a good angel to me." + +"But you must have written other plays," pursued Larcher. + +"Yes; and have even had three of them produced. Two had moderate success; +but one of those I sold on low terms, in my eagerness to have it accepted +and establish a name. On the other, I couldn't collect my royalties. The +third was a failure. But none of these, or of any I have written, was up +to the level of the play that Bagley dealt with. I admit that. It was my +one work of first-class merit. I think my poor powers were affected by my +experience with that play; but certainly for some reason I + + '... never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture.' + +I should have been a different man if I had received the honor and the +profits of that first accepted play of mine." + +"I should think that, as Bagley is so rich, he would quietly hand you +over twenty thousand dollars, at least, for the sake of his conscience." + +"Men of Bagley's sort have no conscience where money is concerned. I used +to wonder just what share of his fortune was rightly mine, if one knew +how to estimate. It was my twenty thousand dollars he invested; what +percentage of the gains would belong to me, giving him his full due for +labor and skill? And then the credit of the authorship,--which he flatly +robbed me of,--what would be its value? But that is all matter for mere +speculation. As to the twenty thousand alone, there can be no doubt." + +"And yet he said tonight he would trust you with every dollar he had in +the world." + +"Yes, he would." Davenport smiled. "He knows that _I_ know the difference +between a moral right and a legal right. He knows the difficulties in +the way of any attempt at self-restitution on my part,--and the +unpleasant consequences. Oh, yes, he would trust me with large sums; has +done so, in fact. I have handled plenty of his cash. He is what they call +a 'ready-money man;' does a good deal of business with bank-notes of high +denomination,--it enables him to seize opportunities and make swift +transactions. He should interest you, if you have an eye for character." + +Upon which remark, Davenport raised his cup, as if to finish the coffee +and the subject at the same time. Larcher sat silently wondering what +other dramas were comprised in the history of his singular companion, +besides that wherein Bagley was concerned, and that in which the fickle +woman had borne a part. He found himself interested, on his own account, +in this haggard-eyed, world-wearied, yet not unattractive man, as well +as for Miss Hill. When Davenport spoke again, it was in regard to the +artistic business which now formed a tie between himself and Larcher. + +This business was in due time performed. It entailed as much association +with Davenport as Larcher could wish for his purpose. He learnt little +more of the man than he had learned on the first day of their +acquaintance, but that in itself was considerable. Of it he wrote a full +report to Miss Hill; and in the next few weeks he added some trifling +discoveries. In October that young woman and her aunt returned to town, +and to possession of a flat immediately south of Central Park. Often as +Larcher called there, he could not draw from Edna the cause of her +interest in Davenport. But his own interest sufficed to keep him the +regular associate of that gentleman; he planned further magazine work for +himself to write and Davenport to illustrate, and their collaboration +took them together to various parts of the city. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + +The lower part of Fifth Avenue, the part between Madison and Washington +Squares, the part which alone was "the Fifth Avenue" whereof Thackeray +wrote in the far-off days when it was the abode of fashion,--the far-off +days when fashion itself had not become old-fashioned and got improved +into Smart Society,--this haunted half-mile or more still retains many +fine old residences of brown stone and of red brick, which are spruce +and well-kept. One such, on the west side of the street, of red brick, +with a high stoop of brown stone, is a boarding-house, and in it is an +apartment to which, on a certain clear, cold afternoon in October, the +reader's presence in the spirit is respectfully invited. + +The hallway of the house is prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits of +hallways, in order to lead to a secluded parlor at the rear, apparently +used by its occupants as a private sitting and dining room. At the left +side of this room, after one enters, are folding doors opening from what +is evidently somebody's bed-chamber. At the same side, further on, is a +large window, the only window in the room. As the ceiling is so high, and +the wall-paper so dark, the place is rather dim of light at all times, +even on this sunny autumn afternoon when the world outside is so full of +wintry brightness. + +The view of the world outside afforded by the window--which looks +southward--is of part of a Gothic church in profile, and the backs of +houses, all framing an expanse of gardens. It is a peaceful view, and +this back parlor itself, being such a very back parlor, receives the +city's noises dulled and softened. One seems very far, here, from the +clatter and bang, the rush and strenuousness, really so near at hand. +The dimness is restful; it is relieved, near the window, by a splash of +sunlight; and, at the rear of the room, by a coal fire in the grate. The +furniture is old and heavy, consisting largely of chairs of black wood +in red velvet. Half lying back in one of these is a fretful-looking, +fine-featured man of late middle age, with flowing gray hair and flowing +gray mustache. His eyes are closed, but perhaps he is not asleep. There +is a piano near a corner, opposite the window, and out of the splash of +sunshine, but its rosewood surface reflects here and there the firelight. +And at the piano, playing a soft accompaniment, sits a tall, slender +young woman, with a beautiful but troubled face, who sings in a low voice +one of Tosti's love-songs. + +Her figure is still girlish, but her face is womanly; a classic face, not +like the man's in expression, but faintly resembling it in form, though +her features, clearly outlined, have not the smallness of his. Her eyes +are large and deep blue. There is enough rich color of lip, and fainter +color of cheek, to relieve the whiteness of her complexion. The trouble +on her face is of some permanence; it is not petty like that of the +man's, but is at one with the nobility of her countenance. It seems to +find rest in the tender sadness of the song, which, having finished, she +softly begins again: + +"'I think of what thou art to me, +I think of what thou canst not be'"-- + +As the man gives signs of animation, such as yawning, and moving in his +chair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed by +the song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice: + +"Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And such +expression!--unconscious expression, too. What a pity--what a +shame--that your gift should be utterly wasted!" + +"It isn't wasted if my singing pleases you, father," says the girl, +patiently. + +"I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself," replies the man, +peevishly. "I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide +our light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the +world pays for them, too. Think of the money--think of how we might live! +Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!" + +She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers +as one who has as often made the same answer: + +"I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage, +and the choirs are all full." + +"You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic +opera--" + +The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: "And +you know well enough my determination about that. The one week's +experience I had--" + +"Oh, nonsense!" interrupted the man. "All managers are not like that +fellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic opera +stage." + +"No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If I +absolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put to +that necessity." + +"Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?" + +"We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us our +present allowance--" + +"Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom I +brought up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father to +the full extent of his ability!" + +"All the same, it's a far greater allowance than most sons or brothers +make." + +"Because other sons are ungrateful, and blind to their duty, it doesn't +follow that Dick ought to be. Thank Heaven, I brought him up better than +that. I'm only sorry that his sister can't see things in the same light +as he does. After all the trouble of raising my children, and the hopes +I've built on them--" + +"But you know perfectly well," she protests, softly, "that Dick makes us +such a liberal allowance in order that I needn't go out and earn money. +He has often said that. Even when you praise him for his dutifulness to +you, he says it's not that, but his love for me. And because it is the +free gift of his love, I'm willing to accept it." + +"I suppose so, I suppose so," says the man, in a tone of resignation to +injury. "It's very little that I'm considered, after all. You were always +a pair, always insensible of the pains I've taken over you. You always +seemed to regard it as a matter of course that I should feed you, and +clothe you, and educate you." + +The girl sighs, and begins faintly to touch the keys of the piano again. +The man sighs, too, and continues, with a heightened note of personal +grievance: + +"If any man's hopes ever came to shipwreck, mine have. Just look back +over my life. Look at the professional career I gave up when I married +your mother, in order to be with her more than I otherwise could have +been. Look how poorly we lived, she and I, on the little income she +brought me. And then the burden of you children! And what some men would +have felt a burden, as you grew up, I made a source of hopes. I had +endowed you both with good looks and talent; Dick with business ability, +and you with a gift for music. In order to cultivate these advantages, +which you had inherited from me, I refrained from going into any business +when your mother died. I was satisfied to share the small allowance her +father made you two children. I never complained. I said to myself, 'I +will invest my time in bringing up my children.' I thought it would turn +out the most profitable investment in the world,--I gave you children +that much credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I should +begin to realize on the investment!" + +"I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you," says the girl. "He +began to earn money as soon as he was nineteen, and he has never--" + +"Time enough, too," the man breaks in. "It was a very fortunate thing I +had fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, when +your grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if I +hadn't prepared Dick to step in and make his living?" + +"_Our_ living," says the girl. + +"Our living, of course. It would be very strange if I weren't to reap a +bare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a living +out of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualities +for success?" The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuable +qualities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. "Dick hasn't +done any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what _he_ has +done, is so much more than nothing at all, that--" He stops as if it were +useless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact that +this conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with displeasure. + +After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: "Well, if I haven't +earned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to please +you." + +"You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our trip +to Europe?" + +"The young man who did us so many kindnesses, and was of so much use to +you, on our trip to Europe," she corrects. + +"He thought I was rich, my dear, and that you were an heiress. He was a +nobody, an adventurer, probably. If things had gone any further between +you and him, your future might have been ruined. It was only another +example of my solicitude for you; another instance that deserves your +thanks, but elicits your ingratitude. If you are fastidious about a +musical career, at least you have still a possibility of a good marriage. +It was my duty to prevent that possibility from being cut off." + +She turns upon him a look of high reproach. + +"And that was the only motive, then," she cries, "for your tears and your +illness, and the scenes that wrung from me the promise to break with +him?" + +"It was motive enough, wasn't it?" he replies, defensively, a little +frightened at her sudden manner of revolt. "My thoughtfulness for your +future--my duty as a father--my love for my child--" + +"You pretended it was your jealous love for me, your feeling of +desertion, your loneliness. I might have known better! You played on my +pity, on my love for you, on my sense of duty as a daughter left to fill +my mother's place. When you cried over being abandoned, when you looked +so forlorn, my heart melted. And that night when you said you were dying, +when you kept calling for me--'Flo, where is little Flo'--although I was +there leaning over you, I couldn't endure to grieve you, and I gave my +promise. And it was only that mercenary motive, after all!--to save me +for a profitable marriage!" She gazes at her father with an expression so +new to him on her face, that he moves about in his chair, and coughs +before answering: + +"You will appreciate my action some day. And besides, your promise to +drop the man wasn't so much to give. You admitted, yourself, he hadn't +written to you. He had afforded you good cause, by his neglect." + +"He was very busy at that time. I always thought there was something +strange about his sudden failure to write--something that could have +been explained, if my promise to you hadn't kept me from inquiring." + +The father coughs again, at this, and turns his gaze upon the fire, which +he contemplates deeply, to the exclusion of all other objects. The girl, +after regarding him for a moment, sighs profoundly; placing her elbows on +the keyboard, she leans forward and buries her face in her hands. + +This picture, not disturbed by further speech, abides for several ticks +of the French clock on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it is broken by a knock +at the door. Florence sits upright, and dries her eyes. A negro man +servant with a discreet manner enters and announces two visitors. "Show +them in at once," says Florence, quickly, as if to forestall any possible +objection from her father. The negro withdraws, and presently, with a +rapid swish of skirts, in marches a very spick and span young lady, +her diminutive but exceedingly trim figure dressed like an animated +fashion-plate. She is Miss Edna Hill, and she comes brisk and dashing, +with cheeks afire from the cold, bringing into the dull, dreamy room the +life and freshness of the wintry day without. Behind her appears a +stranger, whose name Florence scarcely heeded when it was announced, and +who enters with the solemn, hesitant air of one hitherto unknown to the +people of the house. He is a young man clothed to be the fit companion of +Miss Hill, and he waits self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciously +greets Florence as her dearest, and while she bestows a touch of her +gloved fingers and a "How d'ye do, Mr. Kenby," on the father. She then +introduces the young man as Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, there +appears a surprised admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty. + +Miss Hill monopolizes Florence, however, and Larcher is left to wander to +the fire, and take a pose there, and discuss the weather with Mr. Kenby, +who does not seem to find the subject, or Larcher himself, at all +interesting, a fact which the young man is not slow in divining. Strained +relations immediately ensue between the two gentlemen. + +As soon as the young ladies are over the preliminary burst of compliments +and news, Edna says: + +"I'm lucky to find you at home, but really you oughtn't to be moping in +a dark place like this, such a fine afternoon." + +"Father can't go out because of his rheumatism, and I stay to keep him +company," replies Florence. + +"Oh, dear me, Mr. Kenby," says Edna, looking at the gentleman rather +skeptically, as if she knew him of old and suspected a habit of +exaggerating his ailments, "can't you pass the time reading or +something? Florence _must_ go out every day; she'll ruin her looks if +she doesn't,--her health, too. I should think you could manage to +entertain yourself alone an hour or two." + +"It isn't that," explains Florence; "he often wants little things done, +and it's painful for him to move about. In a house like this, the +servants aren't always available, except for routine duties." + +"Well, I'll tell you what," proposes Edna, blithely; "you get on your +things, dear, and we'll run around and have tea with Aunt Clara at +Purcell's. Mr. Larcher and I were to meet her there, but you come with +me, and Mr. Larcher will stay and look after your father. He'll be very +glad to, I know." + +Mr. Larcher is too much taken by surprise to be able to say how very +glad he will be. Mr. Kenby, with Miss Hill's sharp glance upon him, +seems to feel that he would cut a poor figure by opposing. So Florence +is rushed by her friend's impetuosity into coat and hat, and carried +off, Miss Hill promising to return with her for Mr. Larcher "in an hour +or two." Before Mr. Larcher has had time to collect his scattered +faculties, he is alone with the pettish-looking old man to whom he has +felt himself an object of perfect indifference. He glares, with a defiant +sense of his own worth, at the old man, until the old man takes notice of +his existence. + +"Oh, it's kind of you to stay, Mr.--ahem. But they really needn't have +troubled you. I can get along well enough myself, when it's absolutely +necessary. Of course, my daughter will be easier in mind to have some +one here." + +"I am very glad to be of service--to so charming a young woman," says +Larcher, very distinctly. + +"A charming girl, yes. I'm very proud of my daughter. She's my constant +thought. Children are a great care, a great responsibility." + +"Yes, they are," asserts Larcher, jumping at the chance to show this +uninterested old person that wise young men may sometimes be entertained +unawares. "It's a sign of progress that parents are learning on which +side the responsibility lies. It used to be universally accepted that +the obligation was on the part of the children. Now every writer on the +subject starts on the basis that the obligation is on the side of the +parent. It's hard to see how the world could have been so idiotic +formerly. As if the child, summoned here in ignorance by the parents for +their own happiness, owed them anything!" + +Mr. Kenby stares at the young man for a time, and then says, icily: + +"I don't quite follow you." + +"Why, it's very clear," says Larcher, interested now for his argument. +"You spoke of your sense of responsibility toward your child." + +("The deuce I did!" thinks Mr. Kenby.) + +"Well, that sense is most natural in you, and shows an enlightened mind. +For how can parents feel other than deeply responsible toward the being +they have called into existence? How can they help seeing their +obligation to make existence for that being as good and happy as it's in +their power to make it? Who dare say that there is a limit to their +obligation toward that being?" + +"And how about that being's obligations in return?" Mr. Kenby demands, +rather loftily. + +"That being's obligations go forward to the beings it in turn summons to +life. The child, becoming in time a parent, assumes a parent's debt. The +obligation passes on from generation to generation, moving always to the +future, never back to the past." + +"Somewhat original theories!" sniffs the old man. "I suppose, then, a +parent in his old age has no right to look for support to his children?" + +"It is the duty of people, before they presume to become parents, to +provide against the likelihood of ever being a burden to their children. +In accepting from their children, they rob their children's children. +But the world isn't sufficiently advanced yet to make people so +far-seeing and provident, and many parents do have to look to their +children for support. In such cases, the child ought to provide for the +parent, but out of love or humanity, not because of any purely logical +claim. You see the difference, of course." + +Mr. Kenby gives a shrug, and grunts ironically. + +"The old-fashioned idea still persists among the multitude," Larcher +goes on, "and many parents abuse it in practice. There are people who +look upon their children mainly as instruments sent from Heaven for them +to live by. From the time their children begin to show signs of +intelligence, they lay plans and build hopes of future gain upon them. +It makes my blood boil, sometimes, to see mothers trying to get their +pretty daughters on the stage, or at a typewriter, in order to live at +ease themselves. And fathers, too, by George! Well, I don't think there's +a more despicable type of humanity in this world than the able-bodied +father who brings his children up with the idea of making use of them!" + +Mr. Larcher has worked himself into a genuine and very hearty +indignation. Before he can entirely calm down, he is put to some wonder +by seeing his auditor rise, in spite of rheumatism, and walk to the door +at the side of the room. "I think I'll lie down awhile," says Mr. Kenby, +curtly, and disappears, closing the door behind him. Mr. Larcher, after +standing like a statue for some time by the fire, ensconces himself in a +great armchair before it, and gazes into it until, gradually stolen upon +by a sense of restful comfort in the darkening room, he falls asleep. + +He is awakened by the gay laugh of Edna Hill, as she and Florence enter +the room. He is on his feet in time to keep his slumbers a secret, and +explains that Mr. Kenby has gone for a nap. When the gas is lit, he sees +that Florence, too, is bright-faced from the outer air, that her eye has +a fresher sparkle, and that she is more beautiful than before. As it is +getting late, and Edna's Aunt Clara is to be picked up in a shop in +Twenty-third Street where the girls have left her, Larcher is borne off +before he can sufficiently contemplate Miss Kenby's beauty. Florence is +no sooner alone than Mr. Kenby comes out of the little chamber. + +"I hope you feel better for your nap, father." + +"I didn't sleep any, thank you," says Mr. Kenby. "What an odious young +man that was! He has the most horrible principles. I think he must be an +anarchist, or something of that sort. Did you enjoy your tea?" + +The odious young man, walking briskly up the lighted avenue, past piano +shops and publishing houses, praises Miss Kenby's beauty to Edna Hill, +who echoes the praise without jealousy. + +"She's perfectly lovely," Edna asserts, "and then, think of it, she has +had a romance, too; but I mustn't tell that." + +"It's strange you never mentioned her to me before, being such good +friends with her." + +"Oh, they've only just got settled back in town," answers Edna, +evasively. "What do you think of the old gentleman?" + +"He seems a rather queer sort. Do you know him very well?" + +"Well enough. He's one of those people whose dream in life is to make +money out of their children." + +"What! Then I _did_ put my foot in it!" Larcher tells of the brief +conversation he had with Mr. Kenby. It makes Edna laugh heartily. + +"Good for him!" she cries. "It's a shame, his treatment of Florence. Her +brother out West supports them, and is very glad to do so on her account. +Yet the covetous old man thinks she ought to be earning money, too. She's +quite too fond of him--she even gave up a nice young man she was in love +with, for her father's sake. But listen. I don't want you to mention +these people's names to anybody--not to _anybody_, mind! Promise." + +"Very well. But why?" + +"I won't tell you," she says, decidedly; and, when he looks at her in +mute protest, she laughs merrily at his helplessness. So they go on up +the avenue. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +A LODGING BY THE RIVER + +The day after his introduction to the Kenbys, Larcher went with Murray +Davenport on one of those expeditions incidental to their collaboration +as writer and illustrator. Larcher had observed an increase of the +strange indifference which had appeared through all the artist's +loquacity at their first interview. This loquacity was sometimes +repeated, but more often Davenport's way was of silence. His apathy, or +it might have been abstraction, usually wore the outer look of +dreaminess. + +"Your friend seems to go about in a trance," Barry Tompkins said of him +one day, after a chance meeting in which Larcher had made the two +acquainted. + +This was a near enough description of the man as he accompanied Larcher +to a part of the riverfront not far from the Brooklyn Bridge, on the +afternoon at which we have arrived. The two were walking along a squalid +street lined on one side with old brick houses containing junk-shops, +shipping offices, liquor saloons, sailors' hotels, and all the various +establishments that sea-folk use. On the other side were the wharves, +with a throng of vessels moored, and glimpses of craft on the broad +river. + +"Here we are," said Larcher, who as he walked had been referring to a +pocket map of the city. The two men came to a stop, and Davenport took +from a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century, +representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this with +the scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport then +looked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon on +the ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottles +in the window. + +"If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows up +there," said Davenport, glancing at the first story over the saloon. + +"Suppose we go in and see what can be done," suggested Larcher. + +They found the saloon a small, homely place, with only one attendant +behind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing some +sort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third old +fellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seated +by himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly all +head-lines. + +Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who lived +overhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect, +gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, and +finally vouchsafed the single word: + +"Roomers." + +"I should like to see the person that has the front room up one flight," +began Larcher. + +"All right; that won't cost you nothing. There he sets." And the +barkeeper pointed to the rural-looking old man with the newspaper, at +the same time calling out, sportively: "Hey, Mr. Bud, here's a couple o' +gents wants to look at you." + +Mr. Bud, who was tall, spare, and bent, about sixty, and the possessor +of a pleasant knobby face half surrounded by a gray beard that stretched +from ear to ear beneath his lower jaw, dropped his paper and scrutinized +the young men benevolently. They went over to him, and Larcher explained +their intrusion with as good a grace as possible. + +"Why, certainly, certainly," the old man chirped with alacrity. "Glad to +have yuh. I'll be proud to do anything in the cause of literature. Come +right up." And he rose and led the way to the street door. + +"Take care, Mr. Bud," said the jocular barkeeper. "Don't let them sell +you no gold bricks or nothin'. I never see them before, so you can't +hold me if you lose your money." + +"You keep your mouth shut, Mick," answered the old man, "and send me up +a bottle o' whisky and a siphon o' seltzer as soon as your side partner +comes in. This way, gentlemen." + +He conducted them out to the sidewalk, and then in through another door, +and up a narrow stairway, to a room with two windows overlooking the +river. It was a room of moderate size, provided with old furniture, a +faded carpet, mended curtains, and lithographs of the sort given away +with Sunday newspapers. It had, in its shabbiness, that curious effect +of cosiness and comfort which these shabby old rooms somehow possess, +and luxurious rooms somehow lack. A narrow bed in a corner was covered +with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt. There was a cylindrical stove, +but not in use, as the weather had changed since the day before; and +beside the stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partly +full of coal. While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud was +offering chairs, Davenport made directly for the window and looked out +with an interest limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so. + +"This is my city residence," said the host, dropping into a chair. "It +ain't every hard-worked countryman, these times, that's able to keep up +a city residence." As this was evidently one of Mr. Bud's favorite jests, +Larcher politically smiled. Mr. Bud soon showed that he had other +favorite jests. "Yuh see, I make my livin' up the State, but every now +and then I feel like comin' to the city for rest and quiet, and so I keep +this place the year round." + +"You come to New York for rest and quiet?" exclaimed Larcher, still +kindly feigning amusement. + +"Sure! Why not? As fur as rest goes, I just loaf around and watch other +people work. That's what I call rest with a sauce to it. And as fur as +quiet goes, I get used to the noises. Any sound that don't concern me, +don't annoy me. I go about unknown, with nobody carin' what my business +is, or where I'm bound fur. Now in the country everybody wants to know +where from, and where to, and what fur. The only place to be reely alone +is where thur's so many people that one man don't count for anything. And +talk about noise!--What's all the clatter and bang amount to, if it's got +nothin' to do with your own movements? Now at my home where the noise +consists of half a dozen women's voices askin' me about this, and wantin' +that, and callin' me to account for t'other,--that's the kind o' noise +that jars a man. Yuh see, I got a wife and four daughters. They're very +good women--very good women, the whole bunch--but I do find it restful +and refreshin' to take the train to New York about once a month, and loaf +around a week or so without anybody takin' notice, and no questions ast." + +"And what does your family say to that?" + +"Nothin', now. They used to say considerable when I first fell into the +habit. I hev some poultry customers here in the city, and I make out I +got to come to look after business. That story don't go fur with the +fam'ly; but they hev their way about everything else, so they got to +gimme my way about this." + +Davenport turned around from the window, and spoke for the first time +since entering: + +"Then you don't occupy this room more than half the time?" + +"No, sir, I close it up, and thank the Lord there ain't nothin' in it +worth stealin'." + +"Oh, in that case," Davenport went on, "if I began some sketches here, +and you left town before they were done, I should have to go somewhere +else to finish them." + +It was a remark that made Larcher wonder a little, at the moment, knowing +the artist's usual methods of work. But Mr. Bud, ignorant of such +matters, replied without question: + +"Well, I don't know. That might be fixed all right, I guess." + +"I see you have a library," said Davenport, abruptly, walking over to a +row of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His sudden +interest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise in +Larcher. + +"Yes, sir," said the old man, with pride and affection, "them books is my +chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and +again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three +that's pretty rough travellin'. But the others!--well, I've tried a good +many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of +novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people +in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would +blow 'em away. But look at the _body_ to Scott's people! They're all the +way round, and clear through, his characters are.--Of course, I'm no +literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion." Mr. Bud's +manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its +bold enthusiasm. + +"Your small opinion is quite right," said Davenport. "There's no doubt +about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters." He took +one of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on +with brightened eyes. "Andrew Fairservice--there's a character. 'Gude +e'en--gude e'en t' ye'--how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a +wild slip, that'--there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant +in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the +hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as +fast as he can." + +"Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol +Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him." The old man +grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another +to praise, his favorite author. + +"Interesting old illustrations these are," said Davenport, taking up +another volume. "Dryburgh Abbey--that's how it looks on a gray day. I +was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then." + +"What?" exclaimed Mr. Bud. "You been to Dryburgh Abbey?--to Scott's +grave?" + +"Oh, yes," said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which +was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had +been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New +York. + +"You don't say! Well, to think of it! I _am_ happy to meet you. By +George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe +you've seen Abbotsford?" + +"Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the +house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns." + +Mr. Bud's excitement was great. "Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and +High Street--" + +"Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the +Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands +of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?" + +The old man shook his head. "That's all too fur away from home fur me. +The women are afraid o' the water, and they'd never let me go alone. I +kind o' just drifted into this New York business, but if I undertook to +go across the ocean, that _would_ be the last straw. And I'm afraid I +couldn't get on to the manners and customs over there. They say +everything's different from here. To tell the truth, I'm timid where I +don't know the ways. If I was like you--I shouldn't wonder if you'd been +to some of the other places where things happen in his novels?" + +With a smile, Davenport began to enumerate and describe. The old man sat +enraptured. The whisky and seltzer came up, and the host saw that the +glasses were filled and refilled, but he kept Davenport to the same +subject. Larcher felt himself quite out of the talk, but found +compensation in the whisky and in watching the old man's greedy enjoyment +of Davenport's every word. The afternoon waned, and all opportunity of +making the intended sketches passed for that day. Mr. Bud was for +lighting up, or inviting the young men to dinner, but they found pretexts +for tearing themselves away. They did not go, however, until Davenport +had arranged to come the next day and perform his neglected task. Mr. Bud +accompanied them out, and stood on the corner looking after them until +they were out of sight. + +"You've made a hit with the agriculturist," said Larcher, as they took +their way through a narrow street of old warehouses toward the region of +skyscrapers and lower Broadway. + +"Scott is evidently his hobby," replied Davenport, with a careless smile, +"and I liked to please him in it." + +He lapsed into that reticence which, as it was his manner during most of +the time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the more +remarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came on +in Larcher's presence. + +It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner in +Madison Avenue, and he thus found himself not far from Davenport's abode. +Going thither upon an impulse, he beheld the artist seated at the table, +leaning forward over a confusion of old books, some of them open. He +looked pallid in the light of the reading lamp at his elbow, and his +eyes seemed withdrawn deep into their hollows. He welcomed his visitor +with conventional politeness. + +"How's this?" began Larcher. "Do I find you pondering, + + '... weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore?'" + +"No; merely rambling over familiar fields." Davenport held out the +topmost book. + +"Oh, Shakespeare," laughed Larcher. "The Sonnets. Hello, you've marked +part of this." + +"Little need to mark anything so famous. But it comes closer to me than +to most men, I fancy." And he recited slowly, without looking down at the +page: + +'When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, +I all alone beweep my outcast state, +And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, +And look upon myself, and curse my fate,'-- + +He stopped, whereupon Larcher, not to be behind, and also without having +recourse to the page, went on: + +'Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, +Featured like him, like him with friends possest, +Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,'-- + +"But I think that hits all men," said Larcher, interrupting himself. +"Everybody has wished himself in somebody else's shoes, now and again, +don't you believe?" + +"I have certainly wished myself out of my own shoes," replied Davenport, +almost with vehemence. "I have hated myself and my failures, God knows! +I have wished hard enough that I were not I. But I haven't wished I were +any other person now existing. I wouldn't change selves with this +particular man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throw +off the burden of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my life +and conduct, and take up the burden of some other man's--though I +should be the gainer even by that, in a thousand cases I could name." + +"Oh, I don't exactly mean changing with somebody else," said Larcher. +"We all prefer to remain ourselves, with our own tastes, I suppose. But +we often wish our lot was like somebody else's." + +Davenport shook his head. "I don't prefer to remain myself, any more +than to be some man whom I know or have heard of. I am tired of myself; +weary and sick of Murray Davenport. To be a new man, of my own +imagining--that would be something;--to begin afresh, with an +unencumbered personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning and +find that I was not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I know +of, but a different self, formed according to ideals of my own. There +_would_ be a liberation!" + +"Well," said Larcher, "if a man can't change to another self, he can at +least change his place and his way of life." + +"But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the new +place. And even change of scene and habits is next to impossible +without money." + +"I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enough +for me just now," said Larcher. + +Davenport's only reply was a short laugh. + +"Suppose you had the money, and could live as you liked, where would +_you_ go?" demanded Larcher, slightly nettled. + +"I would live a varied life. Probably it would have four phases, +generally speaking, of unequal duration and no fixed order. For one +phase, the chief scene would be a small secluded country-house in an old +walled garden. There would be the home of my books, and the centre of my +walks over moors and hills. From this, I would transport myself, when +the mood came, to the intellectual society of some large city--that of +London would be most to my choice. Mind you, I say the _intellectual_ +society; a far different thing from the Society that spells itself with +a capital S." + +"Why not of New York? There's intellectual society here." + +"Yes; a trifle fussy and self-conscious, though. I should prefer a +society more reposeful. From this, again, I would go to the life of the +streets and byways of the city. And then, for the fourth phase, to the +direct contemplation of art--music, architecture, sculpture, +painting;--to haunting the great galleries, especially of Italy, +studying and copying the old masters. I have no desire to originate. I +should be satisfied, in the arts, rather to receive than to give; to be +audience and spectator; to contemplate and admire." + +"Well, I hope you may have your wish yet," was all that Larcher +could say. + +"I _should_ like to have just one whack at life before I finish," +replied Davenport, gazing thoughtfully into the shadow beyond the +lamplight. "Just one taste of comparative happiness." + +"Haven't you ever had even one?" + +"I thought I had, for a brief season, but I was deceived." (Larcher +remembered the talk of an inconstant woman.) "No, I have never been +anything like happy. My father was a cold man who chilled all around +him. He died when I was a boy, and left my mother and me to poverty. My +mother loved me well enough; she taught me music, encouraged my +studies, and persuaded a distant relation to send me to the College of +Medicine and Surgery; but her life was darkened by grief, and the +darkness fell over me, too. When she died, my relation dropped me, and +I undertook to make a living in New York. There was first the struggle +for existence, then the sickening affair of that play; afterward, +misfortune enough to fill a dozen biographies, the fatal reputation of +ill luck, the brief dream of consolation in the love of woman, the +awakening,--and the rest of it." + +He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, to +the book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which they +had already been quoting: + +'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising--Haply I think on thee; +and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen +earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love--' + +He broke off, and closed the book. "'For thy sweet love,'" he repeated. +"You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those +lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly +song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,--a little +poem of Frank L. Stanton's." He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a +light baritone: + + 'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong, + For God gives grief with the gift of song, + And poverty, too; but your love is more--' + +Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. "What an ass I was! As +if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!" + +"Oh, never be disheartened," said Larcher. "Your time is to come; you'll +have your 'whack at life' yet." + +"It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two +of the dreams of youth--the dreams an unhappy lad consoled himself with." + +"What were they?" inquired Larcher. + +"What were they not, that is fine and pleasant? I had my share of diverse +ambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, in +Longfellow: + + _'For a boy's will is the wind's will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"_ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + +A month passed. All the work in which Larcher had enlisted Davenport's +cooperation was done. Larcher would have projected more, but the +artist could not be pinned down to any definite engagement. He was +non-committal, with the evasiveness of apathy. He seemed not to care any +longer about anything. More than ever he appeared to go about in a dream. +Larcher might have suspected some drug-taking habit, but for having +observed the man so constantly, at such different hours, and often with +so little warning, as to be convinced to the contrary. + +One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and the +beauty of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a sense +of life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met his +friend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his +inner contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as +a man could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped, +however, when Larcher did. + +"Where are you going?" the latter asked. + +"Home," was the reply; thus amended the next instant: "To my room, that +is." + +"I'll walk with you, if you don't mind. I feel like stretching my legs." + +"Glad to have you," said Davenport, indifferently. They turned from +Broadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of which +rose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larcher +called the artist's attention to it. Davenport replied by quoting, +mechanically: + +"'With how slow steps, O moon, thou clim'st the sky, +How silently, and with how wan a face!'" + +"I'm glad to see you out on so fine a night," pursued Larcher. + +"I came out on business," said the other. "I got a request by telegraph +from the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurry +call' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, to +look after a few matters in his absence." + +"I trust you'll find them interesting," said Larcher, comparing his own +failure with Bagley's success in obtaining Davenport's services. + +"Not in the slightest," replied Davenport. + +"Then remunerative, at least." + +"Not sufficiently to attract _me_," said the other. + +"Then, if you'll pardon the remark, I really can't understand--" + +"Mere force of habit," replied Davenport, listlessly. "When he summons, I +attend. When he entrusts, I accept. I've done it so long, and so often, I +can't break myself of the habit. That is, of course, I could if I chose, +but it would require an effort, and efforts aren't worth while at this +stage." + +With little more talk, they arrived at the artist's house. + +"If you talk of moonlight," said Davenport, in a manner of some +kindliness, "you should see its effect on the back yards, from my +windows. You know how half-hearted the few trees look in the daytime; +but I don't think you've seen that view on a moonlight night. The yards, +taken as a whole, have some semblance to a real garden. Will you come +up?" + +Larcher assented readily. A minute later, while his host was seeking +matches, he looked down from the dark chamber, and saw that the +transformation wrought in the rectangular space of back yards had not +been exaggerated. The shrubbery by the fences might have sheltered +fairies. The boughs of the trees, now leafless, gently stirred. Even the +plain house-backs were clad in beauty. + +When Larcher turned from the window, Davenport lighted the gas, but not +his lamp; then drew from an inside pocket, and tossed on the table, +something which Larcher took to be a stenographer's note-book, narrow, +thick, and with stiff brown covers. Its unbound end was confined by a +thin rubber band. Davenport opened a drawer of the table, and essayed +to sweep the book thereinto by a careless push. The book went too +far, struck the arm of a chair, flew open at the breaking of the +overstretched rubber, fell on its side by the chair leg, and disclosed a +pile of bank-notes. These, tightly flattened, were the sole contents of +the covers. As Larcher's startled eyes rested upon them, he saw that the +topmost bill was for five hundred dollars. + +Davenport exhibited a momentary vexation, then picked up the bills, and +laid them on the table in full view. + +"Bagley's money," said he, sitting down before the table. "I'm to place +it for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carrying +out personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business to +the reliable Davenport." + +"When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of so +much money," said Larcher, who had taken a chair near his friend. + +"I don't suppose there's another man in New York to-night with so much +ready money on his person," said Davenport, smiling. "These are large +bills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walking +about with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket." + +"Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were--" Larcher checked +himself. + +"Yes," said Davenport, unmoved. "Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that +morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to +very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could +make it go far--exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a +congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am +I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat +it as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?" + +He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them +in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying +there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this +up, and handed it to Larcher, saying: + +"You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you +make of this man's character?" + +Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise, +round hand: + +"MY DEAR DAVENPORT:--I will meet you at the place and time you suggest. +We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our different +ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, still less. +Yours truly, + +"FRANCIS TURL." + +"Francis Turl," repeated Larcher. "I never heard the name before." + +"No, I suppose you never have," replied Davenport, dryly. "But what +character would you infer from his penmanship?" + +"Well,--I don't know." Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. "An +educated person, I should think; even scholarly, perhaps. Fastidious, +steady, exact, reserved,--that's about all." + +"Not very much," said Davenport, taking back the sheet. "You merely +describe the handwriting itself. Your characterization, as far as it +goes, would fit men who write very differently from this. It fits me, +for instance, and yet look at my angular scrawl." He held up a specimen +of his own irregular hand, beside the elegant penmanship of the note, +and Larcher had to admit himself a humbug as a graphologist. + +"But," he demanded, "did my description happen to fit that particular +man--Francis Turl?" + +"Oh, more or less," said Davenport, evasively, as if not inclined to give +any information about that person. This apparent disinclination increased +Larcher's hidden curiosity as to who Francis Turl might be, and why +Davenport had never mentioned him before, and what might be between the +two for settlement. + +Davenport put Turl's writing back into the drawer, but continued to +regard his own. "'A vile cramped hand,'" he quoted. "I hate it, as I have +grown to hate everything that partakes of me, or proceeds from me. +Sometimes I fancy that my abominable handwriting had as much to do with +alienating a certain fair inconstant as the news of my reputed +unluckiness. Both coming to her at once, the combined effect was too +much." + +"Why?--Did you break that news to her by letter?" + +"That seems strange to you, perhaps. But you see, at first it didn't +occur to me that I should have to break it to her at all. We met abroad; +we were tourists whose paths happened to cross. Over there I almost +forgot about the bad luck. It wasn't till both of us were back in New +York, that I felt I should have to tell her, lest she might hear it first +from somebody else. But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough to +make me put the revelation off from day to day. The more I put it off, +the more difficult it seemed--you know how the smallest matter, even the +writing of an overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So this +little ordeal got magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't brace +myself to go through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in his +affairs, and he kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I got +free, I was surprised to find she had left town. I hadn't the least idea +where she'd gone; till one day I received a letter from her. She wrote as +if she thought I had known where she was; she reproached me with +negligence, but was friendly nevertheless. I replied at once, clearing +myself of the charge; and in that same letter I unburdened my soul of the +bad luck secret. It was easier to write it than speak it." + +"And what then?" + +"Nothing. I never heard from her again." + +"But your letter may have miscarried,--something of that sort." + +"I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. +She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. +But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a +one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history +of Murray Davenport.--She was a fine young woman, as the world judges; +she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines." + +"Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You +remember his library--made up entirely of Scott?" + +"Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of +living did." + +"I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the +country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless." + +"I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in +the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short +spell,' as he calls it." + +"You still keep in touch with him?" asked Larcher, in surprise. + +"Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable--allowing me the use of his room to +sketch in." + +"Even during his absence?" + +"Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. +He's proud of them." + +Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on +the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This +stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent +for a moment; then rose, with the words: + +"Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit +garden. When shall I see you again?" + +"Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't +find me here." + +"I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I +shall have them day after to-morrow. Let's see--I'm engaged for that day. +How will the next day suit you?" + +"All right. Come the next day if you like." + +"That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch +together." + +"Just as you please." + +"One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!" + +"Good night!" + +At the door, Larcher turned for a moment in passing out, and saw +Davenport standing by the table, looking after him. What was the +inscrutable expression--half amusement, half friendliness and +self-accusing regret--which faintly relieved for a moment the +indifference of the man's face? + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +MYSTERY BEGINS + +The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dull +person in not having yet put this and that together and associated the +love-affair of Murray Davenport with the "romance" of Miss Florence +Kenby. One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, and +her inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair of +connecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probably +judge otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought to +Larcher's notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation, +as she necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fully +in possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were the +circumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up his +life, as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's +"romance" had been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had given +up a lover to please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandoned +him because he was unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such a +woman, and so of a different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. To +be sure, he knew now that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but so +had most young women. In short, the small connecting facts had no such +significance in his mind, where they were not grouped away from other +facts, as they must have in these pages, where their very presence +together implies inter-relation. + +In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightly +upon the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessed +that those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But a +certain manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point in +spite of all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenport +ascribed the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's present +opinion of her. "He was thrown over by some woman whose name he never +mentions; since then he has steered clear of the sex," was what Larcher +replied to Edna a hundred times, in a hundred different sets of phrases; +and it was all he replied on the subject. + +So matters stood until two days after the interview related in the +previous chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said that +for the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointed +the third day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement for +the second day was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at a +riding-school. Upon arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mild +protection of her easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in the +arrangement. To this he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well as +beautiful; and Larcher was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Edna +that he could play the cavalier to one pretty girl as well as to another. +He did not, however, manage to disturb her serenity at all during the +afternoon. The three returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of the +utmost readiness for afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. To +make things pleasanter, Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking a +nap. The three young people had the drawing-room, with its bright coal +fire, to themselves. + +Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid who +placed the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have been +transported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat was +her black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so clean +her slender hands. + +"What a sweet place you have, Edna," remarked Florence Kenby, looking +around. + +"So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make it +sweeter, for good, you've only got to move in." + +Florence laughed, but with something very like a sigh. + +"What, are you willing to take boarders?" said Larcher. "If that's the +case, put me down as the first applicant." + +"Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, and +no gentlemen need apply. Two lumps, Flo dear?" + +"Yes, please.--If only your restrictions didn't keep out poor father--" + +"If only your poor father would consider your happiness instead of his +own selfish plans." + +"Edna, dear! You mustn't." + +"Why mustn't I?" replied Edna, pouring tea. "Truth's truth. He's your +father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would +do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have +better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why +doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the +reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own +projects. You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read +your father like a book the first time he ever met him." + +Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked +very wise and penetrative. + +"I should think your father himself would be happier," said he, "if he +lived less privately and had more of men's society." + +"He's often in poor health," replied Florence. + +"In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium, +where the life is as luxurious as can be." + +"I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he--weren't altogether +unselfish about me, there would always be my promise." + +"What does that matter--such a promise?" inquired Edna, between sips of +tea. + +"You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear," said +Florence, smiling. "But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred." + +"Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?" + +"No, not all," replied Larcher. "It's like this: When you make a bad +promise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, you +perpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break the +promise." + +"Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, and +your promise did inaugurate a wrong--a wrong against yourself." + +"Well, then, it's allowable to wrong oneself," said Florence. + +"But not one's friends--one's true, disinterested friends. And as for +that other promise of yours--that _fearful_ promise!--you can't deny you +wronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to wrong." + +"It was a choice between him and my father," replied Florence, in a low +voice, and turning very red. + +"Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?" cried Edna, her eyes and +tone showing that the subject was a heating one. "Which was likely to +suffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers _don't_ die +in those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics _must_ have been +put on for effect. Oh, don't tell me!--it makes me wild to think of it! +Your father would have been all right in a week; whereas the other man's +whole life is darkened." + +"Don't say that, dear," pleaded Florence, gently. "Men soon get over such +things." + +"Not so awfully soon;--not sincere men. Their views of life are changed, +for all time. And _this_ man seems to grow more and more melancholy, if +what Tom says is true." + +"What I say?" exclaimed Larcher. + +The two girls looked at each other. + +"Goodness! I _have_ given it away!" cried Edna. + +"More and more melancholy?" repeated Larcher. "Why, that must be Murray +Davenport. Was he the--? Then you must be the--! But surely _you_ +wouldn't have given him up on account of the bad luck nonsense." + +"Bad luck nonsense?" echoed Edna, while Miss Kenby looked bewildered. + +"The silly idea of some foolish people, that he carried bad luck with +him," Larcher explained, addressing Florence. "He sent you a letter about +it." + +"I never got any such letter from him," said Florence, in wonderment. + +"Then you didn't know? And that had nothing to do with your giving him +up?" + +"Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that--But the letter you +speak of--when was it? I never had a letter from him after I left town. +He didn't even answer when I told him we were going." + +"Because he never heard you were going. He got a letter after you had +gone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There must +have been some strange defect in your mail arrangements." + +"I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarried +between us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains to +clear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time--" She +stopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering. + +"Speaking of your father," said Larcher, "you must have got a subsequent +letter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receipt +came back with your father's signature." + +"No, I never got that, either," said Florence, before the inference +struck her. When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless, +wounded look, and blushed as if the shame were her own. + +Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her +friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner. + +"Why didn't you tell me all this before?" + +"I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about +the letters till the night before last." + +"And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him +over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?" + +"Well, more or less,--and the general fickleness of the sex." + +"General fick--! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on thinking +so?" + +"But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told +me it was for her you wanted news of him--" + +"Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some +news of _her_. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such paltry, +childish motive." + +"By George, I agree with you!" cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. "If +you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss +Kenby! I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to +that; he had causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away +all consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life." + +"Has it made him so bitter?" asked Florence, sadly. + +"I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for +strong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to the +last stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch to +making his life a wearisome drudgery, without motive or hope." + +Florence sighed deeply. + +"To think that he could believe such a thing of Florence," put in Edna. +"I'm sure _I_ couldn't. Could you, Tom?" + +"When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions," +said Larcher, authoritatively. "He exaggerates both the favors and the +rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he +thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his +sufferings. As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty +correspondingly great. Nobody will believe such good things of a woman +as the man who loves her; but nobody will believe such bad things if +matters go wrong." + +"Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!" + +But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. "So I really think, +Miss Kenby, if you'll pardon me," Larcher continued, "that Murray +Davenport ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if +matters never go any further, he ought to know that you still--h'm--feel +an interest in him--still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your +solicitude--how it was the cause of my looking him up--I can see through +all that now--" + +"I can never thank you enough--and Edna," said Florence, in a tremulous +voice. + +"No thanks are due me," replied Larcher, emphatically. "I value his +acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your +real motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to +see you again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life. +I'm sure it would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in +humanity. It would console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet +to him. It would change the color of his view of life; give him hope and +strength; make a new man of him." + +Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. "I should be so glad," she +said, gently, "if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort of +communication with him." + +"Oh, that promise!" cried Edna. "Just think how it was obtained. And +think about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't +release you, I wonder what!" + +Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder. + +"Moreover," said Larcher, "you won't be holding communication. The +matter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky +forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him +to-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I really +don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby." + +Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and +a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared. + +"You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather +have than to see him made happy." + +"If you'd like to see it with your own eyes," said Larcher, "let me send +him to you for the news." + +"Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came +to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of +meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York." + +Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys +to anybody. "Well," said he, "in that case, Murray Davenport shall be +made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon." + +"And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it," cried +Edna. "Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom +and kidnap you." + +"I think I can come voluntarily," said Florence, smiling through her +tears. + +"And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any +silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea +get cold. I must have another cup." And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot +water. + +The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and +laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous +cause of love and truth against the old, old foes--mercenary design, +false appearance, and mistaken duty. + +Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time +previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out +his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the +disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his +friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the +appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. +Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's +lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day. + +"I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room," he said to the negro boy at +the door. + +"All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there," +replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand. + +Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. "When did that +telegram come?" he inquired. + +"Last evening." + +"It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he +hasn't been in?" + +Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming +of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, +with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly +look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady. + +"Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?" she asked, quickly. + +"No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock." + +"Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that +engagement?" + +"On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?" + +"Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport +hasn't been home for two days!" + +"Two days! Why, that's rather strange!" + +"Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either +told me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about +saving me trouble or anxiety." + +"And this time he said nothing about it?" + +"Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the +morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry +any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel +wrapped in brown paper." + +"Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn't +soon turn up--What do you think about it?" + +"I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of +mysterious disappearance--that's what I think!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + +Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher +spoke first. + +"He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now." + +The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street. +But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady. + +"Perhaps he left a note for me on the table," said Larcher. "I have the +freedom of his room, you know." + +"Go up and see, then. I'll go with you." + +The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a +person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. +None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or +covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing +addressed to Larcher or anybody else. + +"It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon," remarked the +landlady. + +"It certainly does." Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. +He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession +at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on +leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but +something checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a +way that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly +wished to keep it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything. + +"Of course," said Larcher, "he might have met with an accident." + +"I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's +nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked +down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache." + +"And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd +meant to stay away so long?" + +"Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he +met me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in +advance." + +"But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some +time." + +"No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little +money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me +for another month.' He knew I gener'ly--had use for money whenever it +happened along. He was a kind-hearted--I mean he _is_ a kind-hearted man. +Hear me speakin' of him as if--What's that?" + +It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned +to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came +almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the +flight above. + +"It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up," said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected +whisper. + +The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the +hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance +became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill +and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of +the landlady. + +"Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?" said +she, still in a lowered voice. + +"I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general +alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I +believe. There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened +without sufficient cause." + +"I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send +out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make +a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun." + +"That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better +wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he +hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment, +though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a +fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons +for this, how we shall all feel." + +"He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only +friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good +many single men are,--that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days at +a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it. +But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow, +till you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?" + +"Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll +give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then, +if he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance +he might be. I've only just now thought of it." + +The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had +spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might +have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance--a +bare chance--of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that place +or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of him +than Mrs. Haze had. + +That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the +very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled +Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything +in connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and +the solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say +to the girls when he met them at tea? + +At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went +down-stairs, and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised +to return about four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an +elevated car, and out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to +imagine his friend had by that time arrived home. This feeling remained +with him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the +house on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at +Mr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in +the ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the +thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked. + +"Evidently nobody at home," said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs +again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had +seen on his first visit to the place. + +"I thought I might find a friend of mine here," he said, after ordering a +drink. "Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeks +ago." + +"I remember all right enough," said the bar-keeper. "He ain't here now." + +"He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?" + +"Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old +man Bud." + +"What day was that?" + +"Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the day +before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did." + +It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. "And so +you haven't seen my friend since Monday?" he asked, insistently. + +"That's what I said." + +"And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?" + +"That's what I said." + +"When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?" + +"You can search _me,_" was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all +knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions. + +Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling +that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he +was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. +It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The +telegram was still on the hat-stand. + +"Any news?" asked the landlady, appearing from the rear. + +"No. I was hoping you might have some." + +After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his +engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat. + +"Here he is!" cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high +spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in +great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet +unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating. + +"Well? Well? Well?" said Edna. "How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your +good news, and then we'll tell you ours." Florence only watched his face, +but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's +noise. + +"Well, the fact is," began Larcher, embarrassed, "I can't tell you any +good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me +to-day, and I haven't been able to see him." + +"Not able to see him?" Edna exclaimed, hotly. "Why didn't you go and +find him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with +men--always afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an +unreliable, helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!" + +Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied: + +"I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've +spent the afternoon doing that." + +"A woman would have managed to find out where he was," retorted Edna. + +"His landlady's a woman," rejoined Larcher, doggedly, "and she hasn't +managed to find out." + +"Has she been trying to?" + +"Well--no," stammered Larcher, repenting. + +"Yes, she has!" said Edna, with a changed manner. "But what for? Why is +she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom--I can tell by your +looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?" + +A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier +or pleasanter. + +"I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away +from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his +landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all." + +"And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?" +persisted Edna. + +"No. I suppose it slipped his mind." + +"And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?" + +"Not when I saw her last--about half an hour ago." + +"Well!" ejaculated Edna. "That _is_ a mysterious disappearance!" + +The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental +observation in the moment's silence that followed,--a silence broken by +a low cry from Florence Kenby. + +"Oh, if anything has happened to him!" + +The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which +Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time +he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed +by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport, +undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to +raise. + +"Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men +often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's +quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom +says." + +"As I say!" exclaimed Larcher. "_I_ don't say it's bad at all. It's your +own imagination, Edna,--your sudden and sensational imagination. There's +no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says--" + +"But I must make sure," interrupted Florence. "If anything _is_ wrong, +we're losing time. He must be sought for--the police must be notified." + +"His landlady--a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze--spoke of that, +and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to wait +awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got +noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of +things--as of course he will--why, how foolish we should all feel!" + +"What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?" + +"Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how +he would hate that sort of publicity." + +"That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if +you knew my anxiety!" + +"I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters +at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go +around to the--to other places where people inquire in such cases." + +"And you'll let me know immediately--as soon as you find out anything?" + +"Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?" + +"Stay here to-night, Florence," put in Edna. "It will be all right, +_now_." + +"Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher." + +Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little. + +"She's had an understanding with her father," said Edna, having noted +his look. "She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was +yesterday." + +"Yes," said Florence, "I--I had a talk with him--I spoke to him about +those letters, and he finally--explained the matter. We settled many +things. He released me from the promise we were talking about yesterday." + +"Good! That's excellent news!" + +"It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a +disappointment," bemoaned Edna. + +"It's news that will change the world for Davenport," replied Larcher. +"I _must_ find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he +wouldn't be long missing." + +"It would be too cruel if any harm befell him"--Florence's voice quivered +as she spoke--"at this time, of all times. It would be the crowning +misfortune." + +"I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby." + +"I don't see how Heaven could allow it," said Florence, earnestly. + +"Well, he's simply _got_ to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can +go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you +on the way?" + +"I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would +stop at a telegraph-office--" + +"Oh, that's all right," broke in Edna. "There's a call-box down-stairs. +I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom." + +Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While +they waited for that, she asked, cautiously: + +"Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before +Florence?" + +A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again +he felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and +should be treated by him--for the present, at least--as non-existent. + +"No," he replied. "I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So +far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves, +probably, for having been at all worked up over it.--She's a lovely girl, +isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself." + +"She's proof against your charms," said Edna, coolly. + +"I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm +brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern +if _I_ were missing?" + +"I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in +suspense. You're a dear boy! _Au revoir!_" + +With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish +motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This +time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home; +yet it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The +same deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was +mirrored in the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no +news. + +Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in +which, the choice being "optional," sundry of the lodgers took their +rooms "with board." Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of +"helping out" the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself +disguised as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and +threw on her things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There +she told all that was necessary, to an official at a desk,--a big, +comfortable man with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman, +after briefly questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible +notes, and setting a subordinate to looking through the latest entries +in a large record, dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was +proper to be done _would_ be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with +him, as if he doubted, not only that Murray Davenport was missing, but +that any such person as Murray Davenport existed to _be_ missing; as if +he merely indulged his visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as +if in any case the matter was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate +reported that nothing in the record for the past two days showed any +such man, or the body of any such man, to have come under the all-seeing +eye of the police. Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an +investigation should be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that +no dead body had been found, and repeated that all proper steps would be +taken. With this grain of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned +to her bread pudding, for which her boarders were by that time waiting. + +When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed +to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any +considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently +allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. "Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think +so," she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so +short, and might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not +yet warrant the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished +to keep private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be +made from that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at +the inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard +his friend from that. + +Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he +required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine +at her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat +at one of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking +together are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in +the world. He soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely +given his order when in sauntered Barry Tompkins. + +"Stop right here," cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and +pulling him into a seat. "You are commandeered." + +"What for?" asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile. + +"Dinner first, and then--" + +"All right. Do you give me _carte blanche_ with the bill of fare? May I +roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?" + +"None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals, +station-houses, morgue, _et cetera_. There's a man missing. You've made +those rounds before." + +"Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and +again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to +him in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest." + +"I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening--" + +"Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have +search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's +the latest victim of the strenuous life?" + +"Murray Davenport!" + +"What! is he occurring again?" + +Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two +made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing +inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have +ever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the +experience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure +from a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, the +rebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless +information from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingled +hope and dread of coming upon the object of the search at the next place, +the recurring feeling that the whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose +chase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few features +of the disheartening business. The labors of Larcher and Tompkins +elicited nothing; lightened though they were by the impecunious lawyer's +tact, knowledge, and good humor, they left the young men dispirited and +dead tired. Larcher had nothing to telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of +her passing a sleepless night, waiting for news, the dupe and victim of +every sound that might herald a messenger. He slept ill himself, the +short time he had left for sleep. In the morning he made a swift +breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. Davenport's room was still +untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram still lay unclaimed in the +hall below. + +Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night, +for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the +morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an +indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was +the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her +lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair, +during the ensuing days,--for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or +heard of the missing one,--but of these Larcher was not often a witness. +Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an +unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time +between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was +subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek, +cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He +volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of +Davenport's disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His +diminution spoke volumes for the unexpected force of personality +Florence must have shown in that unrelated interview about the letters, +in which she had got back her promise. + +The burden of action during those ensuing days fell on Larcher. Besides +regular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house, +and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to every +place he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person he +had ever known Davenport to be acquainted with. Only, for a time Mr. +Bagley had to be excepted, he not having yet returned from Chicago. + +It appeared that the big man at police headquarters had really caused +the proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house and +searched the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most of +the newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that Murray +Davenport, "a song-writer," was missing from his lodging-house. Larcher +hoped that this, if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoy +him, would certainly bring word from him. But the man remained as silent +as unseen. Was there, indeed, what the newspapers call "foul play"? And +was Larcher called upon yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? The +knowledge of that would give the case an importance in the eyes of the +police, but would it, even if the worst had happened, do any good to +Davenport? Larcher thought not; and held his tongue. + +One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance,--or, as Larcher +preferred to call it, non-appearance,--that gentleman, having just sat +down in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first page of +an evening paper--one of the yellow brand--which he had bought a minute +before. All at once he was struck in the face, metaphorically speaking, +by a particular set of headlines. He held his breath, and read the +following opening paragraph: + +"The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phase +on the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has not +been seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house,--East----th +Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a large amount of +cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposes the +previous night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when he +called this morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the money +should have been handed over, he found that not a cent of it had been +disposed of according to orders. Davenport had for some years frequently +acted as a secretary or agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousands +of dollars for the latter in such a manner as to gain the highest +confidence." + +There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times over +on the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girls +were sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Edna +sprang to her feet, and Florence's lips parted. + +"What is it?" cried Edna. "You've got news! What is it?" + +"No. Not any news of _his_ whereabouts." + +"What of, then? It's in that paper." + +She seized the yellow journal, and threw her glance from headline to +headline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate of +utterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer. + +"Well! What do you think of _that_?" she said, and stopped to take +breath. + +"Do you think it is true?" asked Florence. + +"There is some reason to believe it is!" replied Larcher, awkwardly. + +Florence rose, in great excitement. "Then this affair _must_ be cleared +up!" she cried. "For don't you see? He may have been robbed--waylaid for +the money--made away with! God knows what else can have happened! The +newspaper hints that he ran away with the money. I'll never believe that. +It must be cleared up--I tell you it _must_!" + +Edna tried to soothe the agitated girl, and looked sorrowfully at +Larcher, who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve the +mystery. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + +A month passed, and it was not cleared up. Larcher became hopeless of +ever having sight or word of Murray Davenport again. For himself, he +missed the man; for the man, assuming a tragic fate behind the mystery, +he had pity; but his sorrow was keenest for Miss Kenby. No description, +nothing but experience, can inform the reader what was her torment of +mind: to be so impatient of suspense as to cry out as she had done, and +yet perforce to wait hour after hour, day after day, week after week, +in the same unrelieved anxiety,--this prolonged torture is not to be told +in words. She schooled herself against further outcries, but the evidence +of her suffering was no less in her settled look of baffled expectancy, +her fits of mute abstraction, the start of her eyes at any sound of bell +or knock. She clutched back hope as it was slipping away, and would not +surrender uncertainty for its less harrowing follower, despair. She had +resumed, as the probability of immediate news decreased, her former way +of existence, living with her father at the house in lower Fifth Avenue, +where Miss Hill saw her every day except when she went to see Miss Hill, +who denied herself the Horse Show, the football games, and the opera for +the sake of her friend. Larcher called on the Kenbys twice or thrice a +week, sometimes with Edna, sometimes alone. + +There was one possibility which Larcher never mentioned to Miss Kenby +in discussing the case. He feared it might fit too well her own secret +thought. That was the possibility of suicide. What could be more +consistent with Davenport's outspoken distaste for life, as he found it, +or with his listless endurance of it, than a voluntary departure from it? +He had never talked suicide, but this, in his state of mind, was rather +an argument in favor of his having acted it. No threatened men live +longer, as a class, than those who have themselves as threateners. It was +true, Larcher had seen in Davenport's copy of Keats, this passage marked: + +"... for many a time +I have been half in love with easeful Death." + +But an unhappy man might endorse that saying without a thought of +possible self-destruction. So, for Davenport's very silence on that way +of escape from his tasteless life, Larcher thought he might have taken +it. + +He confided this thought to no less a person than Bagley, some weeks +after the return of that capitalist from Chicago. Two or three times, +meeting by chance, they had briefly discussed the disappearance, each +being more than willing to obtain whatever light the other might be able +to throw on the case. Finally Bagley, to whom Larcher had given his +address, had sent for him to call at the former's rooms on a certain +evening. These rooms proved to be a luxurious set of bachelor apartments +in one of the new tall buildings just off Broadway. Hard wood, stamped +leather, costly rugs, carved furniture, the richest upholstery, the art +of the old world and the inventiveness of the new, had made this a +handsome abode at any time, and a particularly inviting one on a cold +December night. Larcher, therefore, was not sorry he had responded to +the summons. He found Bagley sharing cigars and brandy with another man, +a squat, burly, middle-aged stranger, with a dyed mustache and the dress +and general appearance of a retired hotel-porter, cheap restaurant +proprietor, theatre doorkeeper, or some such useful but not interesting +member of society. This person, for a time, fulfilled the promise of +his looks, of being uninteresting. On being introduced to Larcher as Mr. +Lafferty, he uttered a quick "Howdy," with a jerk of the head, and +lapsed into a mute regard of tobacco smoke and brandy bottle, which he +maintained while Bagley and Larcher went more fully into the Davenport +case than they had before gone together. Larcher felt that he was being +sounded, but he saw no reason to withhold anything except what related +to Miss Kenby. It was now that he mentioned possible suicide. + +"Suicide? Not much," said Bagley. "A man _would_ be a chump to turn on +the gas with all that money about him. No, sir; it wasn't suicide. We +know that much." + +"You _know_ it?" exclaimed Larcher. + +"Yes, we know it. A man don't make the preparations he did, when he's +got suicide on his mind. I guess we might as well put Mr. Larcher on, +Lafferty, do you think?" + +"Jess' you say," replied Mr. Lafferty, briefly. + +"You see," continued Bagley to Larcher, "I sent for you, so's I could +pump you in front of Lafferty here. I'm satisfied you've told all you +know, and though that's absolutely nothing at all--ain't that so, +Lafferty?" + +"Yep,--nothin' 'tall." + +"Though it's nothing at all, a fair exchange is no robbery, and I'm +willing for you to know as much as I do. The knowledge won't do you any +good--it hasn't done me any good--but it'll give you an insight into your +friend Davenport. Then you and his other friends, if he's got any, won't +roast me because I claim that he flew the coop and not that somebody did +him for the money. See?" + +"Not exactly." + +"All right; then we'll open your eyes. I guess you don't happen to know +who Mr. Lafferty here is, do you?" + +"Not yet." + +"Well, he's a central office detective." (Mr. Lafferty bore Larcher's +look of increased interest with becoming modesty.) "He's been on this +case ever since I came back from Chicago, and by a piece of dumb luck, +he got next to Davenport's trail for part of the day he was last seen. +He'll tell you how far he traced him. It's up to you now, Lafferty. +Speak out." + +Mr. Lafferty, pretending to take as a good joke the attribution of his +discoveries to "dumb luck," promptly discoursed in a somewhat thick but +rapid voice. + +"On the Wednesday morning he was las' seen, he left the house about nine +o'clock, with a package wrapt in brown paper. I lose sight of'm f'r a +couple 'f hours, but I pick'm up again a little before twelve. He's still +got the same package. He goes into a certain department store, and buys +a suit o' clothes in the clothin' department; shirts, socks, an' +underclothes in the gents' furnishin' department; a pair o' shoes in the +shoe department, an' s'mother things in other departments. These he has +all done up in wrappin'-paper, pays fur 'em, and leaves 'em to be called +fur later. He then goes an' has his lunch." + +"Where does he have his lunch?" asked Bagley. + +"Never mind where he has his lunch," said Mr. Lafferty, annoyed. "That's +got no bearin' on the case. After he has his lunch, he goes to a certain +big grocer's and provision dealer's, an' buys a lot o' canned meats and +various provisions,--I can give you a complete list if you want it." + +This last offer, accompanied by a movement of a hand to an inner pocket, +was addressed to Bagley, who declined with the words, "That's all right. +I've seen it before." + +"He has these things all done up in heavy paper, so's to make a dozen'r +so big packages. Then he pays fur 'em, an' leaves 'em to be called fur. +It's late in the afternoon by this time, and comin' on dark. Understand, +he's still got the 'riginal brown paper package with him. The next thing +he does is, he hires a cab, and has himself druv around to the department +store he was at before. He gets the things he bought there, an' puts 'em +on the cab, an' has himself druv on to the grocer's an' provision +dealer's, an' gets the packages he bought there, an' has them put _in_ +the cab. The cab's so full o' his parcels now, he's only got just room +fur himself on the back seat. An' then he has the hackman drive to a +place away down-town." + +Mr. Lafferty paused for a moment to wet his throat with brandy and +water. Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shown +in withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reserving +something to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that the +man he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. + +"By the description, of course," replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust at +Larcher's inferiority of intelligence. "D'yuh s'pose I'd foller a man's +trail as fur as that, if everything didn't tally--face, eyes, nose, +height, build, clo'es, hat, brown paper parcel, everything?" + +"Then it's simply marvellous," said Larcher, with genuine astonishment, +"how you managed to get on his track, and to follow it from place to +place." + +"Oh, it's my business to know how to do them things," replied Mr. +Lafferty, deprecatingly. + +"Your business!" said Bagley. "Dumb luck, I tell you. Can't you see how +it was?" He had turned to Larcher. "The cabman read of Davenport's +disappearance, and putting together the day, and the description in the +papers, and the queer load of parcels, goes and tells the police. +Lafferty is put on the case, pumps the cabman dry, then goes to the +stores where the cab stopped to collect the goods, and finds out the +rest. Only, when he comes to tell the story, he tells the facts not in +their order as he found them out, but in their order as they occurred." + +"You know all about it, Mr. Bagley," said Lafferty, taking refuge in +jocular irony. "You'd ought 'a' worked up the case yourself." + +"You left Davenport being driven down-town," Larcher reminded the +detective. + +"Yes, an' that about lets me out. The cabman druv 'im to somewhere on +South Street, by the wharves. It was dark by that time, and the driver +didn't notice the exact spot--he just druv along the street till the man +told him to stop, that was his orders,--an' then the man got out, took +out his parcels, an' carried them across the sidewalk into a dark +hallway. Then he paid the cabman, an' the cabman druv off. The last the +cabman seen of 'im, he was goin' into the hallway where his goods were, +an' that's the last any one seen of 'im in New York, as fur as known. +Prob'ly you've got enough imagination to give a guess what became of him +after that." + +"No, I haven't," said Larcher. + +"Jes' think it over. You can put two and two together, can't you? A new +outfit o' clo'es, first of all. Then a stock o' provisions. To make it +easier, I'll tell yuh this much: they was the kind o' provisions people +take on yachts, an' he even admitted to the salesman they was for that +purpose. And then South Street--the wharves; does that mean ships? Does +the whole business mean a voyage? But a man don't have to stock up extry +food if he's goin' by any regular steamer line, does he? What fur, then? +And what kind o' ships lays off South Street? Sailin' ships; them that +goes to South America, an' Asia, and the South Seas, and God knows where +all. Now do you think you can guess?" + +"But why would he put his things in a hallway?" queried Larcher. + +"To wait fur the boat that was to take 'em out to the vessel late at +night. Why did he wait fur dark to be druv down there? You bet, he was +makin' his flittin' as silent as possible. He'd prob'ly squared it with +a skipper to take 'im aboard on the dead quiet. That's why there ain't +much use our knowin' what vessels sailed about that time. I _do_ know, +but much good we'll get out o' that. What port he gets off at, who'll +ever tell? It'll be sure to be in a country where we ain't got no +extradition treaty. And when this particular captain shows up again at +this port, innocent enough _he'll_ be; _he_ never took no passenger +aboard in the night, an' put 'im off somewheres below the 'quator. I +guess Mr. Bagley can about consider his twenty thousand to the bad, +unless his young friend takes a notion to return to his native land +before he's got it all spent." + +"And that's your belief?" said Larcher to Bagley, "--that he went to some +other country with the money?" + +"Absconded," replied the ready-money man. "Yes; there's nothing else to +believe. At first I thought you might have some notion where he was; +that's what made me send for you. But I see he left you out of his +confidence. So I thought you might as well know his real character. +Lafferty's going to give the result of his investigation to the newspaper +men, anyhow. The only satisfaction I can get is to show the fellow up." + +When Larcher left the presence of Bagley, he carried away no definite +conclusion except that Bagley was an even more detestable animal than he +had before supposed. If the man whom Lafferty had traced was really +Davenport, then indeed the theory of suicide was shaken. There remained +the possibility of murder or flight. The purchases indeed seemed to +indicate flight, especially when viewed in association with South Street. +South Street? Why, that was Mr. Bud's street. And a hallway? Mr. Bud's +room was approached through a hallway. Mr. Bud had left town the day +before that Wednesday; but if Davenport had made frequent visits there +for sketching, was it not certain that he had had access to the room in +Mr. Bud's absence? Larcher had knocked at that room two days after the +Wednesday, and had got no answer, but this was no evidence that Davenport +might not have made some use of the room in the meanwhile. If he had made +use of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to his +subsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley's +apartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quarters +before saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one. + +He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soon +as he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs +from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more +answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to +the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. + +"Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?" inquired Larcher, having observed the +usual preliminaries to interrogation. + +"Not to my knowledge." + +"When was he here last?" + +"Not for a long time. 'Most two months, I guess." + +"But I was here five or six weeks ago, and he'd been gone only three days +then." + +"Then you know more about it than I do; so don't ast me." + +"He hasn't been here since I was?" + +"He hasn't." + +"And my friend who was here with me the first time--has he been here +since?" + +"Not while I've been." + +"When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?" + +"Give it up. I ain't his private secretary." + +Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a +man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud +himself. + +"I was just looking for you," cried Larcher. + +"That so?" replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. "I just +got into town. It's blame cold out." He set his hand-bag on the bar, +saying to the bartender, "Keep my gripsack back there awhile, Mick, will +yuh? I got to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plate +o' soup on that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Two +plates o' soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, set +down, sir. Make yourself at home." + +Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and the +old man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject. + +"Do you know what's become of my friend Davenport?" he asked, in a low +tone. + +"No. Hope he's well and all right. What makes you ask like that?" + +"Haven't you read of his disappearance?" + +"Disappearance? The devil! Not a word! I been too busy to read the +papers. When was it?" + +"Several weeks ago." Larcher recited the main facts, and finished thus: +"So if there isn't a mistake, he was last seen going into your hallway. +Did he have a key to your room?" + +"Yes, so's he could draw pictures while I was away. My hallway? Let's +go and see." + +In some excitement, without waiting for partiallars, the farmer rose +and led the way out. It was already quite dark. + +"Oh, I don't expect to find him in your room," said Larcher, at his +heels. "But he may have left some trace there." + +Mr. Bud turned into the hallway, of which the door was never locked till +late at night. The hallway was not lighted, save as far as the rays of a +street-lamp went across the threshold. Plunging into the darkness with +haste, closely followed by Larcher, the old man suddenly brushed against +some one coming from the stairs. + +"Excuse _me_" said Mr. Bud. "I didn't see anybody. It's all-fired dark in +here." + +"It _is_ dark," replied the stranger, and passed out to the street. +Larcher, at the words of the other two, had stepped back into a corner +to make way. Mr. Bud turned to look at the stranger; and the stranger, +just outside the doorway, turned to look at Mr. Bud. Then both went their +different directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs. + +"Must be a new lodger," said Mr. Bud. "He was comin' from these stairs +when I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before." + +"You can't truly say you saw him even then," replied Larcher, guiding +himself by the stair wall. + +"Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. A +good-lookin' young chap, to be roomin' on these premises." + +"I didn't see his face," replied Larcher, stumbling. + +"Look out fur yur feet. Here we are at the top." + +Mr. Bud groped to his door, and fumblingly unlocked it. Once inside his +room, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners. + +"Everything same as ever," said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centre +of the room. "Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I left +it--" + +"Hello, what's this?" exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollow +metallic object on the floor and knocked his head against a ropey, +rubbery something in the air. + +"That's a gas-heater--Mr. Davenport made me a present of it. It's +convenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas it +burned when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that." + +The ropey, rubbery something was the tube connecting the heater with the +gas-fixture. + +"I move we light 'er up, and make the place comfortable; then we can talk +this matter over," continued Mr. Bud. "Shet the door, an' siddown." + +Seated in the waves of warmth from the gas-stove, the two went into the +details of the case. + +Larcher not withholding the theory of Mr. Lafferty, and even touching +briefly on Davenport's misunderstanding as to Florence Kenby. + +"Well," said Mr. Bud, thoughtfully, "if he reely went into a hallway in +these parts, it would prob'ly be the hallway he was acquainted with. But +he wouldn't stay in the hallway. He'd prob'ly come to this room. An' he'd +no doubt bring his parcels here. But one thing's certain: if he did that, +he took 'em all away again. He might 'a' left somethin' in the closet, or +under the bed, or somewheres." + +A search was made of the places named, as well as of drawers and +wash-stand, but Mr. Bud found no additions to his property. He even +looked in the coal-box,--and stooped and fished something out, which he +held up to the light. "Hello, I don't reco'nize this!" + +Larcher uttered an exclamation. "He _has_ been here! That's the note-book +cover the money was in. He had it the night before he was last seen. I +could swear to it." + +"It's all dirty with coal-dust," cautioned Mr. Bud, as Larcher seized it +for closer examination. + +"It proves he's been here, at least. We've got him traced further than +the detective, anyhow." + +"But not so very fur, at that. What if he was here? Mind, I ain't +a-sayin' one thing ur another,--but if he _was_ contemplatin' a voyage, +an' had fixed to be took aboard late at night, what better place to wait +fur the ship's boat than just this here?" + +"But the money must have been handled here--taken out of this cover, and +the cover thrown away. Suppose somebody _had_ seen him display that money +during the day; _had_ shadowed him here, followed him to this room, taken +him by surprise?" + +"No signs of a struggle, fur as I c'n see." + +"But a single blow with a black-jack, from behind, would do the +business." + +"An' what about the--remains?" + +"The river is just across the street. This would occur at night, +remember." + +Mr. Bud shook his head. "An' the load o' parcels--what 'ud become o' +them?" + +"The criminal might convey them away, too, at his leisure during the +night. They would be worth something." + +Evidently to test the resourcefulness of the young man's imagination, Mr. +Bud continued, "But why should the criminal go to the trouble o' removin' +the body from here?" + +"To delay its discovery, or create an impression of suicide if it were +found," ventured Larcher, rather lamely. "The criminal would naturally +suppose that a chambermaid visited the room every day." + +"The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don't +stand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take any +chances f'r the sake o' the parcels. No; your the'ry's got as much agin' +it, as the detective's has fur it. It's built on nothin' but random +guesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with the +money,--you say the other fellow'd done him out o' that much, anyhow. +I'd rather that than somebody else got away with him." + +"So would I--in the circumstances," confessed Larcher. + +Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and "tackle the +soup." Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As +they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the +coal-dust on the covers. + +"There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there," said +Mr. Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the +light of matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein +were an ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other +products of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the +aid of light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs. + +"Yes," spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, "one 'ud almost +imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of +the young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just +in time to miss the news! That beats me!" + +"And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?" said Larcher. "It +breaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's really +an angel of a girl." + +They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the stranger +he had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves in +the saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to the +bartender: + +"I see there's a new roomer, Mick?" + +"Where?" asked Mick. + +"In the house here. Somewheres up-stairs." + +"If there is, he's a new one on me," said Mick, decidedly. + +"What? _Ain't_ there a new roomer come in since I was here last?" + +"No, sir, there ain't there." + +"Well, that's funny," said Mr. Bud, looking to Larcher for comment. But +Larcher had no thought just then for any subject but Davenport, and to +that he kept the farmer's attention during the rest of their talk. When +the talk was finished, simultaneously with the soup, it had been agreed +that Mr. Bud should "nose around" thereabouts for any confirmation of +Lafferty's theory, or any trace of Davenport, and should send for Larcher +if any such turned up. + +"I'll be in town a week ur two," said the old man, at parting. "I +been kep' so long up-country this time, 'count o' the turkey +trade--Thanksgivin' and Chris'mas, y'know. I do considerable in poultry." + +But some days passed, and Larcher heard nothing from Mr. Bud. A few of +the newspapers published Detective Lafferty's unearthings, before Larcher +had time to prepare Miss Kenby for them. She hailed them with gladness as +pointing to a likelihood that Davenport was alive; but she ignored all +implications of probable guilt on his part. That the amount of Bagley's +loss through Davenport was no more than Bagley's rightful debt to +Davenport, Larcher had already taken it on himself delicately to inform +her. She had not seemed to think that fact, or any fact, necessary to her +lover's justification. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + +Meanwhile Larcher was treated to an odd experience. One afternoon, as +he turned into the house of flats in which Edna Hill lived, he chanced +to look back toward Sixth Avenue. He noticed a pleasant-looking, +smooth-faced young man, very erect in carriage and trim in appearance, +coming along from that thoroughfare. He recalled now that he had observed +this same young man, who was a stranger to him, standing at the corner of +his own street as he left his lodgings that morning; and again sauntering +along behind him as he took the car to come up-town. Doubtless, thought +he, the young man had caught the next car, and, by a coincidence, got off +at the same street. He passed in, and the matter dropped from his mind. + +But the next day, as he was coming out of the restaurant where he usually +lunched, his look met that of the same neat, braced-up young man, who was +standing in the vestibule of a theatre across the way. "It seems I am +haunted by this gentleman," mused Larcher, and scrutinized him rather +intently. Even across the street, Larcher was impressed anew with the +young man's engagingness of expression, which owed much to a whimsical, +amiable look about the mouth. + +Two hours later, having turned aside on Broadway to greet an +acquaintance, his roving eye fell again on the spruce young man, this +time in the act of stepping into a saloon which Larcher had just passed. +"By George, this _is_ strange!" he exclaimed. + +"What?" asked his acquaintance. + +"That's the fifth time I've seen the same man in two days. He's just gone +into that saloon." + +"You're being shadowed by the police," said the other, jokingly. "What +crime have you committed?" + +The next afternoon, as Larcher stood on the stoop of the house in lower +Fifth Avenue, and glanced idly around while waiting for an answer to his +ring, he beheld the young man coming down the other side of the avenue. +"Now this is too much," said Larcher to himself, glaring across at the +stranger, but instantly feeling rebuked by the innocent good humor that +lurked about the stranger's mouth. As the young man came directly +opposite, without having apparently noticed Larcher, the latter's +attention was called away by the coming of the servant in response to +the bell. He entered the house, and, as he awaited the announcement of +his name to Miss Kenby, he asked himself whether this haunting of his +footsteps might indeed be an intended act. "Do they think I may be in +communication with Davenport? and _are_ they having me shadowed? That +would be interesting." But this strange young man looked too intelligent, +too refined, too superior in every way, for the trade of a shadowing +detective. Besides, a "shadow" would not, as a rule, appear on three +successive days in precisely the same clothes and hat. + +And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he see +gazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same side +of the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to the +probability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight to +the young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man's +reflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casual +manner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed his +contemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the young +man's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face, +disarmed resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an +interest in the show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way, +leaving the young man before the window. Larcher presently looked back; +the young man was still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he +was not taking further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end of +Larcher's odd experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself +followed. + +The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not +been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door. +Florence rose and opened it. + +"I beg your pardon, Miss Kenby," said a very masculine, almost husky +voice in the hall; "these are the cigars I was speaking of to your +father. May I leave them?" + +"Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Turl," called out Miss Kenby's father himself +from the fireside. + +"Thank you, no; I won't intrude." + +"But you must; I want to see you," Mr. Kenby insisted, fussily getting +to his feet. + +Larcher asked himself where he had heard the name of Turl. Before his +memory could answer, the person addressed by that name entered the room +in a politely hesitating manner, bowed, and stood waiting for father +and daughter to be seated. He was none other than the smooth-faced, +pleasant-looking young man with the trim appearance and erect attitude. +Larcher sat open-eyed and dumb. + +Mr. Kenby was for not only throwing his attention entirely around the +newcomer, but for snubbing Larcher utterly forthwith; seeing which, +Florence took upon herself the office of introducing the two young men. +Mr. Turl, in resting his eyes on Larcher, showed no consciousness of +having encountered him before. They were blue eyes, clear and soft, and +with something kind and well-wishing in their look. Larcher found the +whole face, now that it was animated with a sense of his existence, +pleasanter than ever. He found himself attracted by it; and all the +more for that did he wonder at the young man's appearance in the house +of his acquaintances, after those numerous appearances in his wake in +the street. + +Mr. Kenby now took exclusive possession of Mr. Turl, and while those two +were discussing the qualities of the cigars, Larcher had an opportunity +of asking Florence, quietly: + +"Who is your visitor? Have you known him long?" + +"Only three or four days. He is a new guest in the house. Father met +him in the public drawing-room, and has taken a liking to him." + +"He seems likeable. I was wondering where I'd heard the name. It's not a +common name." + +No, it was not common. Florence had seen it in a novel or somewhere, but +had never before met anybody possessing it. She agreed that he seemed +likeable,--agreed, that is to say, as far as she thought of him at all, +for what was he, or any casual acquaintance, to a woman in her state of +mind? + +Larcher regarded him with interest. The full, clear brow, from which the +hair was tightly brushed, denoted intellectual qualities, but the rest +of the face--straight-bridged nose, dimpled cheeks, and quizzical +mouth--meant urbanity. The warm healthy tinge of his complexion, evenly +spread from brow to chin, from ear-tip to ear-tip, was that of a social +rather than bookish or thoughtful person. He soon showed his civility by +adroitly contriving to include Florence and Larcher in his conversation +with Mr. Kenby. Talk ran along easily for half an hour upon the shop +windows during the Christmas season, the new calendars, the picture +exhibitions, the "art gift-books," and such topics, on all of which Mr. +Turl spoke with liveliness and taste. ("Fancy my supposing this man a +detective," mused Larcher.) + +"I've been looking about in the art shops and the old book stores," said +Mr. Turl, "for a copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, as it was +called. You know, of course,--engravings from the Boydell collection of +Shakespearean paintings. It was convenient to have them in a volume. I'm +sorry it has disappeared from the shops. I'd like very much to have +another look through it." + +"You can easily have that," said Larcher, who had impatiently awaited a +chance to speak. "I happen to possess the book." + +"Oh, indeed? I envy you. I haven't seen a copy of it in years." + +"You're very welcome to see mine. I wouldn't part with it permanently, +of course, but if you don't object to borrowing--" + +"Oh, I wouldn't deprive you of it, even for a short time. The value of +owning such a thing is to have it always by; one mayn't touch it for +months, but, when the mood comes for it, there it is. I never permit +anybody to lend me such things." + +"Then if you deprive me of the pleasure of lending it, will you take the +trouble of coming to see it?" Larcher handed him his card. + +"You're very kind," replied Turl, glancing at the address. "If you're +sure it won't be putting you to trouble. At what time shall I be least +in your way?" + +"I shall be in to-morrow afternoon,--but perhaps you're not free till +evening." + +"Oh, I can choose my hours; I have nothing to do to-morrow afternoon." + +("Evidently a gentleman of leisure," thought Larcher.) + +So it was settled that he should call about three o'clock, an appointment +which Mr. Kenby, whose opinion of Larcher had not changed since their +first meeting, viewed with decided lack of interest. + +When Larcher left, a few minutes later, he was so far under the spell of +the newcomer's amiability that he felt as if their acquaintance were +considerably older than three-quarters of an hour. + +Nevertheless, he kept ransacking his memory for the circumstances in +which he had before heard the name of Turl. To be sure, this Turl might +not be the Turl whose name he had heard; but the fact that he _had_ heard +the name, and the coincidences in his observation of the man himself, +made the question perpetually insistent. He sought out Barry Tompkins, +and asked, "Did you ever mention to me a man named Turl?" + +"Never in a state of consciousness," was Tompkins's reply; and an equally +negative answer came from everybody else to whom Larcher put the query +that day. + +He thought of friend after friend until it came Murray Davenport's turn +in his mental review. He had a momentary feeling that the search was +warm here; but the feeling succumbed to the consideration that Davenport +had never much to say about acquaintances. Davenport seemed to have put +friendship behind him, unless that which existed between him and Larcher +could be called friendship; his talk was not often of any individual +person. + +"Well," thought Larcher, "when Mr. Turl comes to see me, I shall find, +out whether there's anybody we both know. If there is, I shall learn more +of Mr. Turl. Then light may be thrown on his haunting my steps for three +days, and subsequently turning up in the rooms of people I visit." + +The arrival of Mr. Turl, at the appointed hour the next afternoon, +instantly put to rout all doubts of his being other than he seemed. In +the man's agreeable presence, Larcher felt that to imagine the +coincidences anything _but_ coincidences was absurd. + +The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, which +lay on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher had +never observed. + +"You talk like an artist," said Larcher. + +"I have dabbled a little," was the reply. "I believe I can draw, when put +to it." + +"You ought to be put to it occasionally, then." + +"I have sometimes thought of putting myself to it. Illustrating, I mean, +as a profession. One never knows when one may have to go to work for a +living. If one has a start when that time comes, so much the better." + +"Perhaps I might be of some service to you. I know a few editors." + +"Thank you very much. You mean you would ask them to give me work to +illustrate?" + +"If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be done +first, and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some success +with me that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and the +combination took its chances. We did very well. My friend was Murray +Davenport, who disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him." + +"I think I read something in the papers," replied Turl. "He went to +South America or somewhere, didn't he?" + +"A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery," said +Larcher, making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known +Davenport, it could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. "Hasn't +Mr. Kenby or his daughter ever spoken of it to you?" added Larcher, +after a moment. + +"No. Why should they?" asked the other, turning over a page of the +volume. + +"They knew him. Miss Kenby is very unhappy over his disappearance." + +Did a curious look come over Mr. Turl's face for an instant, as he +carefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it passed. + +"I've noticed she has seemed depressed, or abstracted," he replied. "It's +a pity. She's very beautiful and womanly. She loved this man, do you +mean?" + +"Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on +his part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That +aggravates her unhappiness." + +"I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort." + +"I hope it will in this case--if it doesn't turn it to joy by bringing +Davenport back." + +Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When the +visitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at the +fire, resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsome +easy-chairs--new specimens of an old style--in which Larcher indulged +himself. + +"A pleasant place you have here," said the guest, while Larcher was +bringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty as +sideboard. + +"It ought to be," replied Larcher. "Some fellows in this town only sleep +in their rooms, but I work in mine." + +"And entertain," said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things +were placed on a little round table at his elbow. "Here's variety of +choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a +sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out +of conceit with my own." + +"Why, you live in a good house," said Larcher, helping himself in turn. + +"Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fashionable +boarding-house.' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!" He smiled. "But +my own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present I +come under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom +has supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding +geniuses; but I prefer comfort to romance." + +"How did you happen to go to that house?" + +"I saw its advertisement in the 'boarders wanted' column. I liked the +neighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not much +of the old Knickerbocker atmosphere left. It's my first experience as a +'boarder' in New York. I think, on the whole, I prefer to be a 'roomer' +and 'eat out.' I have been a 'paying guest' in London, but fared better +there as a mere 'lodger.'" + +"You're not English, are you?" + +"No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood and +political principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to the +resources of any one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but of +course before the era of sky-scrapers, multitudinous noises, and +perpetual building operations." + +"I thought there was something of an English accent in your speech now +and then." + +"Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took us +to England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to a +private school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greek +at all, that I boast of. Do you know Folkestone? The wind on the cliffs, +the pine-trees down their slopes, the vessels in the channel, the faint +coast of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to one +of the universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after,--the +only sorrows I've ever had,--and I decided, on my own, to cut the +university career, and jump into the study of pictorial art. Since then, +I've always done as I liked." + +"You don't seem to have made any great mistakes." + +"No. I've never gone hunting trouble. Unlike most people who are doomed +to uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure." + +"Then your life has been uneventful since you jumped into the study of +art?" + +"Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first in +a London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe and +the United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I've +never had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone--I +spent the principal because I had other expectations. And now this other +little fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may be +deprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shall +have to earn my mutton chops like many a better man." + +"You seem to take the prospect very cheerfully." + +"Oh, I shall be fortunate. Good fortune is my destiny. Things come my +way. My wants are few. I make friends easily. I have to make them easily, +or I shouldn't make any, changing my place so often. A new place, new +friends. Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form new +friendships that chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones. +I must confess I find new friends the more interesting, the more suited +to my new wants. Old friends so often disappoint on revisitation. You +change, they don't; or they change, you don't; or they change, and you +change, but not in the same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brown +of yesterday were eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones of +to-day and the Brown of to-day are different men, through different +experiences, and don't harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?" + +As he sipped his wine and ate his sandwich, gazing contentedly into the +fire the while, Mr. Turl looked the living justification of his +philosophy. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + +During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys, +living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable +that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She +declared him "nice," and was not above trying to make Larcher a little +jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was +not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the +slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded, +or spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it. +The newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image +filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelings +indeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should take +hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to warn him. + +If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's +heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With +Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his +thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of +inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. +That good woman had his address "in case anything turned up." She had +rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed +by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed +by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of +his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all. + +It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his +writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was +surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara. + +"Well, this is jolly!" he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face. + +"It's not half bad," said Edna, applying the expression to the room. "I +don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man." + +She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs +before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the +stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other. + +"But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see," he replied, with a +gesture toward the table. + +"Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?" asked +Edna. "Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, +auntie?" + +"Charming," said Aunt Clara, still panting. "You must miss an elevator +in the house, Mr. Larcher." + +"If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there +was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the +lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up." + +"We're keeping you from your work, Tommy," said Edna, with sudden +seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell. + +"Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea +made for you? Or will you take some wine?" + +"No, thanks; we've just had tea." + +"I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb," +suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a +chair for himself. + +"I just came in to tell you what I've discovered," said Edna. "Mr. Turl +is in love with Florence Kenby!" + +"How do you know?" asked Larcher. + +"By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, +too--I can see that." + +"And what does she appear to think about it?" + +"What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of +course it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know +that yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid +him as much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity." + +"What is?" + +"That she isn't open to--new impressions,--you know what I mean. He's an +awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,--they would look so well +together." + +"Edna, you amaze me!" said Larcher. "How can you want her to be +inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to +Davenport." + +"So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was +alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out +between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that." + +"I know you like to play the goddess from the machine," observed Larcher. + +"She's prematurely given to match-making," said Aunt Clara, now restored +to her placidity. + +"Be good, auntie, or I'll make a match between you and Mr. Kenby," +threatened Edna. "Well, now that the best we can hope for about Davenport +is that he went away with another man's money--" + +"But I've told you the other man morally owed him that much money." + +"That won't make it any safer for him to come back to New York. And you +know what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got an +awfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chance +is there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one of +those impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place where +he'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if she +isn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried to +forget the absent." + +"I suppose you're right," said Larcher. + +"So I came in to say that I'm going to do all I quietly can to distract +her thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I see +any way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. And +what I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints or +allusions--to Davenport, you understand." + +"Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm +neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him--and +yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl, +much as I like him." + +"All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his +plan of going to work?" + +"Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of +black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no +trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with." + +"Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?" + +"I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately." + +"He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep +Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken +her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive +with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?" + +"I jump at the chance--if there's room." + +"There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr. +Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit." + +"Neither do I, but for the sake of your society--" + +"All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way +to the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to +cheer up Florence." + +This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's +pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave +himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and +listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna +was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and +then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have +eyes for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating +afternoon. In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more +than the usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in +handsome wraps and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was +adroit enough not to prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and +melancholy. She had just ordered the coachman to drive home, when the +rear of the carriage suddenly sank a little and a wheel ground against +the side. Edna screamed, and the driver stopped the horses. People came +running up from the walks, and the words "broken axle" went round. + +"We shall have to get out," said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly +helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby. + +"Oh, what a nuisance!" cried Edna. "We can't go home in this carriage, of +course." + +"No, miss," said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park +policeman, and was examining the break. "But you'll be able to pick up a +cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so." + +"What a bore!" said Edna, vexatiously. + +Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble +was. From one of them--an automobile--a large, well-dressed man strode +over and greeted Larcher with the words: + +"How are you? Had an accident?" + +It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, "Broken axle." + +"Well," said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, "I suppose +we'd better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab." + +"You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party," said +Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party. + +As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher +with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He +did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls +exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward +a man who owned an automobile and had an air of money. + +"I'm sorry you've had this break-down," said Bagley, addressing the +party collectively. "Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're +not likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood." + +"Thank you," said Edna Hill, chillily. "We can't think of putting you +out." + +"Oh, you won't put _me_ out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. My +car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when mine's +here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your homes +without any trouble." + +During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr. +Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went +back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him. + +"Your kindness is most opportune, sir," said Mr. Kenby, mustering +cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. "I'm not at +my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the +cold, I don't know what would happen." + +He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the +girls to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for +Larcher to do but follow the girls. + +Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he +turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His +glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with +Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and +Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was +reached, as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her +flat; but Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by +automobile than wait and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to +the escort of Larcher, and remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger. + +"That was _the_ Mr. Bagley, was it?" asked Florence, as the three young +people turned into the house. + +"Yes," said Larcher. "I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But +Edna's look was so imperative." + +"I didn't know who he was, then," put in Edna. + +"But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile." + +"Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his +money," said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna. + +"Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and +the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,--men like +that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, coarse-looking +creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him." + +"I trust not," said Larcher; "but he's one of the pushful sort. He +doesn't know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man +anywhere. I'm sorry he turned up at that moment." + +"So am I," said Florence, and added, explanatorily, "you know how ready +my father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider." + +That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days +later, when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great +red roses in a vase on the table. + +"Oh, what beauties!" cried Edna. + +"Mr. Bagley sent them," replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless, +perplexed air. "Father invited him to call." + +"H'm! Why didn't you send them back?" + +"I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And +then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send +flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to +treat flowers badly. _They_ can't help it." + +"Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?" + +"I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father +says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can +understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other +countries." + +"It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners," +said Edna. "But what would you expect of men who consider money-making +the greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be +afflicted with any more visits from Mr. Bagley." + +"I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he +did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise." + +When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first +sent him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from +the introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his +verbal self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying: + +"Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned +out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with +the other man they see much of,--I mean Turl, not you. The more she +loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good +qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to +tolerate Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after +all, to try for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way, +he'll be at his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because +Turl makes no secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing +for Turl is to have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?" + +"Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so +heartily? We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance, +after all." + +"Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right +by just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!" + +"So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best +fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember--" + +"Well, what? What do you remember?" + +"Oh, nothing,--only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and that +sort of thing." + +In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more +appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the +immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that +Turl was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young +man's own story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory +that Bagley, if he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence +of a rival. As Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl +eventually met in the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna +Hill's last recorded talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words +were wasted between them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the +younger man as of no consequence, because lacking the signs of a +money-grabber; and the younger man, having shown a moment's curiosity, +dropped Bagley as beneath interest for possessing those signs. Bagley +tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the advantage of later arrival and +of perfect control of temper. Bagley took his departure, therefore, with +the dry voice and set face of one who has difficulty in holding his +wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. Kenby made a pretext to +accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the design of leaving him in a +better humor. In magnifying his newly discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby +committed the blunder of taking too little account of Turl; and thus +Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence. + +The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the +fire was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take +second place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking +absently out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear +profile of the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her +face, with a softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking +of the clock on the mantel grew very loud. + +Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner. + +"You must not be unhappy." + +She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew +her heart. + +"I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're +doing," he said. + +"If you mean that I seem grave," she replied, with a faint smile, "it's +only my way. I've always been a serious person." + +"But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of +brooding anxiety." + +"How do you know?" she asked, wonderingly. + +"I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have +heard the cause mentioned." There was an odd expression for a moment on +his face, an odd wavering in his voice. + +"Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause." + +"But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to +be, when the cause belongs to the past,--unless there's reason for +self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to +carry the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed +by it. We should put it where it belongs,--behind us. We should sweep +the old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness +the present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too +great a claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You +needn't be unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob +yourself,--you rob others." + +She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: "But you +don't understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past. +It's a matter of--of absence." + +"I think," he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could +not have taken offence, "it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you +do wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to +believe that all is of the past; and then try to forget." + +"How do you know?" she cried, turning pale. + +Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single +twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor. + +"One can see how much you cared for him," was his reply, sadly uttered. + +"Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past? +What makes you say that?" + +"I only--look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more calmly +than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again in +New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your whole +life will be darkened if you don't." + +"Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I +believe I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened +by being true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened! +I'll never give him up! Never!" + +Pain showed on Turl's countenance. "You mustn't doom yourself--you +mustn't waste your life," he protested. + +"Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?" + +He waited a moment; then answered, simply, "I love you." + +The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to +her question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when +she spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality. + +"I belong to the absent--entirely and forever. Nothing can change my +hope; or make me forget or want to forget." + +Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which +he had shown before; but this time it was more poignant. + +"I see I must wait," he said, quietly. + +There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient +laugh, "It will be a long time of waiting." + +He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous +manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed +him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + +Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher, +incidentally to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of +an hour in a gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, +whose name was not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the +stairs, he met the other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just +directed to Larcher's room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer +and outgoer passed each other; but, the servant at that instant lighting +the gas, Turl glanced around for a better look, and encountered the +other's glance at the same time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl +for a scarce perceptible instant, the other for a moment longer. Then +Turl passed out, the servant having run to open the door; and the new +visitor went on up the stairs. + +The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either +bored or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. +But when a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black +clothes appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling. + +"Why, Mr. Bud! This _is_ a pleasant surprise!" + +Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into +heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat +and be comfortable before the fire. "I thought, as you'd gev me your +address, you wouldn't object--" Mr. Bud began with a beaming countenance; +but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. "Say--I met a young man +down-stairs, goin' out." + +"Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young +man, smartly dressed." + +"That's him. What name did you say?" + +"Turl." + +"Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's +funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as +if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But +I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that +same place." + +"We often have that feeling--of precisely the same thing having happened +a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' There's a +scientific theory--" + +"Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm +dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny +thing is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like +you are in this." + +"Well, that's interesting," said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once +seemed to be haunting his footsteps. + +"I've got it!" cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. "D'yuh mind that night you +came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?--and we went up an' +searched my room fur a trace?" + +"And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes." + +"Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, +an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now +down-stairs." + +"Are you sure?" + +"Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' +the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times +him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a +good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, +that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?" + +"Turl--T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?" + +"Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new +lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers +knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that +evening. So what the dickens _was_ he doin' there?" + +"It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been +some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed +to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow--here are some +comic sketches he brought me this afternoon." Larcher got the drawings +from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. "I don't know how good these +are; I haven't examined them yet." + +The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the +name, "F. Turl." + +"Oh, has he signed this lot?" asked Larcher. "I told him he ought to. +Let's see what his signature looks like." He glanced at the corner of the +sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: "By George, I've seen that name!--and +written just like that!" + +"Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'." + +"Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since +I've known him. Where the deuce?" He shut his eyes, and made a strong +effort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at +the signature. "Yes, sir! _Francis_ Turl--that was the name. And who do +you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very +handwriting?" + +"Give it up." + +"Murray Davenport." + +"Yuh don't say." + +"Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me +to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about +a meeting between the two. Now I wonder--was that an old note, and had +the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, +the next day Davenport disappeared." + +"H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway +Davenport was seen goin' into." + +"But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there +was a meeting _after_ Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have +been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur +there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there +in search of Davenport--or for some other purpose connected with him." + +"H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?" + +"Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with +Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet +he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.--And then +his following me about!--Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed him +several times apparently on my track. And when I _did_ make his +acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in +love with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her +father had taken him up. His going there to live looks like another +queer thing." + +"There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I +guess he's wuth studyin'." + +"I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in +chronological order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting +to occur between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place +Murray Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he +shadows the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few +more days he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's +sweetheart lives, and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when +Davenport is mentioned, lets it be assumed that he didn't know the man." + +"And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr. +Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make +out o' all that?" + +"To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and +Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do +_you_ make out of it?" + +"That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl +to the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin' +too big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance. +This Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as +you c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin' +in the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game." + +"You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll +be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course, +where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair +object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me." + +"If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all +you know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her +interest in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp +eyes fur anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to +live, you say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to +study him in. She might find out considerable." + +"That's true," said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna +would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. +But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not +prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He +resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after +first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna. + +"Between you an' the young lady," Mr. Bud went on, "you may discover +enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about +Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They +may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's +confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid +o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had +anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to +knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. +The thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver +up what he knows." + +Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive. +Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man +declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and +finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel +like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town +car, with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had +turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. +His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised +himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal +way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of +suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her +former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence +straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the +instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about. +Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day; +she would send a cab for her, to make sure. + +The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly +impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared. + +"What is it, dear?" were almost her first words. "Why do you look +so serious?" + +"I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom +will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very +delicate matter." + +Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her +wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough +to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had +to be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly +lady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so +the young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who +have lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the +inmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile. + +Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand +before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the +blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an +armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies. + +Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. "Now tell Florence +all about it, from the beginning." + +"Have you told her whom it concerns?" he asked Edna. + +"I haven't told her a word." + +"Well, then, I think she'd better know first"--he turned to +Florence--"that it concerns somebody we met through her--through you, +Miss Kenby. But we think the importance of the matter justifies--" + +"Oh, that's all right," broke in Edna. "He's nothing to Florence. We're +perfectly free to speak of him as we like.--It's about Mr. Turl, dear." + +"Mr. Turl?" There was something eager in Florence's surprise, a more than +expected readiness to hear. + +"Why," said Larcher, struck by her expression, "have _you_ noticed +anything about his conduct--anything odd?" + +"I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made me +think." + +"Things in connection with somebody we know?" queried Larcher. + +"Yes." + +"With--Murray Davenport?" + +"Yes--tell me what you know." Florence's eyes were poignantly intent. + +Larcher made rapid work of his story, in impatience for hers. His +relation deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, in +suppressed excitement: + +"With all those circumstances--there can be no doubt he knows something. +And two things I can add. He spoke once as if he had seen me in the +past;--I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange is, I +don't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the other +thing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back"--her +voice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: "He _must_ know something +about the disappearance. What could he have had to do with Murray?" + +Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud--without credit to +that gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turl +might still be in Davenport's confidence. "For all we know," said +Larcher, "it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with us +through Turl. Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed about +our welfare. In some way or other he may be acting for Davenport, +secretly, of course." + +Florence slowly shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. + +"Why not?" asked Edna, quickly, with a searching look. "Has he been +making love to you?" + +Florence blushed. "I can hardly put it as positively as that," she +answered, reluctantly. + +"He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen in +love," suggested Larcher. + +"Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of," put in +Edna. "But if he did that--if he was in Davenport's confidence, and yet +spoke of love, or showed it--he was false to Davenport. And so in any +case he's got to give an account of himself." + +"How are we to make him do it?" asked Larcher. + +Edna, by a glance, passed the question on to Florence. + +"We must go cautiously," Florence said, gazing into the fire. "We don't +know what occurred between him and Murray. He may have been for Murray; +or he may have been against him. They may have acted together in bringing +about his--departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for his +own purposes. We must draw the truth from him--we must have him where +he can't elude us." + +Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacability +toward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part toward +Davenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to stand +in her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised. + +"You mean that we should force matters?--not wait and watch for other +circumstances to come out?" queried Larcher. + +"I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with what +we already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantage +against him--first make sure to have him alone with us three, and then +suddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'll +startle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary--I'll put the +worst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him to +tell all in self-defence." Florence was scarlet with suppressed energy +of purpose. + +"The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us," said +Larcher, yielding at once to her initiative. + +"As soon as possible," replied Florence, falling into thought. + +"We might send for him to call here," suggested Edna, who found the +situation as exciting as a play. "But then Aunt Clara would be in the +way. I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come to +your rooms, and you invite him there." + +Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to invite +another to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on this +occasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough at +best, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before he +could be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief. + +"Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairs +who always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms to +ourselves--and Mr. Turl. I'll see to it that he comes. I'll go home now, +and give orders requesting him to call. But you two must be there when he +arrives. Come to dinner--or come back with me now. You will stay all +night, Edna." + +After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompany +Florence home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. +This arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to Aunt +Clara and go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for the +afternoon. As Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, +nervously: "It's quite thrilling, isn't it?" He faced the blizzard again +with a feeling that the anticipatory thrill of the coming evening's +business was anything but pleasant. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + +The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive than +those to which the ordinary residents of boarding-houses are subject. +Father and daughter had their meals served in their own principal room, +the one with the large fireplace, the piano, the big red easy chairs, and +the great window looking across the back gardens to the Gothic church. +The small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby. +Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above. + +The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when +Mr. Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had +confided to the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the +shape of claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in +from a restaurant at eleven o'clock. + +"So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three +hours," said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together. + +"How excited you are, dear!" was the reply. "You're almost shaking." + +"No, I'm not--it's from the cold." + +"Why, I don't think it's cold here." + +"It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see +the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!" She gazed out at the +whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between +the furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the +pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the +gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and +shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever +augmented by the myriad rushing particles. + +Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was +already seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall. + +"It's Tom," cried Edna. "Good boy!--ahead of time." But the negro man +servant announced Mr. Bagley. + +A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. "Tell him my father is +not here--is spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence." + +"Mr. Bagley!--he _must_ be devoted, to call on such a night!" remarked +Edna, when the servant had gone. + +"He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations--he's forever +wanting us to go to the theatre--or on his automobile--or to dine at +Delmonico's--or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals don't +discourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to give +us some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father sometimes +accepts--for himself." + +Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentleman +wished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenby +for her father. + +"Very well," she sighed. "Show him in." + +"If he threatens to stay two minutes, I'll see what I can do to make it +chilly," volunteered Edna. + +Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted and +undauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on Miss +Kenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he took +somewhat aback by barely noticing at all. + +He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voice +about the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed a +mind for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read an +evening paper. + +She had not. + +"I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, in +spite of the blizzard," said Mr. Bagley. "I s'pose he wasn't going to +take any chances of losing his heiress." + +Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could not +keep silent. + +"Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of her +title--poor thing!" + +"Oh, you mustn't say that," interposed Florence, gently. "Perhaps they +love each other." + +"Titled Europeans don't marry American girls for love," said Edna. +"Haven't you been abroad enough to find out that? Or if they ever do, +they keep that motive a secret. You ought to hear them talk, over there. +They can't conceive of an American girl being married for anything _but_ +money. It's quite the proper thing to marry one for that, but very bad +form to marry one for love." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling to +Edna's knowledge, "they've got to admit that our girls are a very +charming, superior lot--with a few exceptions." His look placed Miss +Kenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else. + +"Have they, really?" retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. "I know +some of them admit it,--and what they say and write is published and +quoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written in +Europe about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresay +that's the reason of your one-sided impression." + +Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for the +approval of Miss Kenby: + +"Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if they +don't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, and +cleverest, they're a long way off the truth, that's all." + +"I'd like to know what you mean by _the_ American girl. There are all +sorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations: +pretty girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girls +and silly ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've got +a larger proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any other +country. But then we make up for that by so many of us having frightful +_ya-ya_ voices and raw pronunciations. As for our wonderful cleverness, +we have the assurance to talk about things we know nothing of, in such a +way as to deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nations +haven't, and that's the chief difference." + +Bagley looked as if he knew not exactly where he stood in the argument, +or exactly what the argument was about; but he returned to the business +of impressing Florence. + +"Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothing +of. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question which +nation had the most beautiful and sensible women." + +Florence winced at the crude directness. "You are too kind," she said, +perfunctorily. + +"As for me," he went on, "I've got my opinion of these European gentlemen +that marry for money." + +"We all have, in this country, I hope," said Edna; "except, possibly, the +few silly women that become the victims." + +"I should be perfectly willing," pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watching +for the effect on Florence, "to marry a girl without a cent." + +"And no doubt perfectly able to afford it," remarked Edna, serenely. + +He missed the point, and saw a compliment instead. + +"Well, you're not so far out of the way there, if I do say it myself," he +replied, with a stony smile. "I've had my share of good luck. Since the +tide turned in my affairs, some years ago, I've been a steady winner. +Somehow or other, nothing seems able to fail that I go into. It's really +been monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousand +dollars that a trusted agent absconded with." + +"You're mistaken," Florence broke in, with a note of indignation that +made Bagley stare. "He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and your +money may be gone for the present. But there was no crime on his part." + +"Why, do you know anything about it?" asked Bagley, in a voice subdued by +sheer wonder. + +"I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers said +about your money; that is all." + +"Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? I +inquire merely for information." Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he could +be in his manner of inquiry. + +"I _know_ Murray Davenport," was her reply. + +"You knew him well?" + +"Very well." + +"You--took a great interest in him?" + +"Very great." + +"Indeed!" said Bagley, in pure surprise, and gazing at her as if she +were a puzzle. + +"You said you had a message for my father," replied Florence, coldly. + +Bagley rose slowly. "Oh, yes,"--he spoke very dryly and looked very +blank,--"please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I wish +you and he would go sleighing to-morrow. I'll call at half-past two." + +"Thank you; I'll tell him." + +Bagley summoned up as natural a "good night" as possible, and went. As he +emerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any one +who had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of the +blank expression with which he had left the room. "She gave me the dead +freeze-out," he muttered. "The dead freeze-out! So she knew Davenport! +and cared for the poverty-stricken dog, too!" + +Startled by a ring at the door-bell, Bagley turned into the common +drawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heard +Larcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed by +the two girls. He paced the drawing-room floor, with a wrathful frown; +then sat down and meditated. + +"Well, if he ever does come back to New York, I won't do a thing to him!" +was the conclusion of his meditations, after some minutes. + +Some one came down the stairs, and walked back toward the Kenby rooms. +Bagley strode to the drawing-room door, and peered through the hall, in +time to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knocked +at the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed it +after him. + +"That young dude Turl," mused Bagley, with scorn. "But she won't freeze +him out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, compared +to what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own at +a time!--and now this light-weight!--compared with _me_ I--I'd give +thirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get." + +Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, the +characteristics of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill. + +"And did you notice," said that young lady, in conclusion, "how he simply +couldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? Because +Davenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of the +Bagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance of +having their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to see +impecunious Davenports--and Larchers--preferred to them." + +"Thank you," said Larcher. "I didn't know you were so observant. But +it's easy to imagine the reasoning of the money-grinders in such cases. +The satisfaction of money-greed is to them the highest aim in life; so +what can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent of +that aim? They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest of +society, though most people court and flatter them on account of their +money. They never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be a +money-grinder and good company at the same time." + +"Why is it?" asked Florence. + +"Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has to +neglect so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But even +before that, the very nature that made him choose money-getting as the +chief end of man was incapable of the finer qualities. There _are_ +charming rich men, but either they inherited their wealth, or made it in +some high pursuit to which gain was only an incident, or they are +exceptional cases. But of course Bagley isn't even a fair type of the +regular money-grinder--he's a speculator in anything, and a boor compared +with even the average financial operator." + +This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young people +while they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock neared +the appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher found +himself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as she +sat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up a +request to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and had +promptly received the desired answer. + +In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was able +to break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard in +the hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose and +opened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile. + +Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting of +Larcher and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairs +near the fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so far +toward a recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, when +the others had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them and +the piano. Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcher +faced him from the other side of the fireplace. + +The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, with +a remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, with +her eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely: + +"I asked you here to speak of something else--a matter we are all +interested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want to +know--we all want to know--what has become of Murray Davenport." + +Turl's face blenched ever so little, but he made no other sign of being +startled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry; +then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but +finally returned to hers. + +"Why do you ask me?" he said, quietly. "What have I to do with Murray +Davenport?" + +Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically: + +"You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for +one thing." + +"Oh, was I?" + +"Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was +about a meeting you were to have with him." + +Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack. + +"We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we +do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in +New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about +the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use +in your denying that you had some part in his affairs." + +She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with +a thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on: + +"We don't say--yet--whether that part was friendly, +indifferent,--or evil." + +The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift +though quiet answer: + +"It wasn't evil, I give you my word." + +"Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?" said +Larcher, quickly. + +"I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have +been clever--or I have been stupid.--I'm sorry Davenport showed you +my letter." + +"Then, as your part was not evil," pursued Florence, with ill-repressed +eagerness, "you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?" + +"Pardon me, but I do object. I have strong reasons. You must excuse me." + +"We will not excuse you!" cried Florence. "We have the right to +know--the right of friend-ship--the right of love. I insist. I will not +take a refusal." + +Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him, +Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. A +brief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace the +floor, for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape from +the room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to his +passage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind. +He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, at +last, his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spoke +in a tone less than ordinarily conciliating: + +"I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no way +accountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I have +nothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again; +he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance there +was nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. There +is no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as he +desired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear,--and +that no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Let +him rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future." + +To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst of +passionate menace: + +"I _will_ know! I'll resort to anything, everything, to make you speak. +As yet we've kept our evidence to ourselves; but if you compel us, we +shall know what to do with it." + +Turl let a frown of vexation appear. "I admit, that would put me out. +It's a thing I would go far to avoid. Not that I fear the law; but to +make matters public would spoil much. And I wouldn't make them public, +except in self-defence if the very worst threatened me. I don't think +that contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof is +to be feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make me +speak. Be reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what Murray +Davenport himself desired above all things." + +"Who authorized you to tell _me_ what Murray Davenport desired? He would +have desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off with a +quiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force you to +speak. You admit you would go far to avoid the test." + +"That's because I shouldn't like to be involved in a raking over of the +affairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I do +admit. The man is best forgotten." + +"I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold you +answerable to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way +to bring you to account!" + +Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver +to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened: + +"In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know? +If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you. It will +end her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows." + +"She will grow out of that feeling," said Turl, still watching her +compassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain her +composure. + +"No, she won't!" put in Edna Hill, warmly. "You don't know her. I must +say, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse to +divulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she's +been undergoing for months, is too much for me!" + +Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed her +eyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him. + +"If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request," said he, "you +wouldn't make it." + +"It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, is +to me," said Florence, in a broken voice. + +"It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closest +secret. You don't know how earnestly he wished that." + +"Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through _my_ knowledge of +any secret," Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl was +again visibly moved. "But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart, +he would not have had this secret from me. And to think!--he disappeared +the very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now you +would keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learned +too well that fate is pitiless; and I find that men are no less so." + +Turl's face was a study, showing the play of various reflections. Finally +his ideas seemed to be resolved. "Are we likely to be interrupted here?" +he asked, in a tone of surrender. + +"No; I have guarded against that," said Florence, eagerly. + +"Then I'll tell you Davenport's story. But you must be patient, and let +me tell it in my own way, and you must promise--all three--never to +reveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and great +reason for keeping it secret." + +On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken a +moment's preliminary thought, began his account. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +A STRANGE DESIGN + +"Perhaps," said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, "you know already +what was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediately +before his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall on +enterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, either +inseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that his +affairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he played +the merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for the +profit, of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect, +equivalent to the thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunities +in the theatrical market, with people not above the superstitions of +their guild; also it produced in him a discouragement, a +self-depreciation, which kept the quality of his work down to the level +of hopeless hackery. For yielding to this influence; for stooping, in his +necessity, to the service of Bagley, who had wronged him; for failing to +find a way out of the slough of mediocre production, poor pay, and +company inferior to him in mind, he began to detest himself. + +"He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helped +measuring his taste and intellect with those of average people, and he +had valued himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him to +think well of himself. On his trip to Europe he had met--I needn't say +more; but to have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable was +bound to elevate him in his own esteem. This event in his life had roused +his ambition and filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, or +rather had braced him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputed +bad luck. You can imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause of +hope, the reason for striving, was--as he believed--withdrawn from him. +He assumed that this calamity was due to your having learned about the +supposed shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. And +while he did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time found +cause in himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must be +worthless and undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope that +went with you, was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, he +had ever apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fancied +ill-luck, and his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colors +than ever before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded on +them. And so he got into the state I just now described. + +"He was dejected, embittered, wearied; sick of his way of livelihood, +sick of the atmosphere he moved in, sick of his reflections, sick of +himself. Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. His +self-loathing, which steadily grew, would have become a maddening torture +if he hadn't found refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved this +by an outburst of bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood found +anybody at hand for his confidences. But for the most part he lived in a +lethargic indifference, mechanically going through the form of earning +his living. + +"You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. It +may have been partly because he lacked the instinct--or perhaps the +initiative--for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at the +expense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause, +which of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said--or given the +impression--that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worth +having out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for the +not-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reserve +somewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it. + +"That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though its +existence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea which +he had conceived,--he no longer knew when, nor in what mental +circumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave of +things for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth by +association. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden new +attractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grown +to look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and develop +it. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the time +of Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a region +of his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath his +languid, uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he had +adopted as a design of action for himself to realize,--perfecting it to +the smallest incidental detail. + +"This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or less +capable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believe +that a thing is true--except where the physical condition is concerned, +or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct--he can give +himself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from its +really being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves believe +that the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted man is +Orlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we make +ourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We _know_ these +make-believes are not realities, but we _feel_ that they are; we have the +sensations that would be effected by their reality. Now this +self-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how children +content themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift, +or a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A man +will tell a false tale of some exploit or experience of his youth until, +after years, he can't for his life swear whether it really occurred or +not. Many people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories, +and come finally to believe them. Even where the _knowing_ part of the +mind doesn't grant belief, the imagining part--and through it the feeling +part--does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the effect +of a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition--on +one's life, in short--may be much the same as that of actuality. All +depends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe is +supported. + +"Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; not +only that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, as +that man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel and +act, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in time +sufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes, +he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mind +he should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of his +imagination and feeling would in time be so potent that the man he coldly +_knew_ himself to be--the actual Murray Davenport--would be the stranger, +while the man he _felt_ himself to be would be his more intimate self. +Needless to say, this new self would be a very different man from the old +Murray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from the old self, the +old recollections, the old environment, and all the old adverse +circumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time when +you, Larcher, were working with him. + +"He imagined a man such as would be produced by the happiest conditions; +one of those fortunate fellows who seem destined for easy, pleasant paths +all their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all the +cheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenport +believed that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by the +name or suspicion of ill-luck. + +"I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this new +personality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite the +history he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he made +it as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. One +circumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwing +over his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all the +surroundings with which it had been closely intimate,--not cities and +public resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, but +rooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the old +identity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have made +many acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in the +places where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some of +these people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shifting +life, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanent +claim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places which +Davenport had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollections +of, but would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of a +too definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about old +friends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginning +to have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lasting +associations and friendships could be formed, and these could be +cherished as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time a +good number could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on. + +"But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for the +new self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man should +find himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter, +a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefully +cultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough to +avoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far and +still be in hourly risk of running against one of the old Murray +Davenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to the +constant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport by +himself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glass +window, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt at +mental transformation with the reminder of his physical identity. +Even if he could avoid being confronted many times a day by the +reflected face of Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually brought +back to his inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of the +face on the glances of other people,--for you know that different faces +evoke different looks from observers, and the look that one man is +accustomed to meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not precisely +the same as that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to the +point, Murray Davenport saw that to make his change of identity really +successful, to avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, to +make himself another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all the +more so in his own through finding himself so in the world's, he must +transform himself physically--in face and figure--beyond the recognition +of his closest friend--beyond the recognition even of himself. How was it +to be done? + +"Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problem +as if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see. + +"In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished by +the touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort of +fairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real life +there have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dual +identity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts from +one to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor is +such a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenport +wasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if he +had been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, or +ensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise of +imagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in those +cases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change in +facial expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such as +Davenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to work +the mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He must +resort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, the +magic of witches, and the drugs of romance,--he must employ Science and +the physical means it afforded. + +"Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had never +arrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interest +in them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. His +general reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curious +odds and ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employed +by criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition: +not merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removing +beards, changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening or +thinning the face by dietary means,--devices that won't fool a close +acquaintance for half a minute,--not merely these, but the practice of +tampering with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alter +the very hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certain +muscle, the cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over the +wound, makes a very great alteration of outward effect. The result of +this operation, however, is not an improvement in looks, and as +Davenport's object was to fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance, +he could not resort to it without modifications, and, besides that, he +meant to achieve a far more thorough transformation than it would +produce. But the knowledge of this operation was something to start with. +It was partly to combat such devices of criminals, that Bertillon +invented his celebrated system of identification by measurements. A +slight study of that system gave Davenport valuable hints. He was +reminded by Bertillon's own words, of what he already knew, that the skin +of the face--the entire skin of three layers, that is, not merely the +outside covering--may be compared to a curtain, and the underlying +muscles to the cords by which it is drawn aside. The constant drawing of +these cords, you know, produces in time the facial wrinkles, always +perpendicular to the muscles causing them. If you sever a number of these +cords, you alter the entire drape of the curtain. It was for Davenport to +learn what severances would produce, not the disagreeable effect of the +operation known to criminals, but a result altogether pleasing. He was to +discover and perform a whole complex set of operations instead of the +single operation of the criminals; and each operation must be of a +delicacy that would ensure the desired general effect of all. And this +would be but a small part of his task. + +"He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formed +noses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call +'plastic surgery,' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery.' From the 'beauty +shops,' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changing +his nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminating +the hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as to +produce perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came the +hint of cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks,--a detail that fell +in admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimples +would be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. What +are commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made to +serve the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face where +such furrows would aid his plan,--at the ends of his lips, for +instance, where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth could +be imitated by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirth +form in good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free from +wrinkles, perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had taken +refuge in. It was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say in +regard to make-up. + +"But changing the general shape of the face--the general drape of the +curtain--and the form of the prominent features, would not begin to +suffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hair +arrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, the +complexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hair +rather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of the +head and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead was +usually concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, and +having it cut in a new fashion, he could materially change the +appearance of his forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, he +could do as much for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If the +forehead needed still more change, the line of implantation could be +altered by removing hairs with tweezers; and the same painful but +possible means must be used to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. By +removing hairs from the tops of the ends, and from the bottom of the +middle, he would be able to raise the arch of each eyebrow noticeably. +This removal, along with the clearing of hair from the forehead, and +thinning the eyelashes by plucking out, would contribute to another +desirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what are commonly called gray. In +the course of his study of Bertillon, he came upon the reminder that--to +use the Frenchman's own words--'the gray eye of the average person is +generally only a blue one with a more or less yellowish tinge, which +appears gray solely on account of the shadow cast by the eyebrows, etc.' +Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, and the clearing of the +forehead of its hanging locks, must considerably decrease that shadow. +The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes would be helped by +something else, which I shall come to later. The use of the tweezers on +the eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, 'no part of +the face contributes a more important share to the general expression of +the physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow.' The complexion +would be easy to deal with. His way of life--midnight hours, +abstemiousness, languid habits--had produced bloodless cheeks. A summary +dosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a reformation of +diet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, air, proper +food, and rational living would not only preserve but intensify. + +"But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, would +not do. As long as his bodily form, walk, attitude, carriage of the head, +remained the same, so would his general appearance at a distance or when +seen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against the +disillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected in +some distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by some +former acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might be +endangered, if some particularly curious and discerning person should go +in for solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenport +in a man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, and +so forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto he +had leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of the +strongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give him +tightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame, +alter the swing of his arms, and entail--without effort on his part--a +change in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way of +placing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequent +throwing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration, +too: it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequently +further affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticed +the great difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward or +thrown back,--as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accounts +for the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they're +taken of,--a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to get +a stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their faces +slightly averted. + +"You understand, of course, that only his entire _appearance_ would have +to be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be unable to +recognize him, even vaguely as resembling some one they couldn't 'place.' +But there was, of course, no anthropometric record of him in existence, +such as is taken of criminals to ensure their identification by the +Bertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected without +the least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to his +hands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the body +make on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts to +identify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible. +Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and that +rather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity to +the observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borne +out by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decided +that his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degeneration +of the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the new +character he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taught +in most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a little +care and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small he +could soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to go +carefully until habituated to the new style, with which he might defy +even the handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man who +would disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that of +an uneducated person. + +"There would still remain the voice to be made over,--quite as important +a matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict an +identification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkable +resemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail to +notice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-way +knowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music and +elocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll come +to that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operations +which he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightest +beginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete and +every facility offered. That was not till the last night you saw him, +Larcher,--the night before his disappearance. + +"For operations so delicate, meant to be so lasting in their effect, so +important to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity of +a perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not erase +errors, or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub out +misplaced lines and try again, as an actor can in 'making up.' He had +learned a good deal about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contact +with the stage. His plan was to use first the materials employed by +actors, until he should succeed in producing a countenance to his +liking; and then, by surgical means, to make real and permanent the sham +and transient effects of paint-stick and pencil. He would violently +compel nature to register the disguise and maintain it. + +"He was favored in one essential matter--that of a place in which to +perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at +leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would +spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock +himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and +remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would +probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more +under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort, +in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat, +water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited +solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a +living soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. He +couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigations +would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by the +intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed to +you, Larcher,--one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to the +old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for his +design,--that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on the +water-front. + +"He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his +permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his +absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept +away in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--and +you, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you +two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that +access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been +there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it +wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport +could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing +whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need +only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr. +Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that +the shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old +man busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was +now all ready to put his design into execution." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + +"On the very afternoon," Turl went on, "before the day when Davenport +could have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order to +confide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence, +and, rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport went +and received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot of +money, in bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placed +the next day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather in +passively letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as to +whether he would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that evening +of anything but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on the +morrow. As not an hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessary +for the healing of the operations, he would either have to despatch +Bagley's business very quickly or neglect it altogether. In the latter +case, what about the money in his hands? The sum was nearly equal to +that which Bagley had morally defrauded him of. + +"This coincidence, coming at that moment, seemed like the work of fate. +Bagley was to be absent from town a week, and Murray Davenport was about +to undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. It +really appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poetic +justice; had deliberately planned a restitution; had determined to +befriend the new man as it had afflicted the old. For the new man would +have to begin existence with a very small cash balance, unless he +accepted this donation from chance. If there were any wrong in accepting +it, that wrong would not be the new man's; it would be the bygone Murray +Davenport's; but Murray Davenport was morally entitled to that much--and +more--of Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach of +trust; but Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and common +humanity. Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred times +more than this sum now represented to Bagley. + +"Well, Davenport was pondering this on his way home from Bagley's rooms, +when he met Larcher. Partly a kind feeling toward a friend he was about +to lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting the +question of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made him +invite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrived +to introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteer +on the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. As +for your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and your +eventual inferences if he should disappear without using it for Bagley, +the fact would come out anyhow as soon as Bagley returned to New York. +And whatever you would think, either in condemnation or justification, +would be thought of the old Murray Davenport. It wouldn't matter to the +new man. During that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse of +communicativeness--such a desire for a moment's relief from his +long-maintained secrecy--that he was on the verge of confiding his +project to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; and +you had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations. + +"He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as few +belongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides the +Bagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result of +his collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a few +instruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set of +shaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought the +day before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to their +fate. He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn't +help feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a new +tenant accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act. + +"He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines of +tonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healing +preparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel. +His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed as +for travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward, +whereas a trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put out +of sight. Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put into +wrapping-paper. His second visit was to a department store, where he got +the linen and other articles he would need during his seclusion,--sheets, +towels, handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. He +provided himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear in +immediately after his transformation, until he could be supplied by +regular tailors, haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes, +everything,--particularly shoulder braces; he put those on when he came +to be fitted with the suit and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the old +Davenport's was to emerge with the new man. + +"Well, he left his purchases to be called for. His paper parcel, +containing the instruments, drugs, and so forth, he thought best to +cling to. From the department store he went to some other shops in the +neighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in his +pockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of the +money again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing the +funds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the bills +themselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His next +important call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He had +got up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large part +of the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that he +was buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcels +here made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he went +out, hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and was +driven to the department store. The things he had bought there were put +on the cab seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, and +had his parcels from there stowed inside the cab, which they almost +filled up. But he managed to make room for himself, and ordered the man +to drive to and along South Street until told to stop. It was now quite +dark, and he thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory of +the exact place if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by being +mentioned and looked for. + +"However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, when +Mr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no great +interest in the locality,--it was a cold night, and he was doubtless +thinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying his +parcels into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying the +cabman. As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving his +things up to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the door +locked, and the gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eye +fell on Bagley's money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to use +it as Bagley had ordered. Davenport wondered what he would do with it, +but postponed the problem; he thrust the package of bills out of view, +behind the books on Mr. Bud's shelf, and turned to the business he had +come for. No one had seen him take possession of the room; no eye but +the cabman's had followed him to the hallway below, and the cabman would +probably think he was merely housing his goods there till he should go +aboard some vessel in the morning. + +"A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It was +the healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room was +well enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused the +gas-stove to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep the +coal-stove in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too great +a problem. As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its light +couldn't reach the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield for +the keyhole. For water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to a +bath-room, of which Mr. Bud kept a key hung up in his own apartment. +During his secret residence in the house, Davenport visited the bath-room +only at night, taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had first +been puzzled by the laundry problem, but it proved very simple. His +costume during his time of concealment was limited to pajamas and +slippers. Of handkerchiefs he had provided a large stock. When the towels +and other articles did require laundering, he managed it in a wash-basin. +On the first night, he only unpacked and arranged his things, and slept. +At daylight he sat down before a mirror, and began to design his new +physiognomy with the make-up pencils. By noon he was ready to lay aside +the pencils and substitute instruments of more lasting effect. Don't +fear, Miss Hill, that I'm going to describe his operations in detail. +I'll pass them over entirely, merely saying that after two days of work +he was elated with the results he could already foresee upon the healing +of the cuts. Such pain as there was, he had braced himself to endure. The +worst of it came when he exchanged knives for tweezers, and attacked his +eyebrows. This was really a tedious business, and he was glad to find +that he could produce a sufficient increase of curve without going the +full length of his design. In his necessary intervals of rest, he +practised the new handwriting. He was most regular in his diet, sleep, +and use of medicines. After a few days, he had nothing left to do, as far +as the facial operations were concerned, but attend to their healing. He +then began to wear the shoulder-braces, and took up the matter of voice. + +"But meanwhile, in the midst of his work one day,--his second day of +concealment, it was,--he had a little experience that produced quite as +disturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he came +across the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in the +afternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, as +usual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in and +out. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by a +knock. He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fear +the knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heard +again, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them as +yours, Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days that +they might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned. +Later, in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many little +alarms at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as people +went to and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after he +had begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he made +was low, it might have been audible to a person just outside his door. +But he kept his ear alert, and the voice-practice was shut off at the +slightest intimation of a step on the stairs. + +"The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard many +feet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If it +had been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuous +sort of growl, difficult to place or identify. + +"You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than their +possessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of American +voices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, we +speak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middle +notes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice is +naturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases is +to glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had done +this. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading verse +aloud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in the +slang phrase, 'all there.' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way of +bringing the lower voice into predominance; of making it become the +habitual voice, to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one can +do this in time by studied practice, but the constant watchfulness is +irksome and may lapse at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and for +all, so that the quick unconscious response to the mind's order to speak +would be from the lower voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud's +dictionary, opened it at U, and recited one after another all the words +beginning with that letter as pronounced in 'under.' This he did through +the whole list, again and again, hour after hour, monotonously, in the +lower register of his voice. He went through this practice every day, +with the result that his deeper notes were brought into such activity as +to make them supplant the higher voice entirely. Pronunciation has +something to do with voice effect, and, besides, his complete +transformation required some change in that on its own account. This was +easy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of imitating dialects, +foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier in life he had +naturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, which is +somewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in his +association with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed into +the slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only to +return to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as in +other details of the well-ordered life his new self was to lead. + +"As I said, he was provided with shaving materials. But he couldn't cut +his own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in the +old fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the end +of that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could do +about it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longest +locks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After the +first two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention each +day. His vocal and handwriting exercises weren't to be carried to excess, +and so he had a good deal of time on his hands. Some of this, after his +face was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise, +using chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenic +implements. He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave the +utmost care to their composition from the preserved foods at his +disposal. He slept from nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed no +artificial light. For pure air, he kept a window open all night, being +well wrapped up, but in the daytime he didn't risk leaving open more than +the cracks above and below the sashes, for fear some observant person +might suspect a lodger in the room. Sometimes he read, renewing an +acquaintance which the new man he was beginning to be must naturally have +made, in earlier days, with Scott's novels. He had necessarily designed +that the new man should possess the same literature and general knowledge +as the bygone Davenport had possessed. For already, as soon as the +general effect of the operations began to emerge from bandages and +temporary discoloration, he had begun to consider Davenport as +bygone,--as a man who had come to that place one evening, remained a +brief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving behind him his clothes and +sundry useful property which he, the new man who found himself there, +might use without fear of objection from the former owner. + +"The sense of new identity came with perfect ease at the first bidding. +It was not marred by such evidences of the old fact as still remained. +These were obliterated one by one. At last the healing was complete; +there was nothing to do but remove all traces of anybody's presence in +the room during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of a +barber. The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove, +starting it with the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feeding +it first with Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and other +inflammable things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He made +one large bundle of the shoes, cans, jars, surgical instruments, +everything that couldn't be easily burnt, and wrapped them in a sheet, +along with the dead ashes of the conflagration in the stove. He then made +up Mr. Bud's bed, restored the room to its original appearance in every +respect, and waited for night. As soon as access to the bath-room was +safe, he made his final toilet, as far as that house was concerned, and +put on his new clothes for the first time. About three o'clock in the +morning, when the street was entirely deserted, he lugged his +bundle--containing the unburnable things--down the stairs and across the +street, and dropped it into the river. Even if the things were ever +found, they were such as might come from a vessel, and wouldn't point +either to Murray Davenport or to Mr. Bud's room. + +"He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his new +sensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a market +restaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop--one of those that +open in time for early-rising customers--and had his hair cut in the +desired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought a +supply of linen and so forth, with a trunk and hand-bag, so that he could +'arrive' properly at a hotel. He did arrive at one, in a cab, with bag +and baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, he +called at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, he +recalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind the +books on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, but +in any case it oughtn't to remain where it was; so he went back to Mr. +Bud's room, entering the house unnoticed. + +"He took the money from the cover it was in, and put it in an inside +pocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effects +of this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quite +irresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhile +before going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, was +only increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked very +tempting. To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down on +the bed, with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed. + +"He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, and +the lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on the +floor and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; he +then sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed down +the cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left the +room for the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to the +foot of the stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One of +them happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had already +seen their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked his +stars for the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Bud +and Larcher." + +Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florence +and Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was now +complete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have to +make, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeed +was Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder shared +with him, could not be guessed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + +The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often +than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no +great stupidity in her remark to Turl: + +"But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that +hallway one night, but it turned out to be you." + +"Yes, it was I," was the quiet answer. "The name of the new man, you see, +was Francis Turl." + +As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a +certain doubt: "But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you +before he--before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the night +before he disappeared--it was signed Francis Turl." + +Turl smiled. "Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's +character. He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character +he had constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun +practical experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some +of that practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could +better mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than +letters between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief +acquaintance, which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray +Davenport's affairs ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This +has already happened in the matter of the money, for example. The name, +too, was selected long before the disappearance. That explains the +letter you saw. I didn't dare tell this earlier in the story,--I feared +to reveal too suddenly what had become of Murray Davenport. It was best +to break it as I have, was it not?" + +He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an +involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something +almost like repulsion. + +"It's so strange," she said, in a hushed voice. "I can't believe it. I +don't know what to think." + +Turl sighed patiently. "You can understand now why I didn't want to tell. +Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,--to +interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to +perfect it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it, +of course. I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll +support the illusion." + +"Of course," replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead +to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind +was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered +aversion in her look. + +"I had meant to leave New York," he went on, watching her with cautious +anxiety, "in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the +friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the +street that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell +into a strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about +Davenport. This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the +disappearance, so I was pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. +Also, I wondered whether he would detect any trace of my long occupancy +of his room. I found I'd forgot to bring out the cover taken from the +bankbills. Suppose that were seen, and you recognized it, what theories +would you form? For the sake of my purpose I ought to have put curiosity +aside, but it was too keen; I resolved to gratify it this one time only. +The hallway was perfectly dark, and all I had to do was to wait there +till you and Mr. Bud should come out. I knew he would accompany you +down-stairs for a good-night drink in the saloon when you left. The +slightest remark would give me some insight into your general views of +the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came down together. I stood +well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. And you can imagine +what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. Do you remember? +Davenport--it couldn't be anybody else--had disappeared just too soon to +learn that 'the young lady'--so Mr. Bud called her--had been true, after +all! And it broke your heart to have nothing to report when you saw her!" + +"I do remember," said Larcher. Florence's lip quivered. + +"I stood there in the darkness, like a man stunned, for several minutes," +Turl proceeded. "There was so much to make out. Perhaps there had been +something going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I--that +Davenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought out +things that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but the +end of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' was +deeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw her +frequently. + +"I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. Had +I--had Davenport--(the distinction between the two was just then more +difficult to preserve)--mistakenly imagined himself deprived of that +which was of more value than anything else in life? had he--I--in +throwing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyond +recovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of my +soul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's last +crudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could I +remain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfully +carried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering the +happiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! I +couldn't give it up. But the great design--should all that skill and +labor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't be +undone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and the +coveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if the +transformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved at +least. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, there +was no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to the +old unlucky name and history!--it was asking too much! + +"Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile the +alternatives--to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the happiness. +Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should remain, and +should play to win the happiness for himself. I would change my plans +somewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do was to +find you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit of +seeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch the +houses where he called. Knowing where he lived, and his favorite resorts, +I had never any difficulty in getting on his track. In that way, I came +to keep an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himself +in with a door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room I +still occupy, and managed very easily to throw myself in your father's +way. You know the rest, and how through you I met Miss Hill and Larcher. +In this room, also, I have had the--experience--of meeting Mr. Bagley." + +"And what of his money?" asked Florence. + +"That has remained a question. It is still undecided. No doubt a third +person would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, the +creditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But the +creditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather than +thought, was sincere enough in considering the case at least debatable. +As for me, you will say, if I am Francis Turl, I am logically a third +person. Even so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems against +nature. As Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly Murray +Davenport's claims, perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing what +my course would ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim to +certain money was in dispute--that a decision might deprive me of it. I +didn't explain, of course, that the decision would be my own. If the +money goes back to Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. I +made up my mind not to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport had +been; to rely entirely on the one which seemed to promise most. I have to +thank you, Larcher, for having caused me to learn what that was, in my +former iden--in the person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old and +new selves will still overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense of +being Francis Turl as much as you might imagine; and the lapses will +necessarily be fewer and fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fall +back on my ability as an artist in black and white. But my work should be +of a different line from that which Murray Davenport had followed--not +only to prevent recognition of the style, but to accord with my new +outlook--with Francis Turl's outlook--on the world. That is why my work +has dealt with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comic +sketches, and shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decided +against keeping the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming in +soon. What I received--what Davenport received for illustrating your +articles, Larcher, though it made him richer than he had often found +himself, had been pretty well used up incidentally to the transformation +and my subsequent emergence to the world. So I resorted to you to +facilitate my introduction to the market. When I met you here one day, I +expressed a wish that I might run across a copy of the Boydell +Shakespeare Gallery. I knew--it was another piece of my inherited +information from Davenport--that you had that book. In that way I drew an +invitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that began resulted as I +desired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful to you from the +bottom of my heart." + +"The pleasure has been mine, I assure you," replied Larcher, with a +smile. + +"And the profit mine," said Turl. "The check for those first three +sketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn't +been alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me--Francis Turl was +born to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagley +money would unlock a good store of the sweets of life." + +He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found no +answer there--nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how to +regard him, how to place him in her heart. + +"But the matter of livelihood, or the question of the money," he resumed, +humbly and patiently, "wasn't what gave me most concern. You will +understand now--Florence"--his voice faltered as he uttered the +name--"why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said what +I did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway that +night: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. What +had caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I dared +not--as Turl--inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but it +wasn't for me--Turl--to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, now was +that you would forget Davenport--that the way would be free for the +newcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old love, I was +both touched and baffled--touched infinitely at your loyalty to Murray +Davenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis Turl. I should +have thought less of you--loved you less--if you had so soon given up the +unfortunate man who had passed; and yet my dearest hopes depended on your +giving him up. I even urged you to forget him; assured you he would never +reappear, and begged you to set your back to the past. Though your +refusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked you for it--thanked you in +behalf of the old self, the old memories which had again become dear to +me. It was a puzzling situation,--my preferred rival was my former self; +I had set the new self to win you from constancy to the old, and my +happiness lay in doing so; and yet for that constancy I loved you more +than ever, and if you had fallen from it, I should have been wounded +while I was made happy. All the time, however, my will held out against +telling you the secret. I feared the illusion must lose something if it +came short of being absolute reality to any one--even you. I'm afraid I +couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any divulgence that +might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate self. It seemed +better to wait till time should become my ally against my rival in your +heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival--the old +Murray Davenport--was installed there; when I saw how much you +suffered--how much you would still suffer--from uncertainty about his +fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out." + +"It _was_ cruel," said Florence. "I have suffered." + +"Forgive me," he replied. "I didn't fully realize--I was too intent on +my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!--it was more than cruel. +I shall not forgive myself for that, at least." + +She made no answer. + +"And now that you know?" he asked, in a low voice, after a moment. + +"It is so strange," she replied, coldly. "I can't tell what I think. You +are not the same. I can see now that you are he--in spite of all your +skill, I can see that." + +He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back, +saying quickly: + +"And yet you are not he." + +"You are right," said Turl. "And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am +Francis Turl--" + +"And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me," she answered. "Oh, I see +now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost--more lost than ever. Your design +has been all too successful." + +"It was _his_ design, remember," pleaded Turl. "And I am the result of +it--the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. Surely +all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, severed +from the unhappy, and made fortunate." + +"But what was it in him that I loved?" she asked, looking at Turl as if +in search of something missing. + +He could only say: "If you reject me, he is stultified. His plan +contemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you so +far bring disaster on his plan." + +She shook her head, and repeated sadly: "You are not the same." + +"But surely the love I have for you--that is the same--the old love +transmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport survives +in me--and I'm willing that he should." + +Again she vainly asked: "What was it in him that I loved--that I still +love when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray Davenport I +knew, but--" + +"But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if I +wished to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myself +is impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, the +return would be mental only, and even mentally it would never be +complete. You say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it you +loved in him? Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, if +you doom me to unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for my +unhappiness." He smiled despondently. + +"I don't know," she said. "It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or even +by thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It's +so strange as yet. We must wait." She rose, rather weakly, and supported +herself with the back of a chair. "When I'm ready for you to call, I'll +send you a message." + +There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, and +Larcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and rather +embarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to the +company of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once the +effect of comparative speechlessness. + +Out in the hall, when the door of the Kenby suite had closed behind them, +Turl said to Larcher: "You've had a good deal of trouble over Murray +Davenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize for +the trouble,--as his representative, you know,--and thank you for the +kindness." + +"Don't mention either," said Larcher, cordially. "I take it from your +tone," said Turl, smiling, "that my story doesn't alter the friendly +relations between us." + +"Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for the +sake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do for +a conception like yours--so original and bold--to come to failure. Are +you going to turn in now?" + +"Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worth +being out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat." + +He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came face +to face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold--a bulky man +with overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was a +look of vengeful triumph. + +"Just the fellow I was lookin' for," said this person to Turl. "Good +evening, Mr. Murray Davenport! How about my bunch of money?" + +The speaker, of course, was Bagley. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +BAGLEY SHINES OUT + +"I beg pardon," said Turl, coolly, as if he had not heard aright. + +"You needn't try to bluff _me_," said Bagley. "I've been on to your game +for a good while. You can fool some of the people, but you can't fool me. +I'm too old a friend, Murray Davenport." + +"My name is Turl." + +"Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll +just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my +money back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's +left of it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist, +you are. We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like. +We'll see how clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you." + +Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed +perfectly at ease. + +"You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion," he replied. +"Your name, I believe, is Bagley." + +"You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go +through; it's not like your _ill_usion, as you call it--and very ill +you'll be--" + +"How do you know I call it that?" asked Turl, quickly. "I never spoke of +having an illusion, in your presence--or till this evening." + +Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish. + +"You must have been overhearing," added Turl. + +"Well, I don't mind telling you I have been," replied Bagley, with +recovered insolence. + +"It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick +one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole." + +"Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely +I've got the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and +sportsmanlike"--Bagley's eyes gleamed facetiously--"to let you know +before I notify the police. But if you can disappear again before I do +that, it'll be a mighty quick disappearance." + +He started for the hall, to leave the house. + +Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. "You'll have a simple +task proving that I am Murray Davenport." + +"We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation well +enough to convince the authorities." + +"They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous--and +the story is so probable." + +"You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though I +couldn't catch it all. You can make it as probable again." + +"But I sha'n't have to tell it again. As the accused person, I sha'n't +have to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking is +necessary, I shall have a clever lawyer to do it." + +"Well, I can swear to what I heard from your own lips." + +"Through a keyhole? Such a long story? so full of details? Your having +heard it in that manner will add to its credibility, I'm sure." + +"I can swear I recognize you as Murray Davenport." + +"As the accuser, you'll have to support your statement with the testimony +of witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. What +do you suppose they'll swear? His landlady, for instance? Do you think, +Larcher, that Murray Davenport's landlady would swear that I'm he?" + +"I don't think so," said Larcher, smiling. + +"Here's Larcher himself as a witness," said Bagley. + +"I can swear I don't see the slightest resemblance between Mr. Turl and +Murray Davenport," said Larcher. + +"You can swear you _know_ he is Murray Davenport, all the same." + +"And when my lawyer asks him _how_ he knows," said Turl, "he can only +say, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, of +his own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn for +amusement? No." + +"I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of," put +in Larcher, "if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can take +a holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some other +city, if necessary." + +"There are others,--the ladies in there, who heard the story," said +Bagley, lightly. + +"One of them didn't know Murray Davenport," said Turl, "and the other--I +should be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of the +witness-stand on my account. I hardly think you would subject her to it, +Mr. Bagley,--I do you that credit." + +"I don't know about that," said Bagley. "I'll take my chances of showing +you up one way or another, just the same. You _are_ Murray Davenport, +and I know it; that's pretty good material to start with. Your story has +managed to convince _me_, little as I could hear of it; and I'm not +exactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that--" + +"It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of the +traits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that sense +to any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager you +can't tell it so as to convince a lawyer." + +"How much will you wager?" said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spirit +lighting up in him. + +"I merely used the expression," said Turl. "I'm not a betting man." + +"I am," said Bagley. "What'll you bet I can't convince a lawyer?" + +"I'm not a betting man," repeated Turl, "but just for this occasion I +shouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyer +were accessible at this hour." + +He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as a +request to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quite +sure whether he interpreted correctly, Larcher put in: + +"I think there's one to be found not very far from here. I mean Mr. +Barry Tompkins; he passes most of his evenings at a Bohemian resort near +Sixth Avenue. He was slightly acquainted with Murray Davenport, though. +Would that fact militate?" + +"Not at all, as far as I'm concerned," said Turl, taking a bank-bill from +his pocket and handing it to Larcher. + +"I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins," said Bagley. "He'd do all right. But +if he's a friend of Davenport's--" + +"He isn't a friend," corrected Larcher. "He met him once or twice in my +company for a few minutes at a time." + +"But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport's +friend," rejoined Bagley to Larcher. + +"I hadn't thought of that," said Turl. "I only meant I was willing to +undergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you told +the story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be some +other lawyer at the place Larcher speaks of." + +"All right; I'll cover your money quick enough," said Bagley, doing so. +"I guess we'll find a lawyer to suit in that crowd. I know the place +you mean." + +Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. When +he returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. The +snowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; but +the white mass, little trodden in that part of the city since nightfall, +was so thick that the feet sank deep at every step. The labor of walking, +and the cold, kept the party silent till they reached the place where +Larcher had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's first +orders about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door to +enter, the burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast to +the snowy night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway led +them into this scene,--the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talking +people, who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles and +glasses. An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. One +would have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words for +the general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noise +was but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of three +or four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possible +under cover of the general noise. + +Before the three newcomers had finished their survey of the room, +Larcher saw Barry Tompkins signalling, with a raised glass and a grinning +countenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions. + +"Let's go over to him," said Bagley, abruptly. "I see there's room +there." + +Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. The +latter merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeed +leaped suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly not +yet in Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all was +friendly between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why should +Tompkins, supposing he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion, +conceal the fact? + +Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairs +by the time Larcher had threaded a way to him. Larcher, looking around, +saw that Bagley had followed close. He therefore introduced Bagley first; +and then Turl. Tompkins had the same brief, hearty handshake, the same +mirthful grin--as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting were +an occasion for chuckling at it--for both. + +"I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport," remarked Bagley to +Larcher, as soon as all in the party were seated. + +"Certainly," replied Larcher. + +"Then, Mr. Tompkins, you don't seem to live up to your reputation as a +quick-sighted man," said Bagley. + +"I beg pardon?" said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one of +his vanities. + +"Is it possible you don't recognize this gentleman?" asked Bagley, +indicating Turl. "As somebody you've met before, I mean?" + +"Extremely possible," replied Tompkins, with a sudden curtness in his +voice. "I do _not_ recognize this gentleman as anybody I've met before. +But, as I never forget a face, I shall always recognize him in the future +as somebody I've met to-night." Whereat he grinned benignly at Turl, who +acknowledged with a courteous "Thank you." + +"You never forget a face," said Bagley, "and yet you don't remember this +one. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, and +look close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, and +don't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down over +the forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don't +make out your old acquaintance--and my old friend--Murray Davenport." + +Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally--with a +wondering inquiry--at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry. + +"Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious," said he. "He declares I am +the Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks you +ought to be able to identify me as that person." + +"If you gentlemen are working up a joke," replied Tompkins, "I hope I +shall soon begin to see the fun; but if you're not, why then, Mr. Bagley, +I should earnestly advise you to take something for this." + +"Oh, just wait, Mr. Tompkins. You're a well-informed man, I believe. Now +let's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing his +appearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so as +almost to defy recognition?" + +"I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defy +recognition by _me_. So much for your general question. As to this +gentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can only +wonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work." + +Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he said +to Larcher: "I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I was +a bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night." + +"Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduce +you," suggested Turl. + +"You want a lawyer?" said Tompkins. "There are three or four here. Over +there's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, I +suppose,--a well-known criminologist." + +"I should think he'd be the very man for you," said Turl to Bagley. +"Besides being a lawyer, he knows surgery, and he's an authority on the +habits of criminals." + +"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyes +lighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity of +ignorance. + +"I never met him," said Turl. + +"Nor I," said Larcher; "and I don't think Murray Davenport ever did." + +"Then if Mr. Tompkins will introduce Mr. Larcher and me, and come away at +once without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet's +concerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way." + +Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legal +criminologist--a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely gray +hair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression--and, +having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagley +was not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear. + +"Doctor, I've wanted to meet you," he began, "to speak about a remarkable +case that comes right in your line. I'd like to tell you the story, just +as I know it, and get your opinion on it." + +The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness to +hear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he kept +during the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimes +turned penetratingly on Bagley, sometimes dropping idly to the table. + +"There's a young fellow in this town, a friend of mine," Bagley went on, +"of a literary turn of mind, and altogether what you'd call a queer Dick. +He'd got down on his luck, for one reason and another, and was dead sore +on himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took the +most remarkable notion you ever heard of." And Bagley gave what Larcher +had inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the whole +transaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyes +affected the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by they +occasionally sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that those +of Barry Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the careful +heeding of every word, was maintained to the end of the story. + +"And now, sir," said Bagley, triumphantly, "I'd like to ask what you +think of that?" + +The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the last +time his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: "It's +impossible." + +"But I know it to be true!" blurted Bagley. + +"Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way you +describe," said the medico-legal man. "But not such as would insure +against recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciable +length of time." + +"But surely you know what criminals have done to avoid identification?" + +"Better than any other man in New York," said the other, simply, without +any boastfulness. + +"And you know what these facial surgeons do?" + +"Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientific +monograph yet published on the art they profess." + +"And yet you say that what my friend has done is impossible?" + +"What you say he has done is quite impossible. Mr. Tompkins, for +example, whom you cite as having once met your friend and then failed to +recognize him, would recognize him in ten seconds after any +transformation within possibility. If he failed to recognize the man you +take to be your friend transformed, make up your mind the man is +somebody else." + +Bagley drew a deep sigh, curtly thanked the criminologist, and rose, +saying to Larcher: "Well, you better turn over the stakes to your +friend, I guess." + +"You're not going yet, are you?" said Larcher. + +"Yes, sir. I lose this bet; but I'll try my story on the police just the +same. Truth is mighty and will prevail." + +Before Bagley could make his way out, however, Turl, who had been +watching him, managed to get to his side. Larcher, waving a good-night to +Barry Tompkins, followed the two from the room. In the hall, he handed +the stakes to Turl. + +"Oh, yes, you win all right enough," admitted Bagley. "My fun will +come later." + +"I trust you'll see the funny side of it," replied Turl, accompanying him +forth to the snowy street. "You haven't laughed much at the little +foretaste of the incredulity that awaits you." + +"Never you mind. I'll make them believe me, before I'm through." He had +turned toward Sixth Avenue. Turl and Larcher stuck close to him. + +"You'll have them suggesting rest-cures for the mind, and that sort of +thing," said Turl, pleasantly. + +"And the newspapers will be calling you the Great American Identifier," +put in Larcher. + +"There'll be somebody else as the chief identifier," said Bagley, glaring +at Turl. "Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much." + +"Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley." Turl enforced obedience by stepping in +front of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, +while an elevated train rumbled along overhead. "I don't think you +really mean that. I don't think that, as an American, you would really +subject a woman--such a woman--to such an ordeal, to gain so little. +Would you now?" + +"Why shouldn't I?" Despite his defiant look, Bagley had weakened a bit. + +"I can't imagine your doing it. But if you did, my lawyer would have to +make you tell how you had heard this wonderful tale." + +"Through the door. That's easy enough." + +"We could show that the tale couldn't possibly be heard through so thick +a door, except by the most careful attention--at the keyhole. You would +have to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole--at the +keyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, +attempting to answer that question--with the reporters eagerly awaiting +your reply to publish it to the town." + +Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. At +last he growled: + +"If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that money +have you got left?" + +"If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before he +disappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't it +the case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to that +amount from you?" + +Bagley gave a contemptuous grunt; then, suddenly brightening up, he said: +"S'pose Davenport _was_ entitled to it. As you ain't Davenport, why, of +course, you ain't entitled to it. Now what have you got to say?" + +"Merely, that, as you're not Davenport, neither are you entitled to it." + +"But I was only supposin'. I don't admit that Davenport was entitled +to it. Ordinary law's good enough for me. I just wanted to show you +where you stand, you not bein' Davenport, even if he had a right to +that money." + +"Suppose Davenport had given me the money?" + +"Then you'd have to restore it, as it wasn't lawfully his." + +"But you can't prove that I have it, to restore." + +"If I can establish any sort of connection between you and Davenport, I +can cause your affairs to be thoroughly looked into," retorted Bagley. + +"But you can't establish that connection, any more than you can convince +anybody that I'm Murray Davenport." + +Bagley was fiercely silent, taking in a deep breath for the cooling of +his rage. He was a man who saw whole vistas of probability in a moment, +and who was correspondingly quick in making decisions. + +"We're at a deadlock," said he. "You're a clever boy, Dav,--or Turl, I +might as well call you. I know the game's against me, and Turl you shall +be from now on, for all I've ever got to say. I did swear this evening to +make it hot for you, but I'm not as hot myself now as I was at that +moment. I'll give up the idea of causing trouble for you over that money; +but the money itself I must have." + +"Do you need it badly?" asked Turl. + +"_Need_ it!" cried Bagley, scorning the imputation. "Not me! The loss of +it would never touch me. But no man can ever say he's done me out of that +much money, no matter how smart he is. So I'll have that back, if I've +got to spend all the rest of my pile to get it. One way or another, I'll +manage to produce evidence connecting you with Murray Davenport at the +time he disappeared with my cash." + +Turl pondered. Presently he said: "If it were restored to you, +Davenport's moral right to it would still be insisted on. The restoration +would be merely on grounds of expediency." + +"All right," said Bagley. + +"Of course," Turl went on, "Davenport no longer needs it; and certainly +_I_ don't need it." + +"Oh, don't you, on the level?" inquired Bagley, surprised. + +"Certainly not. I can earn a very good income. Fortune smiles on me." + +"I shouldn't mind your holding out a thousand or two of that money when +you pay it over,--say two thousand, as a sort of testimonial of my +regard," said Bagley, good-naturedly. + +"Thank you very much. You mean to be generous; but I couldn't accept +a dollar as a gift, from the man who wouldn't pay Murray Davenport +as a right." + +"Would you accept the two thousand, then, as Murray Davenport's +right,--you being a kind of an heir of his?" + +"I would accept the whole amount in dispute; but under that, not a cent." + +Bagley looked at Turl long and hard; then said, quietly: "I tell you +what I'll do with you. I'll toss up for that money,--the whole amount. If +you win, keep it, and I'll shut up. But if I win, you turn it over and +never let me hear another word about Davenport's right." + +"As I told you before, I'm not a gambling man. And I can't admit that +Davenport's right is open to settlement." + +"Well, at least you'll admit that you and I don't agree about it. You +can't deny there's a difference of opinion between us. If you want to +settle that difference once and for ever, inside of a minute, here's your +chance. It's just cases like this that the dice are good for. There's a +saloon over on that corner. Will you come?" + +"All right," said Turl. And the three strode diagonally across +Sixth Avenue. + +"Gimme a box of dice," said Bagley to the man behind the bar, when they +had entered the brightly lighted place. + +"They're usin' it in the back room," was the reply. + +"Got a pack o' cards?" then asked Bagley. + +The barkeeper handed over a pack which had been reposing in a cigar-box. + +"I'll make it as sudden as you like," said Bagley to Turl. "One cut +apiece, and highest wins. Or would you like something not so quick?" + +"One cut, and the higher wins," said Turl. + +"Shuffle the cards," said Bagley to Larcher, who obeyed. "Help yourself," +said Bagley to Turl. The latter cut, and turned up a ten-spot. Bagley +cut, and showed a six. + +"The money's yours," said Bagley. "And now, gentlemen, what'll you have +to drink?" + +The drinks were ordered, and taken in silence. "There's only one thing +I'd like to ask," said Bagley thereupon. "That keyhole business--it +needn't go any further, I s'pose?" + +"I give you my word," said Turl. Larcher added his, whereupon Bagley +bade the barkeeper telephone for a four-wheeler, and would have taken +them to their homes in it. But they preferred a walk, and left him +waiting for his cab. + +"Well!" exclaimed Larcher, as soon as he was out of the saloon. "I +congratulate you! I feared Bagley would give trouble. But how easily he +came around!" + +"You forget how fortunate I am," said Turl, smiling. "Poor Davenport +could never have brought him around." + +"There's no doubting your luck," said Larcher; "even with cards." + +"Lucky with cards," began Turl, lightly; but broke off all at once, and +looked suddenly dubious as Larcher glanced at him in the electric light. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +FLORENCE + +The morning brought sunshine and the sound of sleigh-bells. In the +wonderfully clear air of New York, the snow-covered streets dazzled the +eyes. Never did a town look more brilliant, or people feel more blithe, +than on this fine day after the long snow-storm. + +"Isn't it glorious?" Edna Hill was looking out on the shining white +gardens from Florence's parlor window. "Certainly, on a day like this, it +doesn't seem natural for one to cling to the past. It's a day for +beginning over again, if ever there are such days." Her words had +allusion to the subject on which the two girls had talked late into the +night. Edna had waited for Florence to resume the theme in the morning, +but the latter had not done so yet, although breakfast was now over. +Perhaps it was her father's presence that had deterred her. The incident +of the meal had been the arrival of a note from Mr. Bagley to Mr. Kenby, +expressing the former's regret that he should be unavoidably prevented +from keeping the engagement to go sleighing. As Florence had forgotten to +give her father Mr. Bagley's verbal message, this note had brought her in +for a quantity of paternal complaint sufficient for the venting of the +ill-humor due to his having stayed up too late, and taken too much +champagne the night before. But now Mr. Kenby had gone out, wrapped up +and overshod, to try the effect of fresh air on his headache, and of +shop-windows and pretty women on his spirits. Florence, however, had +still held off from the all-important topic, until Edna was driven to +introduce it herself. + +"It's never a day for abandoning what has been dear to one," +replied Florence. + +"But you wouldn't be abandoning him. After all, he really is the +same man." + +"But I can't make myself regard him as the same. And he doesn't regard +himself so." + +"But in that case the other man has vanished. It's precisely as if he +were dead. No, it's even worse, for there isn't as much trace of him as +there would be of a man that had died. What's the use of being faithful +to such an utterly non-existent person? Why, there isn't even a grave, to +put flowers on;--or an unknown mound in a distant country, for the +imagination to cling to. There's just nothing to be constant to." + +"There are memories." + +"Well, they'll remain. Does a widow lose her memories of number one when +she becomes Mrs. Number Two?" + +"She changes the character of them; buries them out of sight; kills them +with neglect. Yes, she is false to them." + +"But your case isn't even like that. In these peculiar circumstances the +old memories will blend with the new.--And, dear me! he is such a nice +man! I don't see how the other could have been nicer. You couldn't find +anybody more congenial in tastes and manners, I'm sure." + +"I can't make you understand, dear. Suppose Tom Larcher went away for a +time, and came back so completely different that you couldn't see the old +Tom Larcher in him at all. And suppose he didn't even consider himself +the same person you had loved. Would you love him then as you do now?" + +Edna was silenced for a moment; but for a moment only. "Well, if he came +back such a charming fellow as Turl, and if he loved me as much as Turl +loves you, I could soon manage to drop the old Tom out of my mind. But of +course, you know, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't forget for a moment +that he really was the old Tom." + +The talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. The servant gave the +name of Mr. Turl. Florence turned crimson, and stood at a loss. + +"You can't truly say you're out, dear," counselled Edna, in an undertone. + +"Show him in," said Florence. + +Turl entered. + +Florence looked and spoke coldly. "I told you I'd send a message when I +wished you to call." + +He was wistful, but resolute. "I know it," he said. "But love doesn't +stand on ceremony; lovers are importunate; they come without +bidding.--Good morning, Miss Hill; you mustn't let me drive you away." + +For Edna had swished across the room, and was making for the hall. + +"I'm going to the drawing-room," she said, airily, "to see the +sleighs go by." + +In another second, the door slammed, and Turl was alone with Florence. He +took a hesitating step toward her. + +"It's useless," she said, raising her hand as a barrier between them. "I +can't think of you as the same. I can't see _him_ in you. I should have +to do that before I could offer you his place. All that I can love now +is the memory of him." + +"Listen," said Turl, without moving. "I have thought it over. For your +sake, I will be the man I was. It's true, I can't restore the old face; +but the old outlook on life, the old habits, the old pensiveness, will +bring back the old expression. I will resume the old name, the old set of +memories, the old sense of personality. I said last night that a +resumption of the old self could be only mental, and incomplete even so. +But when I said that, I had not surrendered. The mental return can be +complete, and must reveal itself more or less on the surface. And the old +love,--surely where the feeling is the same, its outer showing can't be +utterly new and strange." + +He spoke with a more pleading and reverent note than he had yet used +since the revelation. A moist shine came into her eyes. + +"Murray--it _is_ you!" she whispered. + +"Ah!--sweetheart!" His smile of the utmost tenderness seemed more of a +kind with sadness than with pleasure. It was the smile of a man deeply +sensible of sorrow--of Murray Davenport,--not that of one versed in good +fortune alone--not that which a potent imagination had made habitual to +Francis Turl. + +She gave herself to his arms, and for a time neither spoke. It was she +who broke the silence, looking up with tearful but smiling eyes: + +"You shall not abandon your design. It's too marvellous, too successful; +it has been too dear to you for that." + +"It was dear to me when I thought I had lost you. And since then, the +pride of conceiving and accomplishing it, the labor and pain, kept it +dear to me. But now that I am sure of you, I can resign it without a +murmur. From the moment when I decided to sacrifice it, it has been +nothing to me, provided I could only regain you." + +"But the old failure, the old ill luck, the old unrewarded drudgery,--no, +you sha'n't go back to them. You shall be true to the illusion--we shall +be true to it--I will help you in it, strengthen you in it! I needed only +to see the old Murray Davenport appear in you one moment. Hereafter you +shall be Francis Turl, the happy and fortunate! But you and I will have +our secret--before the world you shall be Francis Turl--but to me you +shall be Murray Davenport, too--Murray Davenport hidden away in Francis +Turl. To me alone, for the sake of the old memories. It will be another +tie between us, this secret, something that is solely ours, deep in our +hearts, as the knowledge of your old self would always have been deep in +yours if you hadn't told me. Think how much better it is that I share +this knowledge with you; now nothing of your mind is concealed from me, +and we together shall have our smile at the world's expense." + +"For being so kind to Francis Turl, the fortunate, after its cold +treatment of Murray Davenport, the unlucky," said Turl, smiling. "It +shall be as you say, sweetheart. There can be no doubt about my good +fortune. It puts even the old proverb out. With me it is lucky in love as +well as at cards." + +"What do you mean, dear?" + +"The Bagley money--" + +"Ah, that money. Listen, dear. Now that I have some right to speak, you +must return that money. I don't dispute your moral claim to it--such +things are for you to settle. But the danger of keeping it--" + +"There's no longer any danger. The money is mine, of Bagley's own free +will and consent. I encountered him last night. He is in my secret now, +but it's safe with him. We cut cards for the money, and I won. I hate +gambling, but the situation was exceptional. He hoped that, once the +matter was settled by the cards, he should never hear a word about it +again. As he hadn't heard a word of it from me--Davenport--for years, +this meant that his own conscience had been troubling him about it all +along. That's why he was ready at last to put the question to a toss-up; +but first he established the fact that he wouldn't be 'done' out of the +money by anybody. I tell you all this, dear, in justice to the man; and +so, exit Bagley. As I said, my secret--_our_ secret--is safe with him. So +it is, of course, with Miss Hill and Larcher. Nobody else knows it, +though others besides you three may have suspected that I had something +to do with the disappearance." + +"Only Mr. Bud." + +"Larcher can explain away Mr. Bud's suspicions. Larcher has been a good +friend. I can never be grateful enough--" + +A knock at the door cut his speech short, and the servant announced +Larcher himself. It had been arranged that he should call for Edna's +orders. That young lady had just intercepted him in the hall, to prevent +his breaking in upon what might be occurring between Turl and Miss Kenby. +But Florence, holding the door open, called out to Edna and Larcher to +come in. Something in her voice and look conveyed news to them both, and +they came swiftly. Edna kissed Florence half a dozen times, while Larcher +was shaking hands with Turl; then waltzed across to the piano, and for a +moment drowned the outside noises--the jingle of sleigh-bells, and the +shouts of children snowballing in the sunshine--with the still more +joyous notes of a celebrated march by Mendelssohn. + +THE END. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery of Murray Davenport, by +Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + +***** This file should be named 9185-8.txt or 9185-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/8/9185/ + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mystery of Murray Davenport + A Story of New York at the Present Day + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9185] +This file was first posted on September 12, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + + + + +Text file produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + </h1> + <h2> + <i>A Story of New York at the Present Day</i> + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Robert Neilson Stephens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1903 + </h3> + <h5> + Works of Robert Neilson Stephens <br /> <br /> An Enemy to the King <br /> + <br /> The Continental Dragoon <br /> <br /> The Road to Paris <br /> <br /> A + Gentleman Player <br /> <br /> Philip Winwood <br /> <br /> Captain Ravenshaw + <br /> <br /> The Mystery of Murray Davenport + </h5> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I — MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE + RAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II — ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III — A READY-MONEY MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV — AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V — A LODGING BY THE RIVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI — THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII — MYSTERY BEGINS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII — MR. LARCHER INQUIRES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX — MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI — FLORENCE DECLARES HER + ALLEGIANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII — LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT + TOGETHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII — MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO + THE WALL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV — A STRANGE DESIGN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV — TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI — AFTER THE DISCLOSURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII — BAGLEY SHINES OUT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII — FLORENCE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I — MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + </h2> + <p> + The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was + August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than + they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the + basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and + dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the + reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw + were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down + their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry + in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy + chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called + him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited + though home was to a second-story “bed sitting-room” in a house of + “furnished rooms to let” on a crosstown street traversing the part of New + York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium + appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon sat + good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, and + made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and a + negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram. + </p> + <p> + “Who the deuce—?” began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he + opened the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous + surprise. “Can I call?” he said, aloud. “Well, rather!” He let his book + drop forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The + telegram read merely: + </p> + <p> + “In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA.” + </p> + <p> + The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has + already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young + man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no + sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with + impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying + feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after due + announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was kept + waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end of + that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. + </p> + <p> + She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned—though for + indoors—like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in + a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and she + marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair arranged in + loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless skin was of a + brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's conceit—which, + by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility in the presence + of his admired—but it was a small and superficial thing compared + with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon her with a + serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made it much less + noticeable. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is a pleasure!” he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet her. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Tom!” she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. “You + needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of course, + but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We have at + least an hour to ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at + this time of year. When I got your telegram—” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you <i>were</i> surprised. To think of being in New York in + August!—and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a + hot wave. I haven't any shopping to do—any real shopping, that is, + though I invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, + with a cab. But I came just to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true.” + The young man spoke sincerely. + </p> + <p> + “It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down and + be comfortable,—at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's + some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't order + anything from the hotel—Auntie would see it in the bill. But if + you'd prefer a cup of tea—and I could manage some toast.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing—with you to share + them. How thoughtful of you!” + </p> + <p> + She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small table. + He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly across at + his hostess. + </p> + <p> + “There's something I want you to do for me,” she answered, sitting + composedly back in her chair, in an attitude as graceful as comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing would make me happier.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Larcher, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I + should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or less—that + is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, besides that, + he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do with theatres.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of him. But,” said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, + “there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, + of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?—going + about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be easy, + making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, am I to do that?” Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting + along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or + the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he + fares.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man,” said Larcher, + somewhat poutingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man,” + she said, with lofty coolness. “But there are reasons why I must find out + about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you hesitate, + and hem and haw—” She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “You might tell me the reasons, dear,” he said, humbly. + </p> + <p> + “I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this information + got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get it, and not ask + any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts to—prying + into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather intrusive, private + detective sort of business.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you don't know the reason—the object in view. Somebody's + happiness depends on it,—perhaps more than one person's; I may tell + you that much.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose happiness?” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't <i>my</i> happiness, + you may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in + doing this, you'll be serving <i>me</i>, and really I don't see why you + should be inquisitive beyond that.” + </p> + <p> + “You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you + ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to + think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and + question—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this + particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon + my word, you don't flatter me!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be angry, dear. If you're really <i>sure</i> it's all right—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>If</i> I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had + asked somebody else! It isn't too late—” + </p> + <p> + Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve you + more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can + handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say; + writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has something + to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start with?” + </p> + <p> + “No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly + good-looking. He usually lives in rooms—you know what I mean—and + takes his meals at restaurants.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There <i>might</i> + possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't + like to be looking up the wrong man.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means. But + I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course <i>I</i> never + saw him.” + </p> + <p> + “There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a + writer and an artist and connected with theatres,” said Larcher. “And it + isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a + thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidences + do occur.” + </p> + <p> + “He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember,” added the young + lady. + </p> + <p> + “He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want this + report?” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his + circumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and + when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to + Easthampton to-morrow, you know.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up his + umbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue and a + car. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additional + minutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last to + consideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangeness + thereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate news + about a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on getting + that news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher could only + give it up, and think upon means for the early accomplishment of his part + in the matter. He had decided to begin immediately, for his first + inquiries would be made of men who kept late hours, and with whose + midnight haunts he was acquainted. + </p> + <p> + He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below Fourteenth + Street. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement, where + he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an atmosphere of + tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap wine, and the noisy + talk of a numerous company sitting—for the most part—at long + tables whereon were the traces of a <i>table d'hôte</i> dinner. Coffee and + claret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and glasses, but + also on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but youth + preponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of saying it. + The ladies were, as to the majority, unattractive in appearance, nasal in + voice, and unabashed in manner. The assemblage was, in short, a specimen + of self-styled, self-conscious Bohemia; a far-off, much-adulterated + imitation of the sort of thing that some of the young men with halos of + hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen in Paris in their days of + art study. Larcher made his way through the crowd in the front room to + that in the back, acknowledging many salutations. The last of these came + from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose round, humorous face was + made additionally benevolent by spectacles, and whose forward bend of the + shoulders might be the consequence of studious pursuits, or of much + leaning over café-tables, or of both. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Barry Tompkins!” said Larcher. “I've been looking for you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their meeting + were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut manner: + </p> + <p> + “You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius.” Whereat he looked + around and chuckled afresh. + </p> + <p> + Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low: + </p> + <p> + “You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man named Murray + Davenport?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe there is such a man—an illustrator. Is that the one you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. Where can I find him?” + </p> + <p> + “I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of his + work—in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence, + by the way.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Have you looked in the directory?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are some + things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting acquainted + with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So the trouble is + to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead up to a pretty + close acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “No trouble in that,” said Tompkins, decidedly. “Look here. He's an + illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives, + call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. That + will begin an acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “And terminate it, too, don't you think? Would any self-respecting + illustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certainty of + his work ever appearing?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, the next time you have anything accepted for publication, get + to the editor as fast as you can, and recommend this Davenport to do the + illustrations.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider it + presumptuous if <i>I</i> did it. Suppose it happened to be one of those + editors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in the + manuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport as + illustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editor + to make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even if + Davenport refused the job,—which he wouldn't,—you'd have an + opportunity to pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms of + mind and manner.” + </p> + <p> + “Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose he turned + out to be a bad illustrator?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't have + remembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in my + room to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend him + intelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of yours + in hand just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” said Larcher, brightening, “I got a notice of acceptance + to-day from the <i>Avenue Magazine</i>, of a thing about the rivers of New + York City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet for + illustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'll + think I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now and + tackle the old magazines in my room, to see what my praises of Mr. + Davenport shall rest on. As we go, we'll look the gentleman up in the + directory at the drug-store—unless you'd prefer to tarry here at the + banquet of wit and beauty.” Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved a hand + over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and conceit it + largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances regularly to + inhabit. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather for + the pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins led the + way up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign old + woman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that she, who was + on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent in the shape of + her customers, might know of Murray Davenport; or, indeed, as he had + whispered to Larcher, that the illustrator might be one of the crowd in + the restaurant at that very moment. But the proprietress knew no such + person, a fact which seemed to rate him very low in her estimation and + somewhat high in Mr. Tompkins's. The two young men thereupon hastened to + board a car going up Sixth Avenue. Being set down near Greeley Square, + they went into a drug-store and opened the directory. + </p> + <p> + “Here's a Murray Davenport, all right enough,” said Tompkins, “but he's a + playwright.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably the same,” replied Larcher, remembering that his man had + something to do with theatres. “He's a gentleman of many professions, + let's see the address.” + </p> + <p> + It was a number and street in the same part of the town with Larcher's + abode, but east of Madison Avenue, while his own was west of Fifth. But + now his way was to the residence of Barry Tompkins, which proved to be a + shabby room on the fifth floor of an old building on Broadway; a room + serving as Mr. Tompkins's sleeping-chamber by night, and his law office by + day. For Mr. Tompkins, though he sought pleasure and forage under the + banners of literature and journalism, owned to no regular service but that + of the law. How it paid him might be inferred from the oldness of his + clothes and the ricketiness of his office. There was a card saying “Back + in ten minutes” on the door which he opened to admit Larcher and himself. + And his friends were wont to assert that he kept the card “working + overtime,” himself, preferring to lay down the law to companionable + persons in neighboring cafés rather than to possible clients in his + office. When Tompkins had lighted the gas, Larcher saw a cracked low + ceiling, a threadbare carpet of no discoverable hue, an old desk crowded + with documents and volumes, some shelves of books at one side, and the + other three sides simply walled with books and magazines in irregular + piles, except where stood a bed-couch beneath a lot of prints which served + to conceal much of the faded wall-paper. + </p> + <p> + Tompkins bravely went for the magazines, saying, “You begin with that + pile, and I'll take this. The names of the illustrators are always in the + table of contents; it's simply a matter of glancing down that.” + </p> + <p> + After half an hour's silent work, Tompkins exclaimed, “Here we are!” and + took a magazine to the desk, at which both young men sat down. “'A Heart + in Peril,'” he quoted; “'A Story by James Willis Archway. Illustrated by + Murray Davenport. Page 38.'” He turned over the leaves, and disclosed some + rather striking pictures in half-tone, signed “M.D.” Two men and two women + figured in the different illustrations. + </p> + <p> + “This isn't bad work,” said Tompkins. “I can recommend 'M.D.' with a clear + conscience. His women are beautiful in a really high way,—but + they've got a heartless look. There's an odd sort of distinction in his + men's faces, too.” + </p> + <p> + “A kind of scornful discontent,” ventured Larcher. “Perhaps the story + requires it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps; but the thing I mean seems to be under the expressions intended. + I should say it was unconscious, a part of the artist's conception of the + masculine face in general before it's individualized. I'll bet the chap + that drew these illustrations isn't precisely the man in the street, even + among artists. He must have a queer outlook on life. I congratulate you on + your coming friend!” At which Mr. Tompkins, chuckling, lighted a pipe for + himself. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher sat looking dubious. If Murray Davenport was an unusual sort + of man, the more wonder that a girl like Edna Hill should so strangely + busy herself about him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II — ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + </h2> + <p> + Two days later, toward the close of a sunny afternoon, Mr. Thomas Larcher + was admitted by a lazy negro to an old brown-stone-front house half-way + between Madison and Fourth Avenues, and directed to the third story back, + whither he was left to find his way unaccompanied. Running up the dark + stairs swiftly, with his thoughts in advance of his body, he suddenly + checked himself, uncertain as to which floor he had attained. At a hazard, + he knocked on the door at the back of the dim, narrow passage he was in. + He heard slow steps upon the carpet, the door opened, and a man slightly + taller, thinner, and older than himself peered out. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, I may have mistaken the floor,” said Larcher. “I'm looking for + Mr. Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “'Myself and misery know the man,'” replied the other, with quiet + indifference, in a gloomy but not unpleasing voice, and stepped back to + allow his visitor's entrance. + </p> + <p> + A little disconcerted at being received with a quotation, and one of such + import,—the more so as it came from the speaker's lips so naturally + and with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on a + stranger,—Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper, + the upholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in one + corner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the table + which stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk, were + all of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The same was + to be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black garment + of the square-cut “sack” or “lounge” shape. Books filled the mantel, the + flat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table, which held + also a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript paper, and the + paraphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the walls, and standing + about on top of books and elsewhere, were water-colors, drawings in + half-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many unfinished, besides a few + photographs of celebrated paintings and statues. But long before he had + sought more than the most general impression of these contents of the + room, Larcher had bent all his observation upon their possessor. + </p> + <p> + The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by these + and kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose distinguished + by a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty of form was in + the distinctness of its lines. The complexion was colorless but clear, the + face being all smooth shaven. The slightly haggard eyes were gray, rather + of a plain and honest than a brilliant character, save for a tiny light + that burned far in their depths. The forehead was ample and smooth, as far + as could be seen, for rather longish brown hair hung over it, with a + negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an odd painwearied + dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an unquenchable humor. + </p> + <p> + “This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself,” said Larcher, handing + it. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Rogers?” inquired Murray Davenport. + </p> + <p> + “Editor of the <i>Avenue Magazine</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without + diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself took + a chair before the table. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher,” he said, conventionally; then, with a + change to informality, “I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers, or + any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any + offered me before.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I've seen some of your work,” contradicted Larcher. “The + illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'” + </p> + <p> + “That wasn't offered me; I begged for it,” said Davenport, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were + recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this + stuff of mine,” and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from + under his coat. + </p> + <p> + “It's so unprecedented,” resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective + way of speaking. “I can scarcely help thinking there must be some + mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril' + story?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to <i>me</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out new + illustrators they hear of.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer to + <i>me</i>—an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, + like a gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called + good luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen + to me before; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in + spite of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case.” This + was said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling. + </p> + <p> + Larcher smiled. “Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse to do + the pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” returned Davenport, indolently. “I won't refuse. I'll accept the + commission with pleasure—a certain amount of pleasure, that is. + There was a time when I should have danced a break-down for joy, probably, + at this opportunity. But a piece of good luck, strange as it is to me, + doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'll receive it + politely. In as much as I have plenty of time for this work, and as Mr. + Rogers seems to wish me to do it, I should be churlish if I declined. The + money too, is an object—I won't conceal that fact. To think of a + chance to earn a little money, coming my way without the slightest effort + on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'm still tempted to + think this is all a dream.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher laughed. “Well, as to effort,” said he, “I don't think I should be + here now with that accepted manuscript for you to illustrate, if I hadn't + taken a good deal of pains to press my work on the attention of editors.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mean to say that your prosperity, and other men's, is due to + having good things thrust upon you in this way. But if you do owe all to + your own work, at least your work does bring a fair amount of reward, your + efforts are in a fair measure successful. But not so with me. The greatest + fortune I could ever have asked would have been that my pains should bring + their reasonable price, as other men's have done. Therefore, this extreme + case of good luck, small as it is, is the more to be wondered at. The best + a man has a right to ask is freedom from what people call habitual bad + luck. That's an immunity I've never had. My labors have been always banned—except + when the work has masqueraded as some other man's. In that case they have + been blessed. It will seem strange to you, Mr. Larcher, but whatever I've + done in my own name has met with wretched pay and no recognition, while + work of mine, no better, when passed off as another man's, has won golden + rewards—for him—in money and reputation.” + </p> + <p> + “It does seem strange,” admitted Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “What can account for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what a 'Jonah' is, in the speech of the vulgar?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, people have got me tagged with that name. I bring ill luck to + enterprises I'm concerned in, they say. That's a fatal reputation, Mr. + Larcher. It wasn't deserved in the beginning, but now that I have it, see + how the reputation itself is the cause of the apparent ill luck. Take this + thing, for instance.” He held up a sheet of music paper, whereon he had + evidently been writing before Larcher's arrival. “A song, supposed to be + sentimental. As the idea is somewhat novel, the words happy, and the tune + rather quaint, I shall probably get a publisher for it, who will offer me + the lowest royalty. What then? Its fame and sale—or whether it shall + have any—will depend entirely on what advertising it gets from being + sung by professional singers. I have taken the precaution to submit the + idea and the air to a favorite of the music halls, and he has promised to + sing it. Now, if he sang it on the most auspicious occasion, making it the + second or third song of his turn, having it announced with a flourish on + the programme, and putting his best voice and style into it, it would have + a chance of popularity. Other singers would want it, it would be whistled + around, and thousands of copies sold. But will he do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why he shouldn't,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but he knows why. He remembers I am a Jonah. What comes from me + carries ill luck. He'll sing the song, yes, but he won't hazard any + auspicious occasion on it. He'll use it as a means of stopping encores + when he's tired of them; he'll sing it hurriedly and mechanically; he'll + make nothing of it on the programme; he'll hide the name of the author, + for fear by the association of the names some of my Jonahship might extend + to him. So, you see, bad luck <i>will</i> attend my song; so, you see, the + name of bad luck brings bad luck. Not that there is really such a thing as + luck. Everything that occurs has a cause, an infinite line of causes. But + a man's success or failure is due partly to causes outside of his control, + often outside of his ken. As, for instance, a sudden change of weather may + defeat a clever general, and thrust victory upon his incompetent + adversary. Now when these outside causes are adverse, and prevail, we say + a man has bad luck. When they favor, and prevail, he has good luck. It was + a rapid succession of failures, due partly to folly and carelessness of my + own, I admit, but partly to a run of adverse conjunctures far outside my + sphere of influence, that got me my unlucky name in the circles where I + hunt a living. And now you are warned, Mr. Larcher. Do you think you are + safe in having my work associated with yours, as Mr. Rogers proposes? It + isn't too late to draw back.” + </p> + <p> + Whether the man still spoke seriously, Larcher could not exactly tell. + Certainly the man's eyes were fixed on Larcher's face in a manner that + made Larcher color as one detected. But his weakness had been for an + instant only, and he rallied laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Many thanks, but I'm not superstitious, Mr. Davenport. Anyhow, my article + has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish the amount I'm to + receive for it.” + </p> + <p> + “But consider the risk to your future career,” pursued Davenport, with a + faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll take the chances,” said Larcher, glad to treat the subject as a + joke. “I don't suppose the author of 'A Heart in Peril,' for instance, has + experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story.” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy humor, + “the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital. But I + believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I thank + you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the <i>Avenue Magazine</i>, it + can afford a little bad luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as a + result of your contact with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are right; + Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must know, Mr. + Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure in the + world,—a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of injustice. + Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than that. I + never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up apropos; but + people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about it, and find a + moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused at it, and + benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For it's been a + part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should often work for + his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to fall back on; he + always has some little matter I can be useful in. He poses then as my + constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And so he is, in + fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on the profits of + the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr. Larcher, to + forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak of me where my + name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that the wrong is an + imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to deserve the name of + a man with a grievance.” + </p> + <p> + His composed, indifferent manner was true to his words. He spoke, indeed, + as one to whom things mattered little, yet who, being originally of a + social and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the first + intelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to make + the most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the man's + acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject ever + comes up in my presence,” said Larcher. “I can certainly testify to the + cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about,” + said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?” + </p> + <p> + “In my present environment.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport shook his head. “My immediate environment would still be the + same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my old, + tiresome, unsuccessful self.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you got about more among mankind,—not that I know what your + habits are at present, but I should imagine—” Larcher hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary,” said Davenport. + “That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'—to + fall back on Hamlet again—at least not from my present point of + view.” + </p> + <p> + “'Nor woman neither'?” quoted Larcher, interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “'No, nor woman neither,'” said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming upon + his face. “I don't know what your experience may have been. We have only + our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing from + women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and are + unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is to be + worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love, with + a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment they are bored + with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injured if the man + complains. We take the beauty of their faces, the softness of their eyes, + for the outward signs of tenderness and fidelity; and for those supposed + qualities, and others which their looks seem to express, we love them. But + they have not those qualities; they don't even know what it is that we + love them for; they think it is for the outward beauty, and that that is + enough. They don't even know what it is that we, misled by that outward + softness, imagine is beyond; and when we are disappointed to find it isn't + there, they wonder at us and blame us for inconstancy. The beautiful woman + who could be what she looks—who could really contain what her beauty + seems the token of—whose soul, in short, could come up to the + promise of her face,—there would be a creature! You'll think I've + had bad luck in love, too, Mr. Larcher.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Larcher was thinking, for the instant, about Edna Hill, and wondering +how near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women. For +himself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never seemed +the outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered conventionally: +“Well, one <i>would</i> suppose so from your remarks. Of course, women like +to be amused, I know. Perhaps we expect too much from them. + + 'Oh, woman in our hours of ease, + Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, + And variable as the shade + By the light quivering aspen made.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines.” Mr. Larcher sighed at +certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. “But then, you know,— + + 'When pain and anguish wring the brow, + A ministering angel them.'” + </pre> + <p> + “I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish,” said Davenport. “I've + experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on women. + But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on an undeserving, + but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, after a time, + she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck that clung to him. What + would she do then?” + </p> + <p> + “Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil + influence,” replied Larcher, laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she would + take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil + influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she would + doubtless live happy ever after.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the faintest + cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face. + </p> + <p> + “And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'” said Larcher, + looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject gaily, lest he + might betray his inquisitive purpose. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes up + a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations here. I + have amused myself a little in science, too,—you see the cabinet + over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, but + I wasn't fitted—or didn't care—to follow that profession in a + money-making way.” + </p> + <p> + “You are exceedingly versatile.” + </p> + <p> + “Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business. When + are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many are wanted? + I'm afraid I've been wasting your time.” + </p> + <p> + In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of + better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to + certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details + settled, Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Have you any engagement for dining?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion. + </p> + <p> + “Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say—it depends on where + you dine.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any + particular one.” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,—on one or two good things + well cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course <i>table d'hôte</i> + menu is really too wearisome—even to a man who is used to + weariness.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I know a place—Giffen's chop-house—that will just suit + you. As a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get + an unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of + delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says + that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and + better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the place, and your friend is quite right.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle. + When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which in + that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already + heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating + respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway + and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner. + </p> + <p> + “What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!” remarked + Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest: + </p> + <p> + 'The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight tide—And + slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride.' + </p> + <p> + “Poe praised those lines,” he added. “But it was a different Broadway that + Willis wrote them about.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Larcher, “but in spite of the skyscrapers and the + incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I used to,” said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, + who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many failures? + Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had been played + by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? And, + finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's reasons + for seeking information? + </p> + <p> + Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the + chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level with + the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about to + enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, overbearing + voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as both young men + turned around. A tall, broad man, with a coarse, red face; a man with + hard, glaring eyes and a heavy black mustache; a man who had intruded into + a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a large diamond in his tie; a + man who swung his arms and used plenty of the surrounding space in + walking, as if greedy of it,—this man came across the street, and, + with an air of proprietorship, claimed Murray Davenport's attention. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III — A READY-MONEY MAN + </h2> + <p> + “I want you,” bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rustic + washerwoman summoning her offspring to a task. “I've got a little matter + for you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talk + it over.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm engaged to dine with this gentleman,” said Davenport, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's all right,” said the newcomer. “This gentleman can come, + too.” + </p> + <p> + “We prefer to dine here,” said Davenport, with firmness. “We have our own + reasons. I can meet you later.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're + determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and + dine.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then + introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a + brief condescending glance and a rough “How are you,” Mr. Bagley led the + way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and + Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. + </p> + <p> + Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the + state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from the + narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment + adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from + another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out + his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in + various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of + walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the + company's hearing capacity. + </p> + <p> + As soon as dinner had been ordered,—a matter much complicated by Mr. + Bagley's calling for things which the house didn't serve, and then wanting + to know why it didn't,—he plunged at once into the details of some + business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulking behind an + evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By the time the chops + and potatoes had been brought, the business had been communicated, and + Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. He suddenly took notice of + Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?” quoth he, looking with benign + patronage from one young man to the other. + </p> + <p> + “I've known Mr. Davenport a—short while,” said Larcher, with all the + iciness of injured conceit. + </p> + <p> + “Same business?” queried Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreign + language. + </p> + <p> + “Are you in the same business he's in?” said Bagley, in a louder voice. + </p> + <p> + “I—write,” said Larcher, coldly. + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked him over, and, with evident approval of his clothes, + remarked: “You seem to've made a better thing of it than Dav has.” + </p> + <p> + “I make a living,” said Larcher, curtly, with a glance at Davenport, who + showed no feeling whatever. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess that's about all Dav does,” said Bagley, in a jocular + manner. “How is it, Dav, old man? But you never had any business sense.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't return the compliment,” said Davenport, quietly. + </p> + <p> + Bagley uttered a mirthful “Yah!” and looked very well contented with + himself. “I've always managed to get along,” he admitted. “And a good + thing for you I have, Dav. Where'ud you be to-day if you hadn't had me for + your good angel whenever you struck hard luck?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't the remotest idea,” said Davenport, as if vastly bored. + </p> + <p> + “Neither have I,” quoth Bagley, and filled his mouth with mutton and + potato. When he had got these sufficiently disposed of to permit further + speech, he added: “No, sir, you literary fellows think yourselves very + fine people, but I don't see many of you getting to be millionaires by + your work.” + </p> + <p> + “There are other ambitions in life,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bagley emitted a grunt of laughter. “Sour grapes! Sour grapes, young + fellow! I know what I'm talking about. I've been a literary man myself.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher arrested his fork half-way between his plate and his mouth, in + order to look his amazement. A curious twitch of the lips was the only + manifestation of Davenport, except that he took a long sip of ale. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody would ever think it,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; I've been a literary man; a playwright, that is. Dramatic + author, my friend Dav here would call it, I s'pose. But I made it pay.” + </p> + <p> + “I must confess I don't recognize the name of Bagley as being attached to + any play I ever heard of,” said Larcher. “And yet I've paid a good deal of + attention to the theatre.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because I never wrote but one play, and the money I made out of + that—twenty thousand dollars it was—I put into the business of + managing other people's plays. It didn't take me long to double it, did + it, Dav? Mr. Davenport here knows all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I ought to,” replied Davenport, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's right, you ought to. We were chums in those days, Mr.—I + forget what your name is. We were both in hard luck then, me and Dav. But + I knew what to do if I ever got hold of a bit of capital. So I wrote that + play, and made a good arrangement with the actor that produced it, and got + hold of twenty thousand. And that was the foundation of <i>my</i> fortune. + Oh, yes, Dav remembers. We had hall rooms in the same house in East + Fourteenth Street. We used to lend each other cuffs and collars. A man + never forgets those days.” + </p> + <p> + With Davenport's talk of the afternoon fresh in mind, Larcher had promptly + identified this big-talking vulgarian. Hot from several affronts, which + were equally galling, whether ignorant or intended, he could conceive of + nothing more sweet than to take the fellow down. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't wonder,” said he, “if Mr. Davenport had more particular + reasons to remember that play.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport looked up from his plate, but merely with slight surprise, not + with disapproval. Bagley himself stared hard at Larcher, then glanced at + Davenport, and finally blurted out a laugh, and said: + </p> + <p> + “So Dav has been giving you his fairy tale? I thought he'd dropped it as a + played-out chestnut. God knows how the delusion ever started in his head. + That's a question for the psychologists—or the doctors, maybe. But + he used to imagine—I give him credit for really imagining it—he + used to imagine he had written that play. I s'pose that's what he's been + telling you. But I thought he'd got over the hallucination; or got tired + telling about it, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + But, in the circumstances, no nice consideration of probabilities was + necessary to make Larcher the warm partisan of Davenport. He answered, + with as fine a derision as he could summon: + </p> + <p> + “Any unbiased judge, with you two gentlemen before him, if he had to + decide which had written that play, wouldn't take long to agree with Mr. + Davenport's hallucination, as you call it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bagley gazed at Larcher for a few moments in silence, as if not + knowing exactly what to make of him, or what manner to use toward him. He + seemed at last to decide against a wrathful attitude, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're a very unbiased judge, and a very superior person all + round. But nobody's asking for your opinion, and I guess it wouldn't count + for much if they did. The public has long ago made up its mind about Mr. + Davenport's little delusion.” + </p> + <p> + “As one of 'the public,' perhaps I have a right to dispute that,” retorted + Larcher. “Men don't have such delusions.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't they? That's as much as you know about the eccentricities of + human nature,—and yet you presume to call yourself a writer. I guess + you don't know the full circumstances of this case. Davenport himself + admits that he was very ill at the time I disposed of the rights of that + play. We were in each other's confidence then, and I had read the play to + him, and talked it over with him, and he had taken a very keen interest in + it, as any chum would. And then this illness came on, just when the + marketing of the piece was on the cards. He was out of his head a good + deal during his illness, and I s'pose that's how he got the notion he was + the author. As it was, I gave him five hundred dollars as a present, to + celebrate the acceptance of the piece. And I gave him that at once, too—half + the amount of the money paid on acceptance, it was; for anything I knew + then, it might have been half of all I should ever get for the play, + because nobody could predict how it would pan out. Well, I've never borne + him an ounce of malice for his delusion. Maybe at this very moment he + still honestly thinks himself the author of that play; but I've always + stood by him, and always will. Many's the piece of work I've put in his + hands; and I will say he's never failed me on his side, either. Old + Reliable Dav, that's what I call him; Old Reliable Dav, and I'd trust him + with every dollar I've got in the world.” He finished with a clap of good + fellowship on Davenport's shoulder, and then fell upon the remainder of + his chop and potato with a concentration of interest that put an end to + the dispute. + </p> + <p> + As for Davenport, he had continued eating in silence, with an + expressionless face, as if the matter were one that concerned a stranger. + Larcher, observing him, saw that he had indeed put that matter behind him, + as one to which there was nothing but weariness to be gained in returning. + The rest of the meal passed without event. Mr. Bagley made short work of + his food, and left the two others with their coffee, departing in as + self-satisfied a mood as he had arrived in, and without any trace of the + little passage of words with Larcher. + </p> + <p> + A breath of relief escaped Davenport, and he said, with a faint smile: + </p> + <p> + “There was a time when I had my say about the play. We've had scenes, I + can tell you. But Bagley is a man who can brazen out any assertion; he's a + man impossible to outface. Even when he and I are alone together, he plays + the same part; won't admit that I wrote the piece; and pretends to think I + suffer under a delusion. I <i>was</i> ill at the time he disposed of my + play; but I had written it long before the time of my illness.” + </p> + <p> + “How did he manage to pass it off as his?” + </p> + <p> + “We were friends then, as he says, or at least comrades. We met through + being inmates of the same lodging-house. I rather took to him at first. I + thought he was a breezy, cordial fellow; mistook his loudness for + frankness, and found something droll and pleasing in his nasal drawl. That + brass-horn voice!—ye gods, how I grew to shudder at it afterward! + But I liked his company over a glass of beer; he was convivial, and told + amusing stories of the people in the country town he came from, and of his + struggles in trying to get a start in business. I was struggling as hard + in my different way—a very different way, for he was an utter savage + as far as art and letters were concerned. But we exchanged accounts of our + daily efforts and disappointments, and knew all about each other's + affairs,—at least he knew all about mine. And one of mine was the + play which I wrote during the first months of our acquaintance. I read it + to him, and he seemed impressed by it, or as much of it as he could + understand. I had some idea of sending it to an actor who was then in need + of a new piece, through the failure of one he had just produced. My play + seemed rather suitable to him, and I told Bagley I thought of submitting + it as soon as I could get it typewritten. But before I could do that, I + was on my back with pneumonia, utterly helpless, and not thinking of + anything in the world except how to draw my breath. + </p> + <p> + “The first thing I did begin to worry about, when I was on the way to + recovery, was my debts, and particularly my debt to the landlady. She was + a good woman, and wouldn't let me be moved to a hospital, but took care of + me herself through all my illness. She furnished my food during that time, + and paid for my medicines; and, furthermore, I owed her for several weeks' + previous rent. So I bemoaned my indebtedness, and the hopelessness of ever + getting out of it, a thousand times, day and night, till it became an old + song in the ears of Bagley. One day he came in with his face full of news, + and told me he had got some money from the sale of a farm, in which he had + inherited a ninth interest. He said he intended to risk his portion in the + theatrical business—he had had some experience as an advance agent—and + offered to buy my play outright for five hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was like an oar held out to a drowning man. I had never before + had as much money at the same time. It was enough to pay all my debts, and + keep me on my feet for awhile to come. Of course I knew that if my play + were a fair success, the author's percentage would be many times five + hundred dollars. But it might never be accepted,—no play of mine had + been, and I had hawked two or three around among the managers,—and + in that case I should get nothing at all. As for Bagley, his risk in + producing a play by an unknown man was great. His chances of loss seemed + to me about nine in ten. I took it that his offer was out of friendship. I + grasped at the immediate certainty, and the play became the property of + Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I consoled myself with the reflection that, if the play made a real + success, I should gain some prestige as an author, and find an easier + hearing for future work. I was reading a newspaper one morning when the + name of my play caught my eye. You can imagine how eagerly I started to + read the item about it, and what my feelings were when I saw that it was + immediately to be produced by the very actor to whom I had talked of + sending it, and that the author was George A. Bagley. I thought there must + be some mistake, and fell upon Bagley for an explanation as soon as he + came home. He laughed, as men of his kind do when they think they have + played some clever business trick; said he had decided to rent the play to + the actor instead of taking it on the road himself; and declared that as + it was his sole property, he could represent it as the work of anybody he + chose. I raised a great stew about the matter; wrote to the newspapers, + and rushed to see the actor. He may have thought I was a lunatic from my + excitement; however, he showed me the manuscript Bagley had given him. It + was typewritten, but the address of the typewriter copyist was on the + cover. I hastened to the lady, and inquired about the manuscript from + which she had made the copy. I showed her some of my penmanship, but she + assured me the manuscript was in another hand. I ran home, and demanded + the original manuscript from Bagley. 'Oh, certainly,' he said, and fished + out a manuscript in his own writing. He had copied even my interlineations + and erasures, to give his manuscript the look of an original draft. This + was the copy from which the typewriter had worked. My own handwritten copy + he had destroyed. I have sometimes thought that when the idea first + occurred to him of submitting my play to the actor, he had meant to deal + fairly with me, and to profit only by an agent's commission. But he may + have inquired about the earnings of plays, and learned how much money a + successful one brings; and the discovery may have tempted him to the + fraud. Or his design may have been complete from the first. It is easy to + understand his desire to become the sole owner of the play. Why he wanted + to figure as the author is not so clear. It may have been mere vanity; it + may have been—more probably was—a desire to keep to himself + even the author's prestige, to serve him in future transactions of the + same sort. In any case, he had created evidence of his authorship, and + destroyed all existing proof of mine. He had made good terms,—a + percentage on a sliding scale; one thousand dollars down on account. It + was out of that thousand that he paid me the five hundred. The play was a + great money-winner; Bagley's earnings from it were more than twenty + thousand dollars in two seasons. That is the sum I should have had if I + had submitted the play to the same actor, as I had intended to do. I made + a stir in the newspapers for awhile; told my tale to managers and actors + and reporters; started to take it to the courts, but had to give up for + lack of funds; in short, got myself the name, as I told you today, of a + man with a grievance. People smiled tolerantly at my story; it got to be + one of the jokes of the Rialto. Bagley soon hit on the policy of claiming + the authorship to my face, and pretending to treat my assertion + charitably, as the result of a delusion conceived in illness. You heard + him tonight. But it no longer disturbs me.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he ever written any plays of his own? Or had any more produced over + his name?” asked Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “No. He put the greater part of his profits into theatrical management. He + multiplied his investment. Then he 'branched out;' tried Wall Street and + the race-tracks; went into real estate. He speculates now in many things. + I don't know how rich he is. He isn't openly in theatrical management any + more, but he still has large interests there; he is what they call an + 'angel.'” + </p> + <p> + “He spoke of being your good angel.” + </p> + <p> + “He has been the reverse, perhaps. It's true, many a time when I've been + at the last pinch, he has come to my rescue, employing me in some affair + incidental to his manifold operations. Unless you have been hungry, and + without a market for your work; unless you have walked the streets + penniless, and been generally 'despised and rejected of men,' you, + perhaps, can't understand how I could accept anything at his hands. But I + could, and sometimes eagerly. As soon as possible after our break, he + assumed the benevolent attitude toward me. I resisted it with proper scorn + for a time. But hard lines came; 'my poverty but not my will' consented. + In course of time, there ceased to be anything strange in the situation. I + got used to his service, and his pay, yet without ever compounding for the + trick he played me. He trusts me thoroughly—he knows men. This + association with him, though it has saved me from desperate straits, is + loathsome to me, of course. It has contributed as much as anything to my + self-hate. If I had resolutely declined it, I might have found other + resources at the last extremity. My life might have taken a different + course. That is why I say he has been, perhaps, the reverse of a good + angel to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must have written other plays,” pursued Larcher. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Yes; and have even had three of them produced. Two had moderate success; +but one of those I sold on low terms, in my eagerness to have it accepted +and establish a name. On the other, I couldn't collect my royalties. The +third was a failure. But none of these, or of any I have written, was up +to the level of the play that Bagley dealt with. I admit that. It was my +one work of first-class merit. I think my poor powers were affected by my +experience with that play; but certainly for some reason I + + '... never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture.' +</pre> + <p> + I should have been a different man if I had received the honor and the + profits of that first accepted play of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think that, as Bagley is so rich, he would quietly hand you over + twenty thousand dollars, at least, for the sake of his conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “Men of Bagley's sort have no conscience where money is concerned. I used + to wonder just what share of his fortune was rightly mine, if one knew how + to estimate. It was my twenty thousand dollars he invested; what + percentage of the gains would belong to me, giving him his full due for + labor and skill? And then the credit of the authorship,—which he + flatly robbed me of,—what would be its value? But that is all matter + for mere speculation. As to the twenty thousand alone, there can be no + doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet he said tonight he would trust you with every dollar he had in + the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he would.” Davenport smiled. “He knows that <i>I</i> know the + difference between a moral right and a legal right. He knows the + difficulties in the way of any attempt at self-restitution on my part,—and + the unpleasant consequences. Oh, yes, he would trust me with large sums; + has done so, in fact. I have handled plenty of his cash. He is what they + call a 'ready-money man;' does a good deal of business with bank-notes of + high denomination,—it enables him to seize opportunities and make + swift transactions. He should interest you, if you have an eye for + character.” + </p> + <p> + Upon which remark, Davenport raised his cup, as if to finish the coffee + and the subject at the same time. Larcher sat silently wondering what + other dramas were comprised in the history of his singular companion, + besides that wherein Bagley was concerned, and that in which the fickle + woman had borne a part. He found himself interested, on his own account, + in this haggard-eyed, world-wearied, yet not unattractive man, as well as + for Miss Hill. When Davenport spoke again, it was in regard to the + artistic business which now formed a tie between himself and Larcher. + </p> + <p> + This business was in due time performed. It entailed as much association + with Davenport as Larcher could wish for his purpose. He learnt little + more of the man than he had learned on the first day of their + acquaintance, but that in itself was considerable. Of it he wrote a full + report to Miss Hill; and in the next few weeks he added some trifling + discoveries. In October that young woman and her aunt returned to town, + and to possession of a flat immediately south of Central Park. Often as + Larcher called there, he could not draw from Edna the cause of her + interest in Davenport. But his own interest sufficed to keep him the + regular associate of that gentleman; he planned further magazine work for + himself to write and Davenport to illustrate, and their collaboration took + them together to various parts of the city. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV — AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + </h2> + <p> + The lower part of Fifth Avenue, the part between Madison and Washington + Squares, the part which alone was “the Fifth Avenue” whereof Thackeray + wrote in the far-off days when it was the abode of fashion,—the + far-off days when fashion itself had not become old-fashioned and got + improved into Smart Society,—this haunted half-mile or more still + retains many fine old residences of brown stone and of red brick, which + are spruce and well-kept. One such, on the west side of the street, of red + brick, with a high stoop of brown stone, is a boarding-house, and in it is + an apartment to which, on a certain clear, cold afternoon in October, the + reader's presence in the spirit is respectfully invited. + </p> + <p> + The hallway of the house is prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits of + hallways, in order to lead to a secluded parlor at the rear, apparently + used by its occupants as a private sitting and dining room. At the left + side of this room, after one enters, are folding doors opening from what + is evidently somebody's bed-chamber. At the same side, further on, is a + large window, the only window in the room. As the ceiling is so high, and + the wall-paper so dark, the place is rather dim of light at all times, + even on this sunny autumn afternoon when the world outside is so full of + wintry brightness. + </p> + <p> + The view of the world outside afforded by the window—which looks + southward—is of part of a Gothic church in profile, and the backs of + houses, all framing an expanse of gardens. It is a peaceful view, and this + back parlor itself, being such a very back parlor, receives the city's + noises dulled and softened. One seems very far, here, from the clatter and + bang, the rush and strenuousness, really so near at hand. The dimness is + restful; it is relieved, near the window, by a splash of sunlight; and, at + the rear of the room, by a coal fire in the grate. The furniture is old + and heavy, consisting largely of chairs of black wood in red velvet. Half + lying back in one of these is a fretful-looking, fine-featured man of late + middle age, with flowing gray hair and flowing gray mustache. His eyes are + closed, but perhaps he is not asleep. There is a piano near a corner, + opposite the window, and out of the splash of sunshine, but its rosewood + surface reflects here and there the firelight. And at the piano, playing a + soft accompaniment, sits a tall, slender young woman, with a beautiful but + troubled face, who sings in a low voice one of Tosti's love-songs. + </p> + <p> + Her figure is still girlish, but her face is womanly; a classic face, not + like the man's in expression, but faintly resembling it in form, though + her features, clearly outlined, have not the smallness of his. Her eyes + are large and deep blue. There is enough rich color of lip, and fainter + color of cheek, to relieve the whiteness of her complexion. The trouble on + her face is of some permanence; it is not petty like that of the man's, + but is at one with the nobility of her countenance. It seems to find rest + in the tender sadness of the song, which, having finished, she softly + begins again: + </p> + <p> + “'I think of what thou art to me, I think of what thou canst not be'”— + </p> + <p> + As the man gives signs of animation, such as yawning, and moving in his + chair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed by the + song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And such expression!—unconscious + expression, too. What a pity—what a shame—that your gift + should be utterly wasted!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't wasted if my singing pleases you, father,” says the girl, + patiently. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself,” replies the man, + peevishly. “I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide our + light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the world + pays for them, too. Think of the money—think of how we might live! + Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!” + </p> + <p> + She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers + as one who has as often made the same answer: + </p> + <p> + “I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage, + and the choirs are all full.” + </p> + <p> + “You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic + opera—” + </p> + <p> + The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: “And + you know well enough my determination about that. The one week's + experience I had—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nonsense!” interrupted the man. “All managers are not like that + fellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic opera + stage.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If I + absolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put to that + necessity.” + </p> + <p> + “Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?” + </p> + <p> + “We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us our + present allowance—” + </p> + <p> + “Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom I brought + up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father to the full + extent of his ability!” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, it's a far greater allowance than most sons or brothers + make.” + </p> + <p> + “Because other sons are ungrateful, and blind to their duty, it doesn't + follow that Dick ought to be. Thank Heaven, I brought him up better than + that. I'm only sorry that his sister can't see things in the same light as + he does. After all the trouble of raising my children, and the hopes I've + built on them—” + </p> + <p> + “But you know perfectly well,” she protests, softly, “that Dick makes us + such a liberal allowance in order that I needn't go out and earn money. He + has often said that. Even when you praise him for his dutifulness to you, + he says it's not that, but his love for me. And because it is the free + gift of his love, I'm willing to accept it.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so, I suppose so,” says the man, in a tone of resignation to + injury. “It's very little that I'm considered, after all. You were always + a pair, always insensible of the pains I've taken over you. You always + seemed to regard it as a matter of course that I should feed you, and + clothe you, and educate you.” + </p> + <p> + The girl sighs, and begins faintly to touch the keys of the piano again. + The man sighs, too, and continues, with a heightened note of personal + grievance: + </p> + <p> + “If any man's hopes ever came to shipwreck, mine have. Just look back over + my life. Look at the professional career I gave up when I married your + mother, in order to be with her more than I otherwise could have been. + Look how poorly we lived, she and I, on the little income she brought me. + And then the burden of you children! And what some men would have felt a + burden, as you grew up, I made a source of hopes. I had endowed you both + with good looks and talent; Dick with business ability, and you with a + gift for music. In order to cultivate these advantages, which you had + inherited from me, I refrained from going into any business when your + mother died. I was satisfied to share the small allowance her father made + you two children. I never complained. I said to myself, 'I will invest my + time in bringing up my children.' I thought it would turn out the most + profitable investment in the world,—I gave you children that much + credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I should begin to + realize on the investment!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you,” says the girl. “He began + to earn money as soon as he was nineteen, and he has never—” + </p> + <p> + “Time enough, too,” the man breaks in. “It was a very fortunate thing I + had fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, when + your grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if I + hadn't prepared Dick to step in and make his living?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Our</i> living,” says the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Our living, of course. It would be very strange if I weren't to reap a + bare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a living out + of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualities for + success?” The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuable + qualities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. “Dick hasn't + done any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what <i>he</i> has + done, is so much more than nothing at all, that—” He stops as if it + were useless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact + that this conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with + displeasure. + </p> + <p> + After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: “Well, if I haven't + earned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to please + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our trip + to Europe?” + </p> + <p> + “The young man who did us so many kindnesses, and was of so much use to + you, on our trip to Europe,” she corrects. + </p> + <p> + “He thought I was rich, my dear, and that you were an heiress. He was a + nobody, an adventurer, probably. If things had gone any further between + you and him, your future might have been ruined. It was only another + example of my solicitude for you; another instance that deserves your + thanks, but elicits your ingratitude. If you are fastidious about a + musical career, at least you have still a possibility of a good marriage. + It was my duty to prevent that possibility from being cut off.” + </p> + <p> + She turns upon him a look of high reproach. + </p> + <p> + “And that was the only motive, then,” she cries, “for your tears and your + illness, and the scenes that wrung from me the promise to break with him?” + </p> + <p> + “It was motive enough, wasn't it?” he replies, defensively, a little + frightened at her sudden manner of revolt. “My thoughtfulness for your + future—my duty as a father—my love for my child—” + </p> + <p> + “You pretended it was your jealous love for me, your feeling of desertion, + your loneliness. I might have known better! You played on my pity, on my + love for you, on my sense of duty as a daughter left to fill my mother's + place. When you cried over being abandoned, when you looked so forlorn, my + heart melted. And that night when you said you were dying, when you kept + calling for me—'Flo, where is little Flo'—although I was there + leaning over you, I couldn't endure to grieve you, and I gave my promise. + And it was only that mercenary motive, after all!—to save me for a + profitable marriage!” She gazes at her father with an expression so new to + him on her face, that he moves about in his chair, and coughs before + answering: + </p> + <p> + “You will appreciate my action some day. And besides, your promise to drop + the man wasn't so much to give. You admitted, yourself, he hadn't written + to you. He had afforded you good cause, by his neglect.” + </p> + <p> + “He was very busy at that time. I always thought there was something + strange about his sudden failure to write—something that could have + been explained, if my promise to you hadn't kept me from inquiring.” + </p> + <p> + The father coughs again, at this, and turns his gaze upon the fire, which + he contemplates deeply, to the exclusion of all other objects. The girl, + after regarding him for a moment, sighs profoundly; placing her elbows on + the keyboard, she leans forward and buries her face in her hands. + </p> + <p> + This picture, not disturbed by further speech, abides for several ticks of + the French clock on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it is broken by a knock at + the door. Florence sits upright, and dries her eyes. A negro man servant + with a discreet manner enters and announces two visitors. “Show them in at + once,” says Florence, quickly, as if to forestall any possible objection + from her father. The negro withdraws, and presently, with a rapid swish of + skirts, in marches a very spick and span young lady, her diminutive but + exceedingly trim figure dressed like an animated fashion-plate. She is + Miss Edna Hill, and she comes brisk and dashing, with cheeks afire from + the cold, bringing into the dull, dreamy room the life and freshness of + the wintry day without. Behind her appears a stranger, whose name Florence + scarcely heeded when it was announced, and who enters with the solemn, + hesitant air of one hitherto unknown to the people of the house. He is a + young man clothed to be the fit companion of Miss Hill, and he waits + self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciously greets Florence as her + dearest, and while she bestows a touch of her gloved fingers and a “How + d'ye do, Mr. Kenby,” on the father. She then introduces the young man as + Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, there appears a surprised + admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty. + </p> + <p> + Miss Hill monopolizes Florence, however, and Larcher is left to wander to + the fire, and take a pose there, and discuss the weather with Mr. Kenby, + who does not seem to find the subject, or Larcher himself, at all + interesting, a fact which the young man is not slow in divining. Strained + relations immediately ensue between the two gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + As soon as the young ladies are over the preliminary burst of compliments + and news, Edna says: + </p> + <p> + “I'm lucky to find you at home, but really you oughtn't to be moping in a + dark place like this, such a fine afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Father can't go out because of his rheumatism, and I stay to keep him + company,” replies Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me, Mr. Kenby,” says Edna, looking at the gentleman rather + skeptically, as if she knew him of old and suspected a habit of + exaggerating his ailments, “can't you pass the time reading or something? + Florence <i>must</i> go out every day; she'll ruin her looks if she + doesn't,—her health, too. I should think you could manage to + entertain yourself alone an hour or two.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't that,” explains Florence; “he often wants little things done, + and it's painful for him to move about. In a house like this, the servants + aren't always available, except for routine duties.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you what,” proposes Edna, blithely; “you get on your + things, dear, and we'll run around and have tea with Aunt Clara at + Purcell's. Mr. Larcher and I were to meet her there, but you come with me, + and Mr. Larcher will stay and look after your father. He'll be very glad + to, I know.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher is too much taken by surprise to be able to say how very glad + he will be. Mr. Kenby, with Miss Hill's sharp glance upon him, seems to + feel that he would cut a poor figure by opposing. So Florence is rushed by + her friend's impetuosity into coat and hat, and carried off, Miss Hill + promising to return with her for Mr. Larcher “in an hour or two.” Before + Mr. Larcher has had time to collect his scattered faculties, he is alone + with the pettish-looking old man to whom he has felt himself an object of + perfect indifference. He glares, with a defiant sense of his own worth, at + the old man, until the old man takes notice of his existence. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's kind of you to stay, Mr.—ahem. But they really needn't + have troubled you. I can get along well enough myself, when it's + absolutely necessary. Of course, my daughter will be easier in mind to + have some one here.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad to be of service—to so charming a young woman,” says + Larcher, very distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “A charming girl, yes. I'm very proud of my daughter. She's my constant + thought. Children are a great care, a great responsibility.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they are,” asserts Larcher, jumping at the chance to show this + uninterested old person that wise young men may sometimes be entertained + unawares. “It's a sign of progress that parents are learning on which side + the responsibility lies. It used to be universally accepted that the + obligation was on the part of the children. Now every writer on the + subject starts on the basis that the obligation is on the side of the + parent. It's hard to see how the world could have been so idiotic + formerly. As if the child, summoned here in ignorance by the parents for + their own happiness, owed them anything!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby stares at the young man for a time, and then says, icily: + </p> + <p> + “I don't quite follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it's very clear,” says Larcher, interested now for his argument. + “You spoke of your sense of responsibility toward your child.” + </p> + <p> + (“The deuce I did!” thinks Mr. Kenby.) + </p> + <p> + “Well, that sense is most natural in you, and shows an enlightened mind. + For how can parents feel other than deeply responsible toward the being + they have called into existence? How can they help seeing their obligation + to make existence for that being as good and happy as it's in their power + to make it? Who dare say that there is a limit to their obligation toward + that being?” + </p> + <p> + “And how about that being's obligations in return?” Mr. Kenby demands, + rather loftily. + </p> + <p> + “That being's obligations go forward to the beings it in turn summons to + life. The child, becoming in time a parent, assumes a parent's debt. The + obligation passes on from generation to generation, moving always to the + future, never back to the past.” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhat original theories!” sniffs the old man. “I suppose, then, a + parent in his old age has no right to look for support to his children?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the duty of people, before they presume to become parents, to + provide against the likelihood of ever being a burden to their children. + In accepting from their children, they rob their children's children. But + the world isn't sufficiently advanced yet to make people so far-seeing and + provident, and many parents do have to look to their children for support. + In such cases, the child ought to provide for the parent, but out of love + or humanity, not because of any purely logical claim. You see the + difference, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby gives a shrug, and grunts ironically. + </p> + <p> + “The old-fashioned idea still persists among the multitude,” Larcher goes + on, “and many parents abuse it in practice. There are people who look upon + their children mainly as instruments sent from Heaven for them to live by. + From the time their children begin to show signs of intelligence, they lay + plans and build hopes of future gain upon them. It makes my blood boil, + sometimes, to see mothers trying to get their pretty daughters on the + stage, or at a typewriter, in order to live at ease themselves. And + fathers, too, by George! Well, I don't think there's a more despicable + type of humanity in this world than the able-bodied father who brings his + children up with the idea of making use of them!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher has worked himself into a genuine and very hearty indignation. + Before he can entirely calm down, he is put to some wonder by seeing his + auditor rise, in spite of rheumatism, and walk to the door at the side of + the room. “I think I'll lie down awhile,” says Mr. Kenby, curtly, and + disappears, closing the door behind him. Mr. Larcher, after standing like + a statue for some time by the fire, ensconces himself in a great armchair + before it, and gazes into it until, gradually stolen upon by a sense of + restful comfort in the darkening room, he falls asleep. + </p> + <p> + He is awakened by the gay laugh of Edna Hill, as she and Florence enter + the room. He is on his feet in time to keep his slumbers a secret, and + explains that Mr. Kenby has gone for a nap. When the gas is lit, he sees + that Florence, too, is bright-faced from the outer air, that her eye has a + fresher sparkle, and that she is more beautiful than before. As it is + getting late, and Edna's Aunt Clara is to be picked up in a shop in + Twenty-third Street where the girls have left her, Larcher is borne off + before he can sufficiently contemplate Miss Kenby's beauty. Florence is no + sooner alone than Mr. Kenby comes out of the little chamber. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you feel better for your nap, father.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't sleep any, thank you,” says Mr. Kenby. “What an odious young man + that was! He has the most horrible principles. I think he must be an + anarchist, or something of that sort. Did you enjoy your tea?” + </p> + <p> + The odious young man, walking briskly up the lighted avenue, past piano + shops and publishing houses, praises Miss Kenby's beauty to Edna Hill, who + echoes the praise without jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “She's perfectly lovely,” Edna asserts, “and then, think of it, she has + had a romance, too; but I mustn't tell that.” + </p> + <p> + “It's strange you never mentioned her to me before, being such good + friends with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they've only just got settled back in town,” answers Edna, evasively. + “What do you think of the old gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “He seems a rather queer sort. Do you know him very well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well enough. He's one of those people whose dream in life is to make + money out of their children.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Then I <i>did</i> put my foot in it!” Larcher tells of the brief + conversation he had with Mr. Kenby. It makes Edna laugh heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Good for him!” she cries. “It's a shame, his treatment of Florence. Her + brother out West supports them, and is very glad to do so on her account. + Yet the covetous old man thinks she ought to be earning money, too. She's + quite too fond of him—she even gave up a nice young man she was in + love with, for her father's sake. But listen. I don't want you to mention + these people's names to anybody—not to <i>anybody</i>, mind! + Promise.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. But why?” + </p> + <p> + “I won't tell you,” she says, decidedly; and, when he looks at her in mute + protest, she laughs merrily at his helplessness. So they go on up the + avenue. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V — A LODGING BY THE RIVER + </h2> + <p> + The day after his introduction to the Kenbys, Larcher went with Murray + Davenport on one of those expeditions incidental to their collaboration as + writer and illustrator. Larcher had observed an increase of the strange + indifference which had appeared through all the artist's loquacity at + their first interview. This loquacity was sometimes repeated, but more + often Davenport's way was of silence. His apathy, or it might have been + abstraction, usually wore the outer look of dreaminess. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend seems to go about in a trance,” Barry Tompkins said of him + one day, after a chance meeting in which Larcher had made the two + acquainted. + </p> + <p> + This was a near enough description of the man as he accompanied Larcher to + a part of the riverfront not far from the Brooklyn Bridge, on the + afternoon at which we have arrived. The two were walking along a squalid + street lined on one side with old brick houses containing junk-shops, + shipping offices, liquor saloons, sailors' hotels, and all the various + establishments that sea-folk use. On the other side were the wharves, with + a throng of vessels moored, and glimpses of craft on the broad river. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are,” said Larcher, who as he walked had been referring to a + pocket map of the city. The two men came to a stop, and Davenport took + from a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century, + representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this with the + scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport then + looked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon on the + ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottles in + the window. + </p> + <p> + “If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows up + there,” said Davenport, glancing at the first story over the saloon. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we go in and see what can be done,” suggested Larcher. + </p> + <p> + They found the saloon a small, homely place, with only one attendant + behind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing some + sort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third old + fellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seated by + himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly all + head-lines. + </p> + <p> + Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who lived + overhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect, + gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, and + finally vouchsafed the single word: + </p> + <p> + “Roomers.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see the person that has the front room up one flight,” + began Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “All right; that won't cost you nothing. There he sets.” And the barkeeper + pointed to the rural-looking old man with the newspaper, at the same time + calling out, sportively: “Hey, Mr. Bud, here's a couple o' gents wants to + look at you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud, who was tall, spare, and bent, about sixty, and the possessor of + a pleasant knobby face half surrounded by a gray beard that stretched from + ear to ear beneath his lower jaw, dropped his paper and scrutinized the + young men benevolently. They went over to him, and Larcher explained their + intrusion with as good a grace as possible. + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly, certainly,” the old man chirped with alacrity. “Glad to + have yuh. I'll be proud to do anything in the cause of literature. Come + right up.” And he rose and led the way to the street door. + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Mr. Bud,” said the jocular barkeeper. “Don't let them sell you + no gold bricks or nothin'. I never see them before, so you can't hold me + if you lose your money.” + </p> + <p> + “You keep your mouth shut, Mick,” answered the old man, “and send me up a + bottle o' whisky and a siphon o' seltzer as soon as your side partner + comes in. This way, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + He conducted them out to the sidewalk, and then in through another door, + and up a narrow stairway, to a room with two windows overlooking the + river. It was a room of moderate size, provided with old furniture, a + faded carpet, mended curtains, and lithographs of the sort given away with + Sunday newspapers. It had, in its shabbiness, that curious effect of + cosiness and comfort which these shabby old rooms somehow possess, and + luxurious rooms somehow lack. A narrow bed in a corner was covered with an + old-fashioned patchwork quilt. There was a cylindrical stove, but not in + use, as the weather had changed since the day before; and beside the + stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partly full of coal. + While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud was offering chairs, + Davenport made directly for the window and looked out with an interest + limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so. + </p> + <p> + “This is my city residence,” said the host, dropping into a chair. “It + ain't every hard-worked countryman, these times, that's able to keep up a + city residence.” As this was evidently one of Mr. Bud's favorite jests, + Larcher politically smiled. Mr. Bud soon showed that he had other favorite + jests. “Yuh see, I make my livin' up the State, but every now and then I + feel like comin' to the city for rest and quiet, and so I keep this place + the year round.” + </p> + <p> + “You come to New York for rest and quiet?” exclaimed Larcher, still kindly + feigning amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Why not? As fur as rest goes, I just loaf around and watch other + people work. That's what I call rest with a sauce to it. And as fur as + quiet goes, I get used to the noises. Any sound that don't concern me, + don't annoy me. I go about unknown, with nobody carin' what my business + is, or where I'm bound fur. Now in the country everybody wants to know + where from, and where to, and what fur. The only place to be reely alone + is where thur's so many people that one man don't count for anything. And + talk about noise!—What's all the clatter and bang amount to, if it's + got nothin' to do with your own movements? Now at my home where the noise + consists of half a dozen women's voices askin' me about this, and wantin' + that, and callin' me to account for t'other,—that's the kind o' + noise that jars a man. Yuh see, I got a wife and four daughters. They're + very good women—very good women, the whole bunch—but I do find + it restful and refreshin' to take the train to New York about once a + month, and loaf around a week or so without anybody takin' notice, and no + questions ast.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does your family say to that?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothin', now. They used to say considerable when I first fell into the + habit. I hev some poultry customers here in the city, and I make out I got + to come to look after business. That story don't go fur with the fam'ly; + but they hev their way about everything else, so they got to gimme my way + about this.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport turned around from the window, and spoke for the first time + since entering: + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't occupy this room more than half the time?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, I close it up, and thank the Lord there ain't nothin' in it + worth stealin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in that case,” Davenport went on, “if I began some sketches here, and + you left town before they were done, I should have to go somewhere else to + finish them.” + </p> + <p> + It was a remark that made Larcher wonder a little, at the moment, knowing + the artist's usual methods of work. But Mr. Bud, ignorant of such matters, + replied without question: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know. That might be fixed all right, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “I see you have a library,” said Davenport, abruptly, walking over to a + row of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His sudden + interest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise in + Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the old man, with pride and affection, “them books is my + chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and + again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three that's + pretty rough travellin'. But the others!—well, I've tried a good + many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of + novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people + in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would blow + 'em away. But look at the <i>body</i> to Scott's people! They're all the + way round, and clear through, his characters are.—Of course, I'm no + literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion.” Mr. Bud's + manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its bold + enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “Your small opinion is quite right,” said Davenport. “There's no doubt + about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters.” He took one + of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on with + brightened eyes. “Andrew Fairservice—there's a character. 'Gude e'en—gude + e'en t' ye'—how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a wild + slip, that'—there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant + in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the + hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as + fast as he can.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol + Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him.” The old man + grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another + to praise, his favorite author. + </p> + <p> + “Interesting old illustrations these are,” said Davenport, taking up + another volume. “Dryburgh Abbey—that's how it looks on a gray day. I + was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” exclaimed Mr. Bud. “You been to Dryburgh Abbey?—to Scott's + grave?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which + was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had + been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New + York. + </p> + <p> + “You don't say! Well, to think of it! I <i>am</i> happy to meet you. By + George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe + you've seen Abbotsford?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the + house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud's excitement was great. “Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and + High Street—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the + Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands + of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “That's all too fur away from home fur me. The + women are afraid o' the water, and they'd never let me go alone. I kind o' + just drifted into this New York business, but if I undertook to go across + the ocean, that <i>would</i> be the last straw. And I'm afraid I couldn't + get on to the manners and customs over there. They say everything's + different from here. To tell the truth, I'm timid where I don't know the + ways. If I was like you—I shouldn't wonder if you'd been to some of + the other places where things happen in his novels?” + </p> + <p> + With a smile, Davenport began to enumerate and describe. The old man sat + enraptured. The whisky and seltzer came up, and the host saw that the + glasses were filled and refilled, but he kept Davenport to the same + subject. Larcher felt himself quite out of the talk, but found + compensation in the whisky and in watching the old man's greedy enjoyment + of Davenport's every word. The afternoon waned, and all opportunity of + making the intended sketches passed for that day. Mr. Bud was for lighting + up, or inviting the young men to dinner, but they found pretexts for + tearing themselves away. They did not go, however, until Davenport had + arranged to come the next day and perform his neglected task. Mr. Bud + accompanied them out, and stood on the corner looking after them until + they were out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “You've made a hit with the agriculturist,” said Larcher, as they took + their way through a narrow street of old warehouses toward the region of + skyscrapers and lower Broadway. + </p> + <p> + “Scott is evidently his hobby,” replied Davenport, with a careless smile, + “and I liked to please him in it.” + </p> + <p> + He lapsed into that reticence which, as it was his manner during most of + the time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the more + remarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came on + in Larcher's presence. + </p> + <p> + It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner in + Madison Avenue, and he thus found himself not far from Davenport's abode. + Going thither upon an impulse, he beheld the artist seated at the table, + leaning forward over a confusion of old books, some of them open. He + looked pallid in the light of the reading lamp at his elbow, and his eyes + seemed withdrawn deep into their hollows. He welcomed his visitor with + conventional politeness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“How's this?” began Larcher. “Do I find you pondering, + + '... weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore?'” + </pre> + <p> + “No; merely rambling over familiar fields.” Davenport held out the topmost + book. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Shakespeare,” laughed Larcher. “The Sonnets. Hello, you've marked + part of this.” + </p> + <p> + “Little need to mark anything so famous. But it comes closer to me than to + most men, I fancy.” And he recited slowly, without looking down at the + page: + </p> + <p> + 'When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my + outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look + upon myself, and curse my fate,'— + </p> + <p> + He stopped, whereupon Larcher, not to be behind, and also without having + recourse to the page, went on: + </p> + <p> + 'Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him + with friends possest, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,'— + </p> + <p> + “But I think that hits all men,” said Larcher, interrupting himself. + “Everybody has wished himself in somebody else's shoes, now and again, + don't you believe?” + </p> + <p> + “I have certainly wished myself out of my own shoes,” replied Davenport, + almost with vehemence. “I have hated myself and my failures, God knows! I + have wished hard enough that I were not I. But I haven't wished I were any + other person now existing. I wouldn't change selves with this particular + man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throw off the burden + of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my life and conduct, and + take up the burden of some other man's—though I should be the gainer + even by that, in a thousand cases I could name.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't exactly mean changing with somebody else,” said Larcher. “We + all prefer to remain ourselves, with our own tastes, I suppose. But we + often wish our lot was like somebody else's.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport shook his head. “I don't prefer to remain myself, any more than + to be some man whom I know or have heard of. I am tired of myself; weary + and sick of Murray Davenport. To be a new man, of my own imagining—that + would be something;—to begin afresh, with an unencumbered + personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning and find that I was + not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I know of, but a + different self, formed according to ideals of my own. There <i>would</i> + be a liberation!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Larcher, “if a man can't change to another self, he can at + least change his place and his way of life.” + </p> + <p> + “But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the new place. + And even change of scene and habits is next to impossible without money.” + </p> + <p> + “I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enough + for me just now,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Davenport's only reply was a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you had the money, and could live as you liked, where would <i>you</i> + go?” demanded Larcher, slightly nettled. + </p> + <p> + “I would live a varied life. Probably it would have four phases, generally + speaking, of unequal duration and no fixed order. For one phase, the chief + scene would be a small secluded country-house in an old walled garden. + There would be the home of my books, and the centre of my walks over moors + and hills. From this, I would transport myself, when the mood came, to the + intellectual society of some large city—that of London would be most + to my choice. Mind you, I say the <i>intellectual</i> society; a far + different thing from the Society that spells itself with a capital S.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not of New York? There's intellectual society here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; a trifle fussy and self-conscious, though. I should prefer a society + more reposeful. From this, again, I would go to the life of the streets + and byways of the city. And then, for the fourth phase, to the direct + contemplation of art—music, architecture, sculpture, painting;—to + haunting the great galleries, especially of Italy, studying and copying + the old masters. I have no desire to originate. I should be satisfied, in + the arts, rather to receive than to give; to be audience and spectator; to + contemplate and admire.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope you may have your wish yet,” was all that Larcher could say. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>should</i> like to have just one whack at life before I finish,” + replied Davenport, gazing thoughtfully into the shadow beyond the + lamplight. “Just one taste of comparative happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you ever had even one?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I had, for a brief season, but I was deceived.” (Larcher + remembered the talk of an inconstant woman.) “No, I have never been + anything like happy. My father was a cold man who chilled all around him. + He died when I was a boy, and left my mother and me to poverty. My mother + loved me well enough; she taught me music, encouraged my studies, and + persuaded a distant relation to send me to the College of Medicine and + Surgery; but her life was darkened by grief, and the darkness fell over + me, too. When she died, my relation dropped me, and I undertook to make a + living in New York. There was first the struggle for existence, then the + sickening affair of that play; afterward, misfortune enough to fill a + dozen biographies, the fatal reputation of ill luck, the brief dream of + consolation in the love of woman, the awakening,—and the rest of + it.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, to the + book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which they had + already been quoting: + </p> + <p> + 'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising—Haply I think on + thee; and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From + sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love—' + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +He broke off, and closed the book. “'For thy sweet love,'” he repeated. +“You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those +lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly +song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,—a little +poem of Frank L. Stanton's.” He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a +light baritone: + + 'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong, + For God gives grief with the gift of song, + And poverty, too; but your love is more—' +</pre> + <p> + Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. “What an ass I was! As + if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never be disheartened,” said Larcher. “Your time is to come; you'll + have your 'whack at life' yet.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two of + the dreams of youth—the dreams an unhappy lad consoled himself + with.” + </p> + <p> + “What were they?” inquired Larcher. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“What were they not, that is fine and pleasant? I had my share of diverse +ambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, in +Longfellow: + + <i>'For a boy's will is the wind's will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'”</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI — THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + </h2> + <p> + A month passed. All the work in which Larcher had enlisted Davenport's + cooperation was done. Larcher would have projected more, but the artist + could not be pinned down to any definite engagement. He was non-committal, + with the evasiveness of apathy. He seemed not to care any longer about + anything. More than ever he appeared to go about in a dream. Larcher might + have suspected some drug-taking habit, but for having observed the man so + constantly, at such different hours, and often with so little warning, as + to be convinced to the contrary. + </p> + <p> + One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and the beauty + of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a sense of + life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met his + friend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his inner + contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as a man + could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped, + however, when Larcher did. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” the latter asked. + </p> + <p> + “Home,” was the reply; thus amended the next instant: “To my room, that + is.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll walk with you, if you don't mind. I feel like stretching my legs.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to have you,” said Davenport, indifferently. They turned from + Broadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of which + rose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larcher + called the artist's attention to it. Davenport replied by quoting, + mechanically: + </p> + <p> + “'With how slow steps, O moon, thou clim'st the sky, How silently, and + with how wan a face!'” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad to see you out on so fine a night,” pursued Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I came out on business,” said the other. “I got a request by telegraph + from the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurry + call' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, to + look after a few matters in his absence.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust you'll find them interesting,” said Larcher, comparing his own + failure with Bagley's success in obtaining Davenport's services. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the slightest,” replied Davenport. + </p> + <p> + “Then remunerative, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Not sufficiently to attract <i>me</i>,” said the other. + </p> + <p> + “Then, if you'll pardon the remark, I really can't understand—” + </p> + <p> + “Mere force of habit,” replied Davenport, listlessly. “When he summons, I + attend. When he entrusts, I accept. I've done it so long, and so often, I + can't break myself of the habit. That is, of course, I could if I chose, + but it would require an effort, and efforts aren't worth while at this + stage.” + </p> + <p> + With little more talk, they arrived at the artist's house. + </p> + <p> + “If you talk of moonlight,” said Davenport, in a manner of some + kindliness, “you should see its effect on the back yards, from my windows. + You know how half-hearted the few trees look in the daytime; but I don't + think you've seen that view on a moonlight night. The yards, taken as a + whole, have some semblance to a real garden. Will you come up?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher assented readily. A minute later, while his host was seeking + matches, he looked down from the dark chamber, and saw that the + transformation wrought in the rectangular space of back yards had not been + exaggerated. The shrubbery by the fences might have sheltered fairies. The + boughs of the trees, now leafless, gently stirred. Even the plain + house-backs were clad in beauty. + </p> + <p> + When Larcher turned from the window, Davenport lighted the gas, but not + his lamp; then drew from an inside pocket, and tossed on the table, + something which Larcher took to be a stenographer's note-book, narrow, + thick, and with stiff brown covers. Its unbound end was confined by a thin + rubber band. Davenport opened a drawer of the table, and essayed to sweep + the book thereinto by a careless push. The book went too far, struck the + arm of a chair, flew open at the breaking of the overstretched rubber, + fell on its side by the chair leg, and disclosed a pile of bank-notes. + These, tightly flattened, were the sole contents of the covers. As + Larcher's startled eyes rested upon them, he saw that the topmost bill was + for five hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + Davenport exhibited a momentary vexation, then picked up the bills, and + laid them on the table in full view. + </p> + <p> + “Bagley's money,” said he, sitting down before the table. “I'm to place it + for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carrying out + personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business to the + reliable Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of so + much money,” said Larcher, who had taken a chair near his friend. + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose there's another man in New York to-night with so much + ready money on his person,” said Davenport, smiling. “These are large + bills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walking + about with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket.” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were—” Larcher + checked himself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Davenport, unmoved. “Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that + morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to + very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could + make it go far—exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a + congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am + I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat it + as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?” + </p> + <p> + He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them + in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying + there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this + up, and handed it to Larcher, saying: + </p> + <p> + “You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you + make of this man's character?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise, + round hand: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR DAVENPORT:—I will meet you at the place and time you + suggest. We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our + different ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, + still less. Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + “FRANCIS TURL.” + </h3> + <p> + “Francis Turl,” repeated Larcher. “I never heard the name before.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose you never have,” replied Davenport, dryly. “But what + character would you infer from his penmanship?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,—I don't know.” Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. “An + educated person, I should think; even scholarly, perhaps. Fastidious, + steady, exact, reserved,—that's about all.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very much,” said Davenport, taking back the sheet. “You merely + describe the handwriting itself. Your characterization, as far as it goes, + would fit men who write very differently from this. It fits me, for + instance, and yet look at my angular scrawl.” He held up a specimen of his + own irregular hand, beside the elegant penmanship of the note, and Larcher + had to admit himself a humbug as a graphologist. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he demanded, “did my description happen to fit that particular man—Francis + Turl?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, more or less,” said Davenport, evasively, as if not inclined to give + any information about that person. This apparent disinclination increased + Larcher's hidden curiosity as to who Francis Turl might be, and why + Davenport had never mentioned him before, and what might be between the + two for settlement. + </p> + <p> + Davenport put Turl's writing back into the drawer, but continued to regard + his own. “'A vile cramped hand,'” he quoted. “I hate it, as I have grown + to hate everything that partakes of me, or proceeds from me. Sometimes I + fancy that my abominable handwriting had as much to do with alienating a + certain fair inconstant as the news of my reputed unluckiness. Both coming + to her at once, the combined effect was too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?—Did you break that news to her by letter?” + </p> + <p> + “That seems strange to you, perhaps. But you see, at first it didn't occur + to me that I should have to break it to her at all. We met abroad; we were + tourists whose paths happened to cross. Over there I almost forgot about + the bad luck. It wasn't till both of us were back in New York, that I felt + I should have to tell her, lest she might hear it first from somebody + else. But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough to make me put the + revelation off from day to day. The more I put it off, the more difficult + it seemed—you know how the smallest matter, even the writing of an + overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So this little ordeal got + magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't brace myself to go + through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in his affairs, and he + kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I got free, I was surprised + to find she had left town. I hadn't the least idea where she'd gone; till + one day I received a letter from her. She wrote as if she thought I had + known where she was; she reproached me with negligence, but was friendly + nevertheless. I replied at once, clearing myself of the charge; and in + that same letter I unburdened my soul of the bad luck secret. It was + easier to write it than speak it.” + </p> + <p> + “And what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I never heard from her again.” + </p> + <p> + “But your letter may have miscarried,—something of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. + She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. + But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a + one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history + of Murray Davenport.—She was a fine young woman, as the world + judges; she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You + remember his library—made up entirely of Scott?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of + living did.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the + country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in + the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short + spell,' as he calls it.” + </p> + <p> + “You still keep in touch with him?” asked Larcher, in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable—allowing me the use of his room + to sketch in.” + </p> + <p> + “Even during his absence?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. + He's proud of them.” + </p> + <p> + Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on + the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This + stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent for + a moment; then rose, with the words: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit + garden. When shall I see you again?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't + find me here.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I shall + have them day after to-morrow. Let's see—I'm engaged for that day. + How will the next day suit you?” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Come the next day if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch + together.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!” + </p> + <p> + “Good night!” + </p> + <p> + At the door, Larcher turned for a moment in passing out, and saw Davenport + standing by the table, looking after him. What was the inscrutable + expression—half amusement, half friendliness and self-accusing + regret—which faintly relieved for a moment the indifference of the + man's face? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII — MYSTERY BEGINS + </h2> + <p> + The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dull + person in not having yet put this and that together and associated the + love-affair of Murray Davenport with the “romance” of Miss Florence Kenby. + One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, and her + inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair of + connecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probably judge + otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought to Larcher's + notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation, as she + necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fully in + possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were the + circumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up his life, + as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's “romance” had + been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had given up a lover to + please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandoned him because he was + unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such a woman, and so of a + different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. To be sure, he knew now + that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but so had most young women. In + short, the small connecting facts had no such significance in his mind, + where they were not grouped away from other facts, as they must have in + these pages, where their very presence together implies inter-relation. + </p> + <p> + In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightly upon + the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessed that + those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But a certain + manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point in spite of + all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenport ascribed + the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's present opinion of + her. “He was thrown over by some woman whose name he never mentions; since + then he has steered clear of the sex,” was what Larcher replied to Edna a + hundred times, in a hundred different sets of phrases; and it was all he + replied on the subject. + </p> + <p> + So matters stood until two days after the interview related in the + previous chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said that for + the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointed the third + day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement for the second day + was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at a riding-school. Upon + arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mild protection of her + easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in the arrangement. To this + he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well as beautiful; and Larcher + was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Edna that he could play the + cavalier to one pretty girl as well as to another. He did not, however, + manage to disturb her serenity at all during the afternoon. The three + returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of the utmost readiness for + afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. To make things pleasanter, + Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking a nap. The three young + people had the drawing-room, with its bright coal fire, to themselves. + </p> + <p> + Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid who + placed the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have been + transported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat was her + black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so clean her + slender hands. + </p> + <p> + “What a sweet place you have, Edna,” remarked Florence Kenby, looking + around. + </p> + <p> + “So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make it + sweeter, for good, you've only got to move in.” + </p> + <p> + Florence laughed, but with something very like a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “What, are you willing to take boarders?” said Larcher. “If that's the + case, put me down as the first applicant.” + </p> + <p> + “Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, and + no gentlemen need apply. Two lumps, Flo dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please.—If only your restrictions didn't keep out poor father—” + </p> + <p> + “If only your poor father would consider your happiness instead of his own + selfish plans.” + </p> + <p> + “Edna, dear! You mustn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Why mustn't I?” replied Edna, pouring tea. “Truth's truth. He's your + father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would + do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have + better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why + doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the + reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own projects. + You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read your father + like a book the first time he ever met him.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked + very wise and penetrative. + </p> + <p> + “I should think your father himself would be happier,” said he, “if he + lived less privately and had more of men's society.” + </p> + <p> + “He's often in poor health,” replied Florence. + </p> + <p> + “In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium, + where the life is as luxurious as can be.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he—weren't altogether + unselfish about me, there would always be my promise.” + </p> + <p> + “What does that matter—such a promise?” inquired Edna, between sips + of tea. + </p> + <p> + “You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear,” said + Florence, smiling. “But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred.” + </p> + <p> + “Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not all,” replied Larcher. “It's like this: When you make a bad + promise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, you + perpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break the + promise.” + </p> + <p> + “Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, and + your promise did inaugurate a wrong—a wrong against yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, it's allowable to wrong oneself,” said Florence. + </p> + <p> + “But not one's friends—one's true, disinterested friends. And as for + that other promise of yours—that <i>fearful</i> promise!—you + can't deny you wronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a choice between him and my father,” replied Florence, in a low + voice, and turning very red. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?” cried Edna, her eyes and + tone showing that the subject was a heating one. “Which was likely to + suffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers <i>don't</i> + die in those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics <i>must</i> + have been put on for effect. Oh, don't tell me!—it makes me wild to + think of it! Your father would have been all right in a week; whereas the + other man's whole life is darkened.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say that, dear,” pleaded Florence, gently. “Men soon get over such + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so awfully soon;—not sincere men. Their views of life are + changed, for all time. And <i>this</i> man seems to grow more and more + melancholy, if what Tom says is true.” + </p> + <p> + “What I say?” exclaimed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + The two girls looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness! I <i>have</i> given it away!” cried Edna. + </p> + <p> + “More and more melancholy?” repeated Larcher. “Why, that must be Murray + Davenport. Was he the—? Then you must be the—! But surely <i>you</i> + wouldn't have given him up on account of the bad luck nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “Bad luck nonsense?” echoed Edna, while Miss Kenby looked bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “The silly idea of some foolish people, that he carried bad luck with + him,” Larcher explained, addressing Florence. “He sent you a letter about + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I never got any such letter from him,” said Florence, in wonderment. + </p> + <p> + “Then you didn't know? And that had nothing to do with your giving him + up?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that—But the letter you + speak of—when was it? I never had a letter from him after I left + town. He didn't even answer when I told him we were going.” + </p> + <p> + “Because he never heard you were going. He got a letter after you had + gone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There must have + been some strange defect in your mail arrangements.” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarried + between us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains to + clear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time—” She + stopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering. + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of your father,” said Larcher, “you must have got a subsequent + letter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receipt came + back with your father's signature.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I never got that, either,” said Florence, before the inference struck + her. When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless, wounded + look, and blushed as if the shame were her own. + </p> + <p> + Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her + friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you tell me all this before?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about the + letters till the night before last.” + </p> + <p> + “And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him + over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, more or less,—and the general fickleness of the sex.” + </p> + <p> + “General fick—! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on + thinking so?” + </p> + <p> + “But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told me + it was for her you wanted news of him—” + </p> + <p> + “Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some + news of <i>her</i>. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such + paltry, childish motive.” + </p> + <p> + “By George, I agree with you!” cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. “If + you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss Kenby! + I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to that; he had + causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away all + consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it made him so bitter?” asked Florence, sadly. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for + strong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to the last + stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch to making + his life a wearisome drudgery, without motive or hope.” + </p> + <p> + Florence sighed deeply. + </p> + <p> + “To think that he could believe such a thing of Florence,” put in Edna. + “I'm sure <i>I</i> couldn't. Could you, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + “When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions,” + said Larcher, authoritatively. “He exaggerates both the favors and the + rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he + thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his sufferings. + As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty correspondingly great. + Nobody will believe such good things of a woman as the man who loves her; + but nobody will believe such bad things if matters go wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. “So I really think, Miss + Kenby, if you'll pardon me,” Larcher continued, “that Murray Davenport + ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if matters never go + any further, he ought to know that you still—h'm—feel an + interest in him—still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your + solicitude—how it was the cause of my looking him up—I can see + through all that now—” + </p> + <p> + “I can never thank you enough—and Edna,” said Florence, in a + tremulous voice. + </p> + <p> + “No thanks are due me,” replied Larcher, emphatically. “I value his + acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your real + motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to see you + again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life. I'm sure it + would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in humanity. It would + console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet to him. It would + change the color of his view of life; give him hope and strength; make a + new man of him.” + </p> + <p> + Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. “I should be so glad,” she + said, gently, “if—if only—you see, I promised not to hold any + sort of communication with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that promise!” cried Edna. “Just think how it was obtained. And think + about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't release you, + I wonder what!” + </p> + <p> + Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder. + </p> + <p> + “Moreover,” said Larcher, “you won't be holding communication. The matter + has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky + forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him + to-morrow, anyhow—it looks as though it had all been ordained. I + really don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby.” + </p> + <p> + Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and + a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared. + </p> + <p> + “You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather + have than to see him made happy.” + </p> + <p> + “If you'd like to see it with your own eyes,” said Larcher, “let me send + him to you for the news.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came + to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of + meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys + to anybody. “Well,” said he, “in that case, Murray Davenport shall be made + happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it,” cried + Edna. “Flo, you <i>must</i> be here for the news, if I have to go in a + hansom and kidnap you.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I can come voluntarily,” said Florence, smiling through her + tears. + </p> + <p> + “And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any + silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea + get cold. I must have another cup.” And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot + water. + </p> + <p> + The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and laughter; + the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous cause of + love and truth against the old, old foes—mercenary design, false + appearance, and mistaken duty. + </p> + <p> + Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time + previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out + his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the + disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his + friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the + appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. + Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's + lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room,” he said to the negro boy at + the door. + </p> + <p> + “All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,” + replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand. + </p> + <p> + Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. “When did that + telegram come?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Last evening.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he + hasn't been in?” + </p> + <p> + Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming of + somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, with + tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly look. + Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?” she asked, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that engagement?” + </p> + <p> + “On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?—What's the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport hasn't + been home for two days!” + </p> + <p> + “Two days! Why, that's rather strange!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either told + me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about saving + me trouble or anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + “And this time he said nothing about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the + morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry + any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel wrapped + in brown paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now—If he + doesn't soon turn up—What do you think about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of mysterious + disappearance—that's what I think!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII — MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + </h2> + <p> + Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher + spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now.” + </p> + <p> + The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street. But + no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he left a note for me on the table,” said Larcher. “I have the + freedom of his room, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Go up and see, then. I'll go with you.” + </p> + <p> + The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a + person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. None + of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or + covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing + addressed to Larcher or anybody else. + </p> + <p> + “It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon,” remarked the + landlady. + </p> + <p> + “It certainly does.” Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. + He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession + at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on + leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but something + checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a way that + seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly wished to keep + it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Larcher, “he might have met with an accident.” + </p> + <p> + “I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's + nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked + down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd + meant to stay away so long?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he met + me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some + time.” + </p> + <p> + “No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little + money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me + for another month.' He knew I gener'ly—had use for money whenever it + happened along. He was a kind-hearted—I mean he <i>is</i> a + kind-hearted man. Hear me speakin' of him as if—What's that?” + </p> + <p> + It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned + to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came + almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the flight + above. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up,” said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected + whisper. + </p> + <p> + The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the + hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance + became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill + and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of the + landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?” said she, + still in a lowered voice. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general + alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I believe. + There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened without + sufficient cause.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send + out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make + a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better + wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he + hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment, + though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a + fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons + for this, how we shall all feel.” + </p> + <p> + “He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only + friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good + many single men are,—that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days + at a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it. + But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow, till + you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll + give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then, if + he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance he + might be. I've only just now thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had + spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might + have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance—a + bare chance—of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that + place or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of + him than Mrs. Haze had. + </p> + <p> + That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the + very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled + Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything in + connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and the + solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say to the + girls when he met them at tea? + </p> + <p> + At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went down-stairs, + and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised to return about + four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an elevated car, and + out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to imagine his friend had + by that time arrived home. This feeling remained with him all the way + down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the house on the + water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at Mr. Bud's + door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in the + ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the + thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked. + </p> + <p> + “Evidently nobody at home,” said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs + again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had + seen on his first visit to the place. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I might find a friend of mine here,” he said, after ordering a + drink. “Perhaps you remember—we were here together five or six weeks + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember all right enough,” said the bar-keeper. “He ain't here now.” + </p> + <p> + “He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old + man Bud.” + </p> + <p> + “What day was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see, I guess it was—naw, it was Monday, because it was the + day before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud + did.” + </p> + <p> + It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. “And so + you haven't seen my friend since Monday?” he asked, insistently. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said.” + </p> + <p> + “When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “You can search <i>me,</i>” was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing + all knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions. + </p> + <p> + Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling + that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he + was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. + It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The + telegram was still on the hat-stand. + </p> + <p> + “Any news?” asked the landlady, appearing from the rear. + </p> + <p> + “No. I was hoping you might have some.” + </p> + <p> + After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his + engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is!” cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high + spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in + great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet + unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “Well? Well? Well?” said Edna. “How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your + good news, and then we'll tell you ours.” Florence only watched his face, + but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's + noise. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the fact is,” began Larcher, embarrassed, “I can't tell you any + good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me to-day, + and I haven't been able to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “Not able to see him?” Edna exclaimed, hotly. “Why didn't you go and find + him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with men—always + afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an unreliable, + helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!” + </p> + <p> + Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied: + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've + spent the afternoon doing that.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman would have managed to find out where he was,” retorted Edna. + </p> + <p> + “His landlady's a woman,” rejoined Larcher, doggedly, “and she hasn't + managed to find out.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she been trying to?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—no,” stammered Larcher, repenting. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she has!” said Edna, with a changed manner. “But what for? Why is + she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom—I can tell by your + looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?” + </p> + <p> + A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier + or pleasanter. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away + from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his + landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?” + persisted Edna. + </p> + <p> + “No. I suppose it slipped his mind.” + </p> + <p> + “And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?” + </p> + <p> + “Not when I saw her last—about half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Well!” ejaculated Edna. “That <i>is</i> a mysterious disappearance!” + </p> + <p> + The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental + observation in the moment's silence that followed,—a silence broken + by a low cry from Florence Kenby. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if anything has happened to him!” + </p> + <p> + The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which + Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time + he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed + by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport, + undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to + raise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men + often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's + quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom says.” + </p> + <p> + “As I say!” exclaimed Larcher. “<i>I</i> don't say it's bad at all. It's + your own imagination, Edna,—your sudden and sensational imagination. + There's no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says—” + </p> + <p> + “But I must make sure,” interrupted Florence. “If anything <i>is</i> + wrong, we're losing time. He must be sought for—the police must be + notified.” + </p> + <p> + “His landlady—a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze—spoke + of that, and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to + wait awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got + noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of things—as + of course he will—why, how foolish we should all feel!” + </p> + <p> + “What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how he + would hate that sort of publicity.” + </p> + <p> + “That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if + you knew my anxiety!” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters + at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go + around to the—to other places where people inquire in such cases.” + </p> + <p> + “And you'll let me know immediately—as soon as you find out + anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?” + </p> + <p> + “Stay here to-night, Florence,” put in Edna. “It will be all right, <i>now</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher.” + </p> + <p> + Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little. + </p> + <p> + “She's had an understanding with her father,” said Edna, having noted his + look. “She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Florence, “I—I had a talk with him—I spoke to him + about those letters, and he finally—explained the matter. We settled + many things. He released me from the promise we were talking about + yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! That's excellent news!” + </p> + <p> + “It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a + disappointment,” bemoaned Edna. + </p> + <p> + “It's news that will change the world for Davenport,” replied Larcher. “I + <i>must</i> find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he + wouldn't be long missing.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be too cruel if any harm befell him”—Florence's voice + quivered as she spoke—“at this time, of all times. It would be the + crowning misfortune.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see how Heaven could allow it,” said Florence, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he's simply <i>got</i> to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can + go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you on + the way?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would + stop at a telegraph-office—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “There's a call-box down-stairs. + I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While + they waited for that, she asked, cautiously: + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before + Florence?” + </p> + <p> + A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again he + felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and + should be treated by him—for the present, at least—as + non-existent. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied. “I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So + far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves, + probably, for having been at all worked up over it.—She's a lovely + girl, isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself.” + </p> + <p> + “She's proof against your charms,” said Edna, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm + brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern if + <i>I</i> were missing?” + </p> + <p> + “I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in + suspense. You're a dear boy! <i>Au revoir!</i>” + </p> + <p> + With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish + motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This + time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home; yet + it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The same + deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was mirrored in + the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no news. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in + which, the choice being “optional,” sundry of the lodgers took their rooms + “with board.” Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of “helping + out” the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself disguised + as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and threw on her + things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There she told all + that was necessary, to an official at a desk,—a big, comfortable man + with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman, after briefly + questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible notes, and setting + a subordinate to looking through the latest entries in a large record, + dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was proper to be done <i>would</i> + be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with him, as if he doubted, not + only that Murray Davenport was missing, but that any such person as Murray + Davenport existed to <i>be</i> missing; as if he merely indulged his + visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as if in any case the matter + was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate reported that nothing in + the record for the past two days showed any such man, or the body of any + such man, to have come under the all-seeing eye of the police. + Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an investigation should + be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that no dead body had been + found, and repeated that all proper steps would be taken. With this grain + of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned to her bread pudding, + for which her boarders were by that time waiting. + </p> + <p> + When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed + to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any + considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently + allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. “Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think so,” + she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so short, and + might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not yet warrant + the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished to keep + private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be made from + that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at the + inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard his + friend from that. + </p> + <p> + Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he + required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine at + her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat at one + of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking together + are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in the world. He + soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely given his order + when in sauntered Barry Tompkins. + </p> + <p> + “Stop right here,” cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and + pulling him into a seat. “You are commandeered.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner first, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Do you give me <i>carte blanche</i> with the bill of fare? May + I roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?” + </p> + <p> + “None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals, + station-houses, morgue, <i>et cetera</i>. There's a man missing. You've + made those rounds before.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and + again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to him + in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have + search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's + the latest victim of the strenuous life?” + </p> + <p> + “Murray Davenport!” + </p> + <p> + “What! is he occurring again?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two + made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing + inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have ever + made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the experience, + and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure from a recital + of it. The long distances from point to point, the rebuffs from petty + officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless information from fools clad + in a little brief authority, the mingled hope and dread of coming upon the + object of the search at the next place, the recurring feeling that the + whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose chase and that the missing person + is now safe at home, are a few features of the disheartening business. The + labors of Larcher and Tompkins elicited nothing; lightened though they + were by the impecunious lawyer's tact, knowledge, and good humor, they + left the young men dispirited and dead tired. Larcher had nothing to + telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of her passing a sleepless night, waiting + for news, the dupe and victim of every sound that might herald a + messenger. He slept ill himself, the short time he had left for sleep. In + the morning he made a swift breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. + Davenport's room was still untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram + still lay unclaimed in the hall below. + </p> + <p> + Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night, + for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the + morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an + indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was + the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her + lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair, during + the ensuing days,—for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or heard + of the missing one,—but of these Larcher was not often a witness. + Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an + unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time + between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was + subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek, + cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He + volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of Davenport's + disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His diminution spoke + volumes for the unexpected force of personality Florence must have shown + in that unrelated interview about the letters, in which she had got back + her promise. + </p> + <p> + The burden of action during those ensuing days fell on Larcher. Besides + regular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house, + and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to every place + he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person he had ever + known Davenport to be acquainted with. Only, for a time Mr. Bagley had to + be excepted, he not having yet returned from Chicago. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that the big man at police headquarters had really caused the + proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house and searched + the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most of the + newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that Murray Davenport, “a + song-writer,” was missing from his lodging-house. Larcher hoped that this, + if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoy him, would certainly + bring word from him. But the man remained as silent as unseen. Was there, + indeed, what the newspapers call “foul play”? And was Larcher called upon + yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? The knowledge of that would + give the case an importance in the eyes of the police, but would it, even + if the worst had happened, do any good to Davenport? Larcher thought not; + and held his tongue. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance,—or, as + Larcher preferred to call it, non-appearance,—that gentleman, having + just sat down in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first + page of an evening paper—one of the yellow brand—which he had + bought a minute before. All at once he was struck in the face, + metaphorically speaking, by a particular set of headlines. He held his + breath, and read the following opening paragraph: + </p> + <p> + “The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phase + on the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has not + been seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house,—East——th + Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a large amount of + cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposes the previous + night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when he called this + morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the money should have been + handed over, he found that not a cent of it had been disposed of according + to orders. Davenport had for some years frequently acted as a secretary or + agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousands of dollars for the latter + in such a manner as to gain the highest confidence.” + </p> + <p> + There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times over + on the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girls were + sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Edna sprang to + her feet, and Florence's lips parted. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” cried Edna. “You've got news! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Not any news of <i>his</i> whereabouts.” + </p> + <p> + “What of, then? It's in that paper.” + </p> + <p> + She seized the yellow journal, and threw her glance from headline to + headline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate of + utterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer. + </p> + <p> + “Well! What do you think of <i>that</i>?” she said, and stopped to take + breath. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is true?” asked Florence. + </p> + <p> + “There is some reason to believe it is!” replied Larcher, awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + Florence rose, in great excitement. “Then this affair <i>must</i> be + cleared up!” she cried. “For don't you see? He may have been robbed—waylaid + for the money—made away with! God knows what else can have happened! + The newspaper hints that he ran away with the money. I'll never believe + that. It must be cleared up—I tell you it <i>must</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Edna tried to soothe the agitated girl, and looked sorrowfully at Larcher, + who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve the mystery. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX — MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + </h2> + <p> + A month passed, and it was not cleared up. Larcher became hopeless of ever + having sight or word of Murray Davenport again. For himself, he missed the + man; for the man, assuming a tragic fate behind the mystery, he had pity; + but his sorrow was keenest for Miss Kenby. No description, nothing but + experience, can inform the reader what was her torment of mind: to be so + impatient of suspense as to cry out as she had done, and yet perforce to + wait hour after hour, day after day, week after week, in the same + unrelieved anxiety,—this prolonged torture is not to be told in + words. She schooled herself against further outcries, but the evidence of + her suffering was no less in her settled look of baffled expectancy, her + fits of mute abstraction, the start of her eyes at any sound of bell or + knock. She clutched back hope as it was slipping away, and would not + surrender uncertainty for its less harrowing follower, despair. She had + resumed, as the probability of immediate news decreased, her former way of + existence, living with her father at the house in lower Fifth Avenue, + where Miss Hill saw her every day except when she went to see Miss Hill, + who denied herself the Horse Show, the football games, and the opera for + the sake of her friend. Larcher called on the Kenbys twice or thrice a + week, sometimes with Edna, sometimes alone. + </p> + <p> + There was one possibility which Larcher never mentioned to Miss Kenby in + discussing the case. He feared it might fit too well her own secret + thought. That was the possibility of suicide. What could be more + consistent with Davenport's outspoken distaste for life, as he found it, + or with his listless endurance of it, than a voluntary departure from it? + He had never talked suicide, but this, in his state of mind, was rather an + argument in favor of his having acted it. No threatened men live longer, + as a class, than those who have themselves as threateners. It was true, + Larcher had seen in Davenport's copy of Keats, this passage marked: + </p> + <p> + “... for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.” + </p> + <p> + But an unhappy man might endorse that saying without a thought of possible + self-destruction. So, for Davenport's very silence on that way of escape + from his tasteless life, Larcher thought he might have taken it. + </p> + <p> + He confided this thought to no less a person than Bagley, some weeks after + the return of that capitalist from Chicago. Two or three times, meeting by + chance, they had briefly discussed the disappearance, each being more than + willing to obtain whatever light the other might be able to throw on the + case. Finally Bagley, to whom Larcher had given his address, had sent for + him to call at the former's rooms on a certain evening. These rooms proved + to be a luxurious set of bachelor apartments in one of the new tall + buildings just off Broadway. Hard wood, stamped leather, costly rugs, + carved furniture, the richest upholstery, the art of the old world and the + inventiveness of the new, had made this a handsome abode at any time, and + a particularly inviting one on a cold December night. Larcher, therefore, + was not sorry he had responded to the summons. He found Bagley sharing + cigars and brandy with another man, a squat, burly, middle-aged stranger, + with a dyed mustache and the dress and general appearance of a retired + hotel-porter, cheap restaurant proprietor, theatre doorkeeper, or some + such useful but not interesting member of society. This person, for a + time, fulfilled the promise of his looks, of being uninteresting. On being + introduced to Larcher as Mr. Lafferty, he uttered a quick “Howdy,” with a + jerk of the head, and lapsed into a mute regard of tobacco smoke and + brandy bottle, which he maintained while Bagley and Larcher went more + fully into the Davenport case than they had before gone together. Larcher + felt that he was being sounded, but he saw no reason to withhold anything + except what related to Miss Kenby. It was now that he mentioned possible + suicide. + </p> + <p> + “Suicide? Not much,” said Bagley. “A man <i>would</i> be a chump to turn + on the gas with all that money about him. No, sir; it wasn't suicide. We + know that much.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>know</i> it?” exclaimed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we know it. A man don't make the preparations he did, when he's got + suicide on his mind. I guess we might as well put Mr. Larcher on, + Lafferty, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Jess' you say,” replied Mr. Lafferty, briefly. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” continued Bagley to Larcher, “I sent for you, so's I could pump + you in front of Lafferty here. I'm satisfied you've told all you know, and + though that's absolutely nothing at all—ain't that so, Lafferty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yep,—nothin' 'tall.” + </p> + <p> + “Though it's nothing at all, a fair exchange is no robbery, and I'm + willing for you to know as much as I do. The knowledge won't do you any + good—it hasn't done me any good—but it'll give you an insight + into your friend Davenport. Then you and his other friends, if he's got + any, won't roast me because I claim that he flew the coop and not that + somebody did him for the money. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; then we'll open your eyes. I guess you don't happen to know + who Mr. Lafferty here is, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he's a central office detective.” (Mr. Lafferty bore Larcher's look + of increased interest with becoming modesty.) “He's been on this case ever + since I came back from Chicago, and by a piece of dumb luck, he got next + to Davenport's trail for part of the day he was last seen. He'll tell you + how far he traced him. It's up to you now, Lafferty. Speak out.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lafferty, pretending to take as a good joke the attribution of his + discoveries to “dumb luck,” promptly discoursed in a somewhat thick but + rapid voice. + </p> + <p> + “On the Wednesday morning he was las' seen, he left the house about nine + o'clock, with a package wrapt in brown paper. I lose sight of'm f'r a + couple 'f hours, but I pick'm up again a little before twelve. He's still + got the same package. He goes into a certain department store, and buys a + suit o' clothes in the clothin' department; shirts, socks, an' + underclothes in the gents' furnishin' department; a pair o' shoes in the + shoe department, an' s'mother things in other departments. These he has + all done up in wrappin'-paper, pays fur 'em, and leaves 'em to be called + fur later. He then goes an' has his lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does he have his lunch?” asked Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind where he has his lunch,” said Mr. Lafferty, annoyed. “That's + got no bearin' on the case. After he has his lunch, he goes to a certain + big grocer's and provision dealer's, an' buys a lot o' canned meats and + various provisions,—I can give you a complete list if you want it.” + </p> + <p> + This last offer, accompanied by a movement of a hand to an inner pocket, + was addressed to Bagley, who declined with the words, “That's all right. + I've seen it before.” + </p> + <p> + “He has these things all done up in heavy paper, so's to make a dozen'r so + big packages. Then he pays fur 'em, an' leaves 'em to be called fur. It's + late in the afternoon by this time, and comin' on dark. Understand, he's + still got the 'riginal brown paper package with him. The next thing he + does is, he hires a cab, and has himself druv around to the department + store he was at before. He gets the things he bought there, an' puts 'em + on the cab, an' has himself druv on to the grocer's an' provision + dealer's, an' gets the packages he bought there, an' has them put <i>in</i> + the cab. The cab's so full o' his parcels now, he's only got just room fur + himself on the back seat. An' then he has the hackman drive to a place + away down-town.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lafferty paused for a moment to wet his throat with brandy and water. + Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shown in + withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reserving + something to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that the + man he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. + </p> + <p> + “By the description, of course,” replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust at + Larcher's inferiority of intelligence. “D'yuh s'pose I'd foller a man's + trail as fur as that, if everything didn't tally—face, eyes, nose, + height, build, clo'es, hat, brown paper parcel, everything?” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's simply marvellous,” said Larcher, with genuine astonishment, + “how you managed to get on his track, and to follow it from place to + place.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's my business to know how to do them things,” replied Mr. + Lafferty, deprecatingly. + </p> + <p> + “Your business!” said Bagley. “Dumb luck, I tell you. Can't you see how it + was?” He had turned to Larcher. “The cabman read of Davenport's + disappearance, and putting together the day, and the description in the + papers, and the queer load of parcels, goes and tells the police. Lafferty + is put on the case, pumps the cabman dry, then goes to the stores where + the cab stopped to collect the goods, and finds out the rest. Only, when + he comes to tell the story, he tells the facts not in their order as he + found them out, but in their order as they occurred.” + </p> + <p> + “You know all about it, Mr. Bagley,” said Lafferty, taking refuge in + jocular irony. “You'd ought 'a' worked up the case yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “You left Davenport being driven down-town,” Larcher reminded the + detective. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, an' that about lets me out. The cabman druv 'im to somewhere on + South Street, by the wharves. It was dark by that time, and the driver + didn't notice the exact spot—he just druv along the street till the + man told him to stop, that was his orders,—an' then the man got out, + took out his parcels, an' carried them across the sidewalk into a dark + hallway. Then he paid the cabman, an' the cabman druv off. The last the + cabman seen of 'im, he was goin' into the hallway where his goods were, + an' that's the last any one seen of 'im in New York, as fur as known. + Prob'ly you've got enough imagination to give a guess what became of him + after that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven't,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Jes' think it over. You can put two and two together, can't you? A new + outfit o' clo'es, first of all. Then a stock o' provisions. To make it + easier, I'll tell yuh this much: they was the kind o' provisions people + take on yachts, an' he even admitted to the salesman they was for that + purpose. And then South Street—the wharves; does that mean ships? + Does the whole business mean a voyage? But a man don't have to stock up + extry food if he's goin' by any regular steamer line, does he? What fur, + then? And what kind o' ships lays off South Street? Sailin' ships; them + that goes to South America, an' Asia, and the South Seas, and God knows + where all. Now do you think you can guess?” + </p> + <p> + “But why would he put his things in a hallway?” queried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “To wait fur the boat that was to take 'em out to the vessel late at + night. Why did he wait fur dark to be druv down there? You bet, he was + makin' his flittin' as silent as possible. He'd prob'ly squared it with a + skipper to take 'im aboard on the dead quiet. That's why there ain't much + use our knowin' what vessels sailed about that time. I <i>do</i> know, but + much good we'll get out o' that. What port he gets off at, who'll ever + tell? It'll be sure to be in a country where we ain't got no extradition + treaty. And when this particular captain shows up again at this port, + innocent enough <i>he'll</i> be; <i>he</i> never took no passenger aboard + in the night, an' put 'im off somewheres below the 'quator. I guess Mr. + Bagley can about consider his twenty thousand to the bad, unless his young + friend takes a notion to return to his native land before he's got it all + spent.” + </p> + <p> + “And that's your belief?” said Larcher to Bagley, “—that he went to + some other country with the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Absconded,” replied the ready-money man. “Yes; there's nothing else to + believe. At first I thought you might have some notion where he was; + that's what made me send for you. But I see he left you out of his + confidence. So I thought you might as well know his real character. + Lafferty's going to give the result of his investigation to the newspaper + men, anyhow. The only satisfaction I can get is to show the fellow up.” + </p> + <p> + When Larcher left the presence of Bagley, he carried away no definite + conclusion except that Bagley was an even more detestable animal than he + had before supposed. If the man whom Lafferty had traced was really + Davenport, then indeed the theory of suicide was shaken. There remained + the possibility of murder or flight. The purchases indeed seemed to + indicate flight, especially when viewed in association with South Street. + South Street? Why, that was Mr. Bud's street. And a hallway? Mr. Bud's + room was approached through a hallway. Mr. Bud had left town the day + before that Wednesday; but if Davenport had made frequent visits there for + sketching, was it not certain that he had had access to the room in Mr. + Bud's absence? Larcher had knocked at that room two days after the + Wednesday, and had got no answer, but this was no evidence that Davenport + might not have made some use of the room in the meanwhile. If he had made + use of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to his + subsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley's + apartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quarters + before saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one. + </p> + <p> + He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soon as + he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs + from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more + answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to + the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?” inquired Larcher, having observed the + usual preliminaries to interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “Not to my knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “When was he here last?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for a long time. 'Most two months, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “But I was here five or six weeks ago, and he'd been gone only three days + then.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know more about it than I do; so don't ast me.” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't been here since I was?” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't.” + </p> + <p> + “And my friend who was here with me the first time—has he been here + since?” + </p> + <p> + “Not while I've been.” + </p> + <p> + “When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?” + </p> + <p> + “Give it up. I ain't his private secretary.” + </p> + <p> + Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a + man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud + himself. + </p> + <p> + “I was just looking for you,” cried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “That so?” replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. “I just got + into town. It's blame cold out.” He set his hand-bag on the bar, saying to + the bartender, “Keep my gripsack back there awhile, Mick, will yuh? I got + to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plate o' soup on + that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Two plates o' + soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, set down, sir. + Make yourself at home.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and the old + man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what's become of my friend Davenport?” he asked, in a low + tone. + </p> + <p> + “No. Hope he's well and all right. What makes you ask like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you read of his disappearance?” + </p> + <p> + “Disappearance? The devil! Not a word! I been too busy to read the papers. + When was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Several weeks ago.” Larcher recited the main facts, and finished thus: + “So if there isn't a mistake, he was last seen going into your hallway. + Did he have a key to your room?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, so's he could draw pictures while I was away. My hallway? Let's go + and see.” + </p> + <p> + In some excitement, without waiting for partiallars, the farmer rose and + led the way out. It was already quite dark. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't expect to find him in your room,” said Larcher, at his heels. + “But he may have left some trace there.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud turned into the hallway, of which the door was never locked till + late at night. The hallway was not lighted, save as far as the rays of a + street-lamp went across the threshold. Plunging into the darkness with + haste, closely followed by Larcher, the old man suddenly brushed against + some one coming from the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse <i>me</i>” said Mr. Bud. “I didn't see anybody. It's all-fired + dark in here.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> dark,” replied the stranger, and passed out to the street. + Larcher, at the words of the other two, had stepped back into a corner to + make way. Mr. Bud turned to look at the stranger; and the stranger, just + outside the doorway, turned to look at Mr. Bud. Then both went their + different directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Must be a new lodger,” said Mr. Bud. “He was comin' from these stairs + when I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't truly say you saw him even then,” replied Larcher, guiding + himself by the stair wall. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. A + good-lookin' young chap, to be roomin' on these premises.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't see his face,” replied Larcher, stumbling. + </p> + <p> + “Look out fur yur feet. Here we are at the top.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud groped to his door, and fumblingly unlocked it. Once inside his + room, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners. + </p> + <p> + “Everything same as ever,” said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centre of + the room. “Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I left it—” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, what's this?” exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollow + metallic object on the floor and knocked his head against a ropey, rubbery + something in the air. + </p> + <p> + “That's a gas-heater—Mr. Davenport made me a present of it. It's + convenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas it burned + when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that.” + </p> + <p> + The ropey, rubbery something was the tube connecting the heater with the + gas-fixture. + </p> + <p> + “I move we light 'er up, and make the place comfortable; then we can talk + this matter over,” continued Mr. Bud. “Shet the door, an' siddown.” + </p> + <p> + Seated in the waves of warmth from the gas-stove, the two went into the + details of the case. + </p> + <p> + Larcher not withholding the theory of Mr. Lafferty, and even touching + briefly on Davenport's misunderstanding as to Florence Kenby. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. Bud, thoughtfully, “if he reely went into a hallway in + these parts, it would prob'ly be the hallway he was acquainted with. But + he wouldn't stay in the hallway. He'd prob'ly come to this room. An' he'd + no doubt bring his parcels here. But one thing's certain: if he did that, + he took 'em all away again. He might 'a' left somethin' in the closet, or + under the bed, or somewheres.” + </p> + <p> + A search was made of the places named, as well as of drawers and + wash-stand, but Mr. Bud found no additions to his property. He even looked + in the coal-box,—and stooped and fished something out, which he held + up to the light. “Hello, I don't reco'nize this!” + </p> + <p> + Larcher uttered an exclamation. “He <i>has</i> been here! That's the + note-book cover the money was in. He had it the night before he was last + seen. I could swear to it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all dirty with coal-dust,” cautioned Mr. Bud, as Larcher seized it + for closer examination. + </p> + <p> + “It proves he's been here, at least. We've got him traced further than the + detective, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “But not so very fur, at that. What if he was here? Mind, I ain't a-sayin' + one thing ur another,—but if he <i>was</i> contemplatin' a voyage, + an' had fixed to be took aboard late at night, what better place to wait + fur the ship's boat than just this here?” + </p> + <p> + “But the money must have been handled here—taken out of this cover, + and the cover thrown away. Suppose somebody <i>had</i> seen him display + that money during the day; <i>had</i> shadowed him here, followed him to + this room, taken him by surprise?” + </p> + <p> + “No signs of a struggle, fur as I c'n see.” + </p> + <p> + “But a single blow with a black-jack, from behind, would do the business.” + </p> + <p> + “An' what about the—remains?” + </p> + <p> + “The river is just across the street. This would occur at night, + remember.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud shook his head. “An' the load o' parcels—what 'ud become o' + them?” + </p> + <p> + “The criminal might convey them away, too, at his leisure during the + night. They would be worth something.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently to test the resourcefulness of the young man's imagination, Mr. + Bud continued, “But why should the criminal go to the trouble o' removin' + the body from here?” + </p> + <p> + “To delay its discovery, or create an impression of suicide if it were + found,” ventured Larcher, rather lamely. “The criminal would naturally + suppose that a chambermaid visited the room every day.” + </p> + <p> + “The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don't + stand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take any + chances f'r the sake o' the parcels. No; your the'ry's got as much agin' + it, as the detective's has fur it. It's built on nothin' but random + guesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with the + money,—you say the other fellow'd done him out o' that much, anyhow. + I'd rather that than somebody else got away with him.” + </p> + <p> + “So would I—in the circumstances,” confessed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and “tackle the + soup.” Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As + they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the + coal-dust on the covers. + </p> + <p> + “There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there,” said Mr. + Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the light of + matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein were an + ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other products + of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the aid of + light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, “one 'ud almost + imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of the + young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just in + time to miss the news! That beats me!” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?” said Larcher. “It + breaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's really an + angel of a girl.” + </p> + <p> + They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the stranger he + had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves in the + saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to the bartender: + </p> + <p> + “I see there's a new roomer, Mick?” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” asked Mick. + </p> + <p> + “In the house here. Somewheres up-stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is, he's a new one on me,” said Mick, decidedly. + </p> + <p> + “What? <i>Ain't</i> there a new roomer come in since I was here last?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, there ain't there.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's funny,” said Mr. Bud, looking to Larcher for comment. But + Larcher had no thought just then for any subject but Davenport, and to + that he kept the farmer's attention during the rest of their talk. When + the talk was finished, simultaneously with the soup, it had been agreed + that Mr. Bud should “nose around” thereabouts for any confirmation of + Lafferty's theory, or any trace of Davenport, and should send for Larcher + if any such turned up. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be in town a week ur two,” said the old man, at parting. “I been + kep' so long up-country this time, 'count o' the turkey trade—Thanksgivin' + and Chris'mas, y'know. I do considerable in poultry.” + </p> + <p> + But some days passed, and Larcher heard nothing from Mr. Bud. A few of the + newspapers published Detective Lafferty's unearthings, before Larcher had + time to prepare Miss Kenby for them. She hailed them with gladness as + pointing to a likelihood that Davenport was alive; but she ignored all + implications of probable guilt on his part. That the amount of Bagley's + loss through Davenport was no more than Bagley's rightful debt to + Davenport, Larcher had already taken it on himself delicately to inform + her. She had not seemed to think that fact, or any fact, necessary to her + lover's justification. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + </h2> + <p> + Meanwhile Larcher was treated to an odd experience. One afternoon, as he + turned into the house of flats in which Edna Hill lived, he chanced to + look back toward Sixth Avenue. He noticed a pleasant-looking, smooth-faced + young man, very erect in carriage and trim in appearance, coming along + from that thoroughfare. He recalled now that he had observed this same + young man, who was a stranger to him, standing at the corner of his own + street as he left his lodgings that morning; and again sauntering along + behind him as he took the car to come up-town. Doubtless, thought he, the + young man had caught the next car, and, by a coincidence, got off at the + same street. He passed in, and the matter dropped from his mind. + </p> + <p> + But the next day, as he was coming out of the restaurant where he usually + lunched, his look met that of the same neat, braced-up young man, who was + standing in the vestibule of a theatre across the way. “It seems I am + haunted by this gentleman,” mused Larcher, and scrutinized him rather + intently. Even across the street, Larcher was impressed anew with the + young man's engagingness of expression, which owed much to a whimsical, + amiable look about the mouth. + </p> + <p> + Two hours later, having turned aside on Broadway to greet an acquaintance, + his roving eye fell again on the spruce young man, this time in the act of + stepping into a saloon which Larcher had just passed. “By George, this <i>is</i> + strange!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked his acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “That's the fifth time I've seen the same man in two days. He's just gone + into that saloon.” + </p> + <p> + “You're being shadowed by the police,” said the other, jokingly. “What + crime have you committed?” + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon, as Larcher stood on the stoop of the house in lower + Fifth Avenue, and glanced idly around while waiting for an answer to his + ring, he beheld the young man coming down the other side of the avenue. + “Now this is too much,” said Larcher to himself, glaring across at the + stranger, but instantly feeling rebuked by the innocent good humor that + lurked about the stranger's mouth. As the young man came directly + opposite, without having apparently noticed Larcher, the latter's + attention was called away by the coming of the servant in response to the + bell. He entered the house, and, as he awaited the announcement of his + name to Miss Kenby, he asked himself whether this haunting of his + footsteps might indeed be an intended act. “Do they think I may be in + communication with Davenport? and <i>are</i> they having me shadowed? That + would be interesting.” But this strange young man looked too intelligent, + too refined, too superior in every way, for the trade of a shadowing + detective. Besides, a “shadow” would not, as a rule, appear on three + successive days in precisely the same clothes and hat. + </p> + <p> + And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he see + gazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same side of + the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to the + probability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight to + the young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man's + reflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casual + manner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed his + contemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the young + man's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face, disarmed + resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an interest in the + show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way, leaving the young + man before the window. Larcher presently looked back; the young man was + still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he was not taking + further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end of Larcher's odd + experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself followed. + </p> + <p> + The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not + been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door. + Florence rose and opened it. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Miss Kenby,” said a very masculine, almost husky voice + in the hall; “these are the cigars I was speaking of to your father. May I + leave them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Turl,” called out Miss Kenby's father himself + from the fireside. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, no; I won't intrude.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must; I want to see you,” Mr. Kenby insisted, fussily getting to + his feet. + </p> + <p> + Larcher asked himself where he had heard the name of Turl. Before his + memory could answer, the person addressed by that name entered the room in + a politely hesitating manner, bowed, and stood waiting for father and + daughter to be seated. He was none other than the smooth-faced, + pleasant-looking young man with the trim appearance and erect attitude. + Larcher sat open-eyed and dumb. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby was for not only throwing his attention entirely around the + newcomer, but for snubbing Larcher utterly forthwith; seeing which, + Florence took upon herself the office of introducing the two young men. + Mr. Turl, in resting his eyes on Larcher, showed no consciousness of + having encountered him before. They were blue eyes, clear and soft, and + with something kind and well-wishing in their look. Larcher found the + whole face, now that it was animated with a sense of his existence, + pleasanter than ever. He found himself attracted by it; and all the more + for that did he wonder at the young man's appearance in the house of his + acquaintances, after those numerous appearances in his wake in the street. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby now took exclusive possession of Mr. Turl, and while those two + were discussing the qualities of the cigars, Larcher had an opportunity of + asking Florence, quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Who is your visitor? Have you known him long?” + </p> + <p> + “Only three or four days. He is a new guest in the house. Father met him + in the public drawing-room, and has taken a liking to him.” + </p> + <p> + “He seems likeable. I was wondering where I'd heard the name. It's not a + common name.” + </p> + <p> + No, it was not common. Florence had seen it in a novel or somewhere, but + had never before met anybody possessing it. She agreed that he seemed + likeable,—agreed, that is to say, as far as she thought of him at + all, for what was he, or any casual acquaintance, to a woman in her state + of mind? + </p> + <p> + Larcher regarded him with interest. The full, clear brow, from which the + hair was tightly brushed, denoted intellectual qualities, but the rest of + the face—straight-bridged nose, dimpled cheeks, and quizzical mouth—meant + urbanity. The warm healthy tinge of his complexion, evenly spread from + brow to chin, from ear-tip to ear-tip, was that of a social rather than + bookish or thoughtful person. He soon showed his civility by adroitly + contriving to include Florence and Larcher in his conversation with Mr. + Kenby. Talk ran along easily for half an hour upon the shop windows during + the Christmas season, the new calendars, the picture exhibitions, the “art + gift-books,” and such topics, on all of which Mr. Turl spoke with + liveliness and taste. (“Fancy my supposing this man a detective,” mused + Larcher.) + </p> + <p> + “I've been looking about in the art shops and the old book stores,” said + Mr. Turl, “for a copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, as it was + called. You know, of course,—engravings from the Boydell collection + of Shakespearean paintings. It was convenient to have them in a volume. + I'm sorry it has disappeared from the shops. I'd like very much to have + another look through it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can easily have that,” said Larcher, who had impatiently awaited a + chance to speak. “I happen to possess the book.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed? I envy you. I haven't seen a copy of it in years.” + </p> + <p> + “You're very welcome to see mine. I wouldn't part with it permanently, of + course, but if you don't object to borrowing—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wouldn't deprive you of it, even for a short time. The value of + owning such a thing is to have it always by; one mayn't touch it for + months, but, when the mood comes for it, there it is. I never permit + anybody to lend me such things.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you deprive me of the pleasure of lending it, will you take the + trouble of coming to see it?” Larcher handed him his card. + </p> + <p> + “You're very kind,” replied Turl, glancing at the address. “If you're sure + it won't be putting you to trouble. At what time shall I be least in your + way?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be in to-morrow afternoon,—but perhaps you're not free till + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can choose my hours; I have nothing to do to-morrow afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + (“Evidently a gentleman of leisure,” thought Larcher.) + </p> + <p> + So it was settled that he should call about three o'clock, an appointment + which Mr. Kenby, whose opinion of Larcher had not changed since their + first meeting, viewed with decided lack of interest. + </p> + <p> + When Larcher left, a few minutes later, he was so far under the spell of + the newcomer's amiability that he felt as if their acquaintance were + considerably older than three-quarters of an hour. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, he kept ransacking his memory for the circumstances in which + he had before heard the name of Turl. To be sure, this Turl might not be + the Turl whose name he had heard; but the fact that he <i>had</i> heard + the name, and the coincidences in his observation of the man himself, made + the question perpetually insistent. He sought out Barry Tompkins, and + asked, “Did you ever mention to me a man named Turl?” + </p> + <p> + “Never in a state of consciousness,” was Tompkins's reply; and an equally + negative answer came from everybody else to whom Larcher put the query + that day. + </p> + <p> + He thought of friend after friend until it came Murray Davenport's turn in + his mental review. He had a momentary feeling that the search was warm + here; but the feeling succumbed to the consideration that Davenport had + never much to say about acquaintances. Davenport seemed to have put + friendship behind him, unless that which existed between him and Larcher + could be called friendship; his talk was not often of any individual + person. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” thought Larcher, “when Mr. Turl comes to see me, I shall find, out + whether there's anybody we both know. If there is, I shall learn more of + Mr. Turl. Then light may be thrown on his haunting my steps for three + days, and subsequently turning up in the rooms of people I visit.” + </p> + <p> + The arrival of Mr. Turl, at the appointed hour the next afternoon, + instantly put to rout all doubts of his being other than he seemed. In the + man's agreeable presence, Larcher felt that to imagine the coincidences + anything <i>but</i> coincidences was absurd. + </p> + <p> + The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, which lay + on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher had never + observed. + </p> + <p> + “You talk like an artist,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I have dabbled a little,” was the reply. “I believe I can draw, when put + to it.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be put to it occasionally, then.” + </p> + <p> + “I have sometimes thought of putting myself to it. Illustrating, I mean, + as a profession. One never knows when one may have to go to work for a + living. If one has a start when that time comes, so much the better.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I might be of some service to you. I know a few editors.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. You mean you would ask them to give me work to + illustrate?” + </p> + <p> + “If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be done first, + and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some success with me + that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and the combination + took its chances. We did very well. My friend was Murray Davenport, who + disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I read something in the papers,” replied Turl. “He went to South + America or somewhere, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery,” said Larcher, + making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known Davenport, it + could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. “Hasn't Mr. Kenby or his + daughter ever spoken of it to you?” added Larcher, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “No. Why should they?” asked the other, turning over a page of the volume. + </p> + <p> + “They knew him. Miss Kenby is very unhappy over his disappearance.” + </p> + <p> + Did a curious look come over Mr. Turl's face for an instant, as he + carefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it passed. + </p> + <p> + “I've noticed she has seemed depressed, or abstracted,” he replied. “It's + a pity. She's very beautiful and womanly. She loved this man, do you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on his + part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That + aggravates her unhappiness.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it will in this case—if it doesn't turn it to joy by + bringing Davenport back.” + </p> + <p> + Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When the + visitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at the fire, + resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsome easy-chairs—new + specimens of an old style—in which Larcher indulged himself. + </p> + <p> + “A pleasant place you have here,” said the guest, while Larcher was + bringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty as + sideboard. + </p> + <p> + “It ought to be,” replied Larcher. “Some fellows in this town only sleep + in their rooms, but I work in mine.” + </p> + <p> + “And entertain,” said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things + were placed on a little round table at his elbow. “Here's variety of + choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a + sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out of + conceit with my own.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you live in a good house,” said Larcher, helping himself in turn. + </p> + <p> + “Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fashionable + boarding-house.' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!” He smiled. “But my + own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present I come + under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom has + supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding geniuses; + but I prefer comfort to romance.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you happen to go to that house?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw its advertisement in the 'boarders wanted' column. I liked the + neighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not much + of the old Knickerbocker atmosphere left. It's my first experience as a + 'boarder' in New York. I think, on the whole, I prefer to be a 'roomer' + and 'eat out.' I have been a 'paying guest' in London, but fared better + there as a mere 'lodger.'” + </p> + <p> + “You're not English, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood and political + principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to the resources of any + one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but of course before the era + of sky-scrapers, multitudinous noises, and perpetual building operations.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought there was something of an English accent in your speech now and + then.” + </p> + <p> + “Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took us to + England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to a + private school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greek at + all, that I boast of. Do you know Folkestone? The wind on the cliffs, the + pine-trees down their slopes, the vessels in the channel, the faint coast + of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to one of the + universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after,—the only + sorrows I've ever had,—and I decided, on my own, to cut the + university career, and jump into the study of pictorial art. Since then, + I've always done as I liked.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't seem to have made any great mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I've never gone hunting trouble. Unlike most people who are doomed to + uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure.” + </p> + <p> + “Then your life has been uneventful since you jumped into the study of + art?” + </p> + <p> + “Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first in a + London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe and the + United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I've never + had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone—I + spent the principal because I had other expectations. And now this other + little fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may be + deprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shall + have to earn my mutton chops like many a better man.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to take the prospect very cheerfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall be fortunate. Good fortune is my destiny. Things come my way. + My wants are few. I make friends easily. I have to make them easily, or I + shouldn't make any, changing my place so often. A new place, new friends. + Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form new friendships that + chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones. I must confess I find + new friends the more interesting, the more suited to my new wants. Old + friends so often disappoint on revisitation. You change, they don't; or + they change, you don't; or they change, and you change, but not in the + same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brown of yesterday were + eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones of to-day and the Brown of + to-day are different men, through different experiences, and don't + harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?” + </p> + <p> + As he sipped his wine and ate his sandwich, gazing contentedly into the + fire the while, Mr. Turl looked the living justification of his + philosophy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI — FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + </h2> + <p> + During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys, + living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable + that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She + declared him “nice,” and was not above trying to make Larcher a little + jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was + not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the + slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded, or + spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it. The + newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image + filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out—if his + feelings indeed concerned themselves with her—when those feelings + should take hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to + warn him. + </p> + <p> + If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's + heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With + Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his + thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of + inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. + That good woman had his address “in case anything turned up.” She had + rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed + by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed + by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of + his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all. + </p> + <p> + It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his + writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was + surprised by two callers,—Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is jolly!” he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face. + </p> + <p> + “It's not half bad,” said Edna, applying the expression to the room. “I + don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs before + the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the stairs, had + already deposited her rather plump figure in the other. + </p> + <p> + “But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see,” he replied, with a + gesture toward the table. + </p> + <p> + “Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?” asked Edna. + “Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, auntie?” + </p> + <p> + “Charming,” said Aunt Clara, still panting. “You must miss an elevator in + the house, Mr. Larcher.” + </p> + <p> + “If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there + was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the + lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up.” + </p> + <p> + “We're keeping you from your work, Tommy,” said Edna, with sudden + seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea made + for you? Or will you take some wine?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks; we've just had tea.” + </p> + <p> + “I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb,” suggested + Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a chair for + himself. + </p> + <p> + “I just came in to tell you what I've discovered,” said Edna. “Mr. Turl is + in love with Florence Kenby!” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” asked Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, too—I + can see that.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does she appear to think about it?” + </p> + <p> + “What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of course + it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know that + yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid him as + much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity.” + </p> + <p> + “What is?” + </p> + <p> + “That she isn't open to—new impressions,—you know what I mean. + He's an awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,—they would + look so well together.” + </p> + <p> + “Edna, you amaze me!” said Larcher. “How can you want her to be + inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to + Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was + alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out + between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you like to play the goddess from the machine,” observed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “She's prematurely given to match-making,” said Aunt Clara, now restored + to her placidity. + </p> + <p> + “Be good, auntie, or I'll make a match between you and Mr. Kenby,” + threatened Edna. “Well, now that the best we can hope for about Davenport + is that he went away with another man's money—” + </p> + <p> + “But I've told you the other man morally owed him that much money.” + </p> + <p> + “That won't make it any safer for him to come back to New York. And you + know what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got an + awfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chance + is there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one of + those impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place where + he'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if she + isn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried to + forget the absent.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're right,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “So I came in to say that I'm going to do all I quietly can to distract + her thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I see any + way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. And what + I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints or allusions—to + Davenport, you understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm + neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him—and + yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl, + much as I like him.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his + plan of going to work?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of + black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no + trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep + Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken + her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive + with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?” + </p> + <p> + “I jump at the chance—if there's room.” + </p> + <p> + “There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr. + Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither do I, but for the sake of your society—” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way to + the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to cheer + up Florence.” + </p> + <p> + This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's + pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave + himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and + listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna + was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and + then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have eyes + for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating afternoon. + In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more than the + usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in handsome wraps + and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was adroit enough not to + prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and melancholy. She had just + ordered the coachman to drive home, when the rear of the carriage suddenly + sank a little and a wheel ground against the side. Edna screamed, and the + driver stopped the horses. People came running up from the walks, and the + words “broken axle” went round. + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to get out,” said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly + helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a nuisance!” cried Edna. “We can't go home in this carriage, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “No, miss,” said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park + policeman, and was examining the break. “But you'll be able to pick up a + cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so.” + </p> + <p> + “What a bore!” said Edna, vexatiously. + </p> + <p> + Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble + was. From one of them—an automobile—a large, well-dressed man + strode over and greeted Larcher with the words: + </p> + <p> + “How are you? Had an accident?” + </p> + <p> + It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, “Broken axle.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, “I suppose we'd + better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab.” + </p> + <p> + “You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party,” said + Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party. + </p> + <p> + As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher + with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He + did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls + exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward a + man who owned an automobile and had an air of money. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry you've had this break-down,” said Bagley, addressing the party + collectively. “Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're not + likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Edna Hill, chillily. “We can't think of putting you + out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you won't put <i>me</i> out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. + My car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when + mine's here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your + homes without any trouble.” + </p> + <p> + During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr. + Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went + back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him. + </p> + <p> + “Your kindness is most opportune, sir,” said Mr. Kenby, mustering + cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. “I'm not at + my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the + cold, I don't know what would happen.” + </p> + <p> + He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the girls + to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for Larcher to + do but follow the girls. + </p> + <p> + Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he + turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His + glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with + Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and + Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was reached, + as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her flat; but + Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by automobile than wait + and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to the escort of Larcher, and + remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger. + </p> + <p> + “That was <i>the</i> Mr. Bagley, was it?” asked Florence, as the three + young people turned into the house. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Larcher. “I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But + Edna's look was so imperative.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know who he was, then,” put in Edna. + </p> + <p> + “But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his + money,” said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and + the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,—men + like that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, + coarse-looking creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust not,” said Larcher; “but he's one of the pushful sort. He doesn't + know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man anywhere. I'm + sorry he turned up at that moment.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” said Florence, and added, explanatorily, “you know how ready my + father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider.” + </p> + <p> + That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days later, + when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great red roses + in a vase on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what beauties!” cried Edna. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bagley sent them,” replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless, + perplexed air. “Father invited him to call.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! Why didn't you send them back?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And + then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send + flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to + treat flowers badly. <i>They</i> can't help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?” + </p> + <p> + “I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father + says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can + understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other + countries.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners,” said + Edna. “But what would you expect of men who consider money-making the + greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be afflicted + with any more visits from Mr. Bagley.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he + did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first sent + him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from the + introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his verbal + self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying: + </p> + <p> + “Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned + out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with + the other man they see much of,—I mean Turl, not you. The more she + loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good + qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to tolerate + Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after all, to try + for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way, he'll be at + his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because Turl makes no + secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing for Turl is to + have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so heartily? + We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance, after + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right by + just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!” + </p> + <p> + “So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best + fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what? What do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing,—only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and + that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more + appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the + immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that Turl + was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young man's own + story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory that Bagley, if + he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence of a rival. As + Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl eventually met in + the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna Hill's last recorded + talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words were wasted between + them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the younger man as of no + consequence, because lacking the signs of a money-grabber; and the younger + man, having shown a moment's curiosity, dropped Bagley as beneath interest + for possessing those signs. Bagley tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the + advantage of later arrival and of perfect control of temper. Bagley took + his departure, therefore, with the dry voice and set face of one who has + difficulty in holding his wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. + Kenby made a pretext to accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the + design of leaving him in a better humor. In magnifying his newly + discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby committed the blunder of taking too little + account of Turl; and thus Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence. + </p> + <p> + The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the fire + was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take second + place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking absently + out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear profile of + the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her face, with a + softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking of the clock on + the mantel grew very loud. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner. + </p> + <p> + “You must not be unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew her + heart. + </p> + <p> + “I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're + doing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean that I seem grave,” she replied, with a faint smile, “it's + only my way. I've always been a serious person.” + </p> + <p> + “But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of + brooding anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” she asked, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have + heard the cause mentioned.” There was an odd expression for a moment on + his face, an odd wavering in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to be, + when the cause belongs to the past,—unless there's reason for + self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to carry + the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed by it. + We should put it where it belongs,—behind us. We should sweep the + old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness the + present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too great a + claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You needn't be + unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob yourself,—you rob + others.” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: “But you don't + understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past. It's a + matter of—of absence.” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could not + have taken offence, “it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you do + wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to believe + that all is of the past; and then try to forget.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” she cried, turning pale. + </p> + <p> + Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single + twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor. + </p> + <p> + “One can see how much you cared for him,” was his reply, sadly uttered. + </p> + <p> + “Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past? + What makes you say that?” + </p> + <p> + “I only—look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more + calmly than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of + again in New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; + your whole life will be darkened if you don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I believe + I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened by being + true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened! I'll never + give him up! Never!” + </p> + <p> + Pain showed on Turl's countenance. “You mustn't doom yourself—you + mustn't waste your life,” he protested. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?” + </p> + <p> + He waited a moment; then answered, simply, “I love you.” + </p> + <p> + The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to her + question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when she + spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality. + </p> + <p> + “I belong to the absent—entirely and forever. Nothing can change my + hope; or make me forget or want to forget.” + </p> + <p> + Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which he + had shown before; but this time it was more poignant. + </p> + <p> + “I see I must wait,” he said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient + laugh, “It will be a long time of waiting.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous + manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed + him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII — LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + </h2> + <p> + Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher, incidentally + to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of an hour in a + gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, whose name was + not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the stairs, he met the + other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just directed to Larcher's + room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer and outgoer passed each + other; but, the servant at that instant lighting the gas, Turl glanced + around for a better look, and encountered the other's glance at the same + time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl for a scarce perceptible + instant, the other for a moment longer. Then Turl passed out, the servant + having run to open the door; and the new visitor went on up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either bored + or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. But when + a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black clothes + appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mr. Bud! This <i>is</i> a pleasant surprise!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into + heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat + and be comfortable before the fire. “I thought, as you'd gev me your + address, you wouldn't object—” Mr. Bud began with a beaming + countenance; but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. “Say—I + met a young man down-stairs, goin' out.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young + man, smartly dressed.” + </p> + <p> + “That's him. What name did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Turl.” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's + funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as + if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But + I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that same + place.” + </p> + <p> + “We often have that feeling—of precisely the same thing having + happened a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' + There's a scientific theory—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm + dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny thing + is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like you are + in this.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's interesting,” said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once + seemed to be haunting his footsteps. + </p> + <p> + “I've got it!” cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. “D'yuh mind that night you + came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?—and we went up an' + searched my room fur a trace?” + </p> + <p> + “And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, + an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now + down-stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' + the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times + him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a + good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, + that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Turl—T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?” + </p> + <p> + “Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new + lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers + knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that evening. + So what the dickens <i>was</i> he doin' there?” + </p> + <p> + “It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been + some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed + to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow—here are + some comic sketches he brought me this afternoon.” Larcher got the + drawings from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. “I don't know how + good these are; I haven't examined them yet.” + </p> + <p> + The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the + name, “F. Turl.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, has he signed this lot?” asked Larcher. “I told him he ought to. + Let's see what his signature looks like.” He glanced at the corner of the + sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: “By George, I've seen that name!—and + written just like that!” + </p> + <p> + “Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since I've + known him. Where the deuce?” He shut his eyes, and made a strong effort of + memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at the + signature. “Yes, sir! <i>Francis</i> Turl—that was the name. And who + do you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very + handwriting?” + </p> + <p> + “Give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “Yuh don't say.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me + to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about a + meeting between the two. Now I wonder—was that an old note, and had + the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, the + next day Davenport disappeared.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway + Davenport was seen goin' into.” + </p> + <p> + “But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there + was a meeting <i>after</i> Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have + been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur + there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there + in search of Davenport—or for some other purpose connected with + him.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with + Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet + he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.—And then + his following me about!—Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed + him several times apparently on my track. And when I <i>did</i> make his + acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in love + with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her father had + taken him up. His going there to live looks like another queer thing.” + </p> + <p> + “There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I + guess he's wuth studyin'.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in chronological + order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting to occur + between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place Murray + Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he shadows + the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few more days + he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's sweetheart lives, + and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when Davenport is mentioned, lets + it be assumed that he didn't know the man.” + </p> + <p> + “And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr. + Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make + out o' all that?” + </p> + <p> + “To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and + Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do <i>you</i> + make out of it?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl to + the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin' too + big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance. This + Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as you + c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin' in + the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game.” + </p> + <p> + “You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll + be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course, + where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair + object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all you + know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her interest + in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp eyes fur + anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to live, you + say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to study him in. + She might find out considerable.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true,” said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna + would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. But + his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not + prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He + resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after + first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna. + </p> + <p> + “Between you an' the young lady,” Mr. Bud went on, “you may discover + enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about + Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They + may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's + confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid + o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had + anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to + knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. The + thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver up + what he knows.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive. + Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man + declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and + finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel + like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town car, + with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had + turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. + His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised + himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal + way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of + suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her + former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence + straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the + instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about. + Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day; she + would send a cab for her, to make sure. + </p> + <p> + The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly + impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dear?” were almost her first words. “Why do you look so + serious?” + </p> + <p> + “I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom + will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very delicate + matter.” + </p> + <p> + Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her + wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough + to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had to + be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly lady to + writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so the + young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who have + lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the inmates + must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile. + </p> + <p> + Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand + before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the + blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an + armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies. + </p> + <p> + Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. “Now tell Florence all + about it, from the beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you told her whom it concerns?” he asked Edna. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't told her a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I think she'd better know first”—he turned to Florence—“that + it concerns somebody we met through her—through you, Miss Kenby. But + we think the importance of the matter justifies—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “He's nothing to Florence. We're + perfectly free to speak of him as we like.—It's about Mr. Turl, + dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Turl?” There was something eager in Florence's surprise, a more than + expected readiness to hear. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said Larcher, struck by her expression, “have <i>you</i> noticed + anything about his conduct—anything odd?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made me think.” + </p> + <p> + “Things in connection with somebody we know?” queried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “With—Murray Davenport?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—tell me what you know.” Florence's eyes were poignantly intent. + </p> + <p> + Larcher made rapid work of his story, in impatience for hers. His relation + deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, in suppressed + excitement: + </p> + <p> + “With all those circumstances—there can be no doubt he knows + something. And two things I can add. He spoke once as if he had seen me in + the past;—I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange + is, I don't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the + other thing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back”—her + voice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: “He <i>must</i> know + something about the disappearance. What could he have had to do with + Murray?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud—without credit + to that gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turl + might still be in Davenport's confidence. “For all we know,” said Larcher, + “it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with us through Turl. + Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed about our welfare. In + some way or other he may be acting for Davenport, secretly, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Florence slowly shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked Edna, quickly, with a searching look. “Has he been making + love to you?” + </p> + <p> + Florence blushed. “I can hardly put it as positively as that,” she + answered, reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen in + love,” suggested Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of,” put in + Edna. “But if he did that—if he was in Davenport's confidence, and + yet spoke of love, or showed it—he was false to Davenport. And so in + any case he's got to give an account of himself.” + </p> + <p> + “How are we to make him do it?” asked Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Edna, by a glance, passed the question on to Florence. + </p> + <p> + “We must go cautiously,” Florence said, gazing into the fire. “We don't + know what occurred between him and Murray. He may have been for Murray; or + he may have been against him. They may have acted together in bringing + about his—departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for + his own purposes. We must draw the truth from him—we must have him + where he can't elude us.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacability + toward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part toward + Davenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to stand + in her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that we should force matters?—not wait and watch for other + circumstances to come out?” queried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with what we + already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantage against + him—first make sure to have him alone with us three, and then + suddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'll + startle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary—I'll put + the worst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him to + tell all in self-defence.” Florence was scarlet with suppressed energy of + purpose. + </p> + <p> + “The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us,” said + Larcher, yielding at once to her initiative. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as possible,” replied Florence, falling into thought. + </p> + <p> + “We might send for him to call here,” suggested Edna, who found the + situation as exciting as a play. “But then Aunt Clara would be in the way. + I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come to your + rooms, and you invite him there.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to invite + another to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on this + occasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough at + best, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before he + could be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief. + </p> + <p> + “Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairs + who always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms to ourselves—and + Mr. Turl. I'll see to it that he comes. I'll go home now, and give orders + requesting him to call. But you two must be there when he arrives. Come to + dinner—or come back with me now. You will stay all night, Edna.” + </p> + <p> + After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompany Florence + home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. This + arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to Aunt Clara and + go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for the afternoon. As + Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, nervously: “It's quite + thrilling, isn't it?” He faced the blizzard again with a feeling that the + anticipatory thrill of the coming evening's business was anything but + pleasant. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII — MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + </h2> + <p> + The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive than + those to which the ordinary residents of boarding-houses are subject. + Father and daughter had their meals served in their own principal room, + the one with the large fireplace, the piano, the big red easy chairs, and + the great window looking across the back gardens to the Gothic church. The + small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby. + Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above. + </p> + <p> + The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when Mr. + Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had confided to + the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the shape of + claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in from a + restaurant at eleven o'clock. + </p> + <p> + “So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three + hours,” said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together. + </p> + <p> + “How excited you are, dear!” was the reply. “You're almost shaking.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm not—it's from the cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I don't think it's cold here.” + </p> + <p> + “It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see + the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!” She gazed out at the + whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between the + furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the + pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the + gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and + shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever + augmented by the myriad rushing particles. + </p> + <p> + Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was already + seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall. + </p> + <p> + “It's Tom,” cried Edna. “Good boy!—ahead of time.” But the negro man + servant announced Mr. Bagley. + </p> + <p> + A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. “Tell him my father is not + here—is spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bagley!—he <i>must</i> be devoted, to call on such a night!” + remarked Edna, when the servant had gone. + </p> + <p> + “He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations—he's forever + wanting us to go to the theatre—or on his automobile—or to + dine at Delmonico's—or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals + don't discourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to + give us some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father + sometimes accepts—for himself.” + </p> + <p> + Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentleman + wished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenby for + her father. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she sighed. “Show him in.” + </p> + <p> + “If he threatens to stay two minutes, I'll see what I can do to make it + chilly,” volunteered Edna. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted and + undauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on Miss + Kenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he took + somewhat aback by barely noticing at all. + </p> + <p> + He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voice + about the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed a mind + for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read an evening + paper. + </p> + <p> + She had not. + </p> + <p> + “I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, in + spite of the blizzard,” said Mr. Bagley. “I s'pose he wasn't going to take + any chances of losing his heiress.” + </p> + <p> + Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could not keep + silent. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of her + title—poor thing!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mustn't say that,” interposed Florence, gently. “Perhaps they + love each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Titled Europeans don't marry American girls for love,” said Edna. + “Haven't you been abroad enough to find out that? Or if they ever do, they + keep that motive a secret. You ought to hear them talk, over there. They + can't conceive of an American girl being married for anything <i>but</i> + money. It's quite the proper thing to marry one for that, but very bad + form to marry one for love.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know,” said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling to + Edna's knowledge, “they've got to admit that our girls are a very + charming, superior lot—with a few exceptions.” His look placed Miss + Kenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else. + </p> + <p> + “Have they, really?” retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. “I know + some of them admit it,—and what they say and write is published and + quoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written in + Europe about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresay + that's the reason of your one-sided impression.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for the + approval of Miss Kenby: + </p> + <p> + “Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if they + don't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, and + cleverest, they're a long way off the truth, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to know what you mean by <i>the</i> American girl. There are all + sorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations: pretty + girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girls and silly + ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've got a larger + proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any other country. + But then we make up for that by so many of us having frightful <i>ya-ya</i> + voices and raw pronunciations. As for our wonderful cleverness, we have + the assurance to talk about things we know nothing of, in such a way as to + deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nations haven't, and + that's the chief difference.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked as if he knew not exactly where he stood in the argument, or + exactly what the argument was about; but he returned to the business of + impressing Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothing + of. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question which + nation had the most beautiful and sensible women.” + </p> + <p> + Florence winced at the crude directness. “You are too kind,” she said, + perfunctorily. + </p> + <p> + “As for me,” he went on, “I've got my opinion of these European gentlemen + that marry for money.” + </p> + <p> + “We all have, in this country, I hope,” said Edna; “except, possibly, the + few silly women that become the victims.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be perfectly willing,” pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watching + for the effect on Florence, “to marry a girl without a cent.” + </p> + <p> + “And no doubt perfectly able to afford it,” remarked Edna, serenely. + </p> + <p> + He missed the point, and saw a compliment instead. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're not so far out of the way there, if I do say it myself,” he + replied, with a stony smile. “I've had my share of good luck. Since the + tide turned in my affairs, some years ago, I've been a steady winner. + Somehow or other, nothing seems able to fail that I go into. It's really + been monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousand dollars + that a trusted agent absconded with.” + </p> + <p> + “You're mistaken,” Florence broke in, with a note of indignation that made + Bagley stare. “He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and your money may + be gone for the present. But there was no crime on his part.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, do you know anything about it?” asked Bagley, in a voice subdued by + sheer wonder. + </p> + <p> + “I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers said + about your money; that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? I + inquire merely for information.” Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he could + be in his manner of inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>know</i> Murray Davenport,” was her reply. + </p> + <p> + “You knew him well?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “You—took a great interest in him?” + </p> + <p> + “Very great.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said Bagley, in pure surprise, and gazing at her as if she were + a puzzle. + </p> + <p> + “You said you had a message for my father,” replied Florence, coldly. + </p> + <p> + Bagley rose slowly. “Oh, yes,”—he spoke very dryly and looked very + blank,—“please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I + wish you and he would go sleighing to-morrow. I'll call at half-past two.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; I'll tell him.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley summoned up as natural a “good night” as possible, and went. As he + emerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any one who + had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of the blank + expression with which he had left the room. “She gave me the dead + freeze-out,” he muttered. “The dead freeze-out! So she knew Davenport! and + cared for the poverty-stricken dog, too!” + </p> + <p> + Startled by a ring at the door-bell, Bagley turned into the common + drawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heard + Larcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed by the + two girls. He paced the drawing-room floor, with a wrathful frown; then + sat down and meditated. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if he ever does come back to New York, I won't do a thing to him!” + was the conclusion of his meditations, after some minutes. + </p> + <p> + Some one came down the stairs, and walked back toward the Kenby rooms. + Bagley strode to the drawing-room door, and peered through the hall, in + time to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knocked + at the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed it + after him. + </p> + <p> + “That young dude Turl,” mused Bagley, with scorn. “But she won't freeze + him out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, compared to + what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own at a + time!—and now this light-weight!—compared with <i>me</i> I—I'd + give thirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, the characteristics + of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill. + </p> + <p> + “And did you notice,” said that young lady, in conclusion, “how he simply + couldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? Because + Davenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of the + Bagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance of + having their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to see impecunious + Davenports—and Larchers—preferred to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Larcher. “I didn't know you were so observant. But it's + easy to imagine the reasoning of the money-grinders in such cases. The + satisfaction of money-greed is to them the highest aim in life; so what + can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent of that aim? + They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest of society, + though most people court and flatter them on account of their money. They + never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be a money-grinder and + good company at the same time.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is it?” asked Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has to neglect + so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But even before that, + the very nature that made him choose money-getting as the chief end of man + was incapable of the finer qualities. There <i>are</i> charming rich men, + but either they inherited their wealth, or made it in some high pursuit to + which gain was only an incident, or they are exceptional cases. But of + course Bagley isn't even a fair type of the regular money-grinder—he's + a speculator in anything, and a boor compared with even the average + financial operator.” + </p> + <p> + This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young people + while they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock neared + the appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher found + himself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as she + sat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up a + request to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and had + promptly received the desired answer. + </p> + <p> + In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was able + to break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard in + the hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose and + opened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile. + </p> + <p> + Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting of Larcher + and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairs near the + fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so far toward a + recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, when the others + had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them and the piano. + Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcher faced him from + the other side of the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, with + a remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, with her + eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely: + </p> + <p> + “I asked you here to speak of something else—a matter we are all + interested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want to + know—we all want to know—what has become of Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + Turl's face blenched ever so little, but he made no other sign of being + startled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry; + then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but finally + returned to hers. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask me?” he said, quietly. “What have I to do with Murray + Davenport?” + </p> + <p> + Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically: + </p> + <p> + “You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for one + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, was I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was + about a meeting you were to have with him.” + </p> + <p> + Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack. + </p> + <p> + “We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we + do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in + New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about + the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use + in your denying that you had some part in his affairs.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with a + thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on: + </p> + <p> + “We don't say—yet—whether that part was friendly, indifferent,—or + evil.” + </p> + <p> + The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift + though quiet answer: + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't evil, I give you my word.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?” said Larcher, + quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have been + clever—or I have been stupid.—I'm sorry Davenport showed you + my letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, as your part was not evil,” pursued Florence, with ill-repressed + eagerness, “you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, but I do object. I have strong reasons. You must excuse me.” + </p> + <p> + “We will not excuse you!” cried Florence. “We have the right to know—the + right of friend-ship—the right of love. I insist. I will not take a + refusal.” + </p> + <p> + Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him, + Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. A + brief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace the floor, + for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape from the + room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to his + passage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind. + He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, at last, + his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spoke in a + tone less than ordinarily conciliating: + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no way + accountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I have + nothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again; + he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance there + was nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. There + is no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as he + desired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear,—and + that no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Let him + rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future.” + </p> + <p> + To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst of passionate + menace: + </p> + <p> + “I <i>will</i> know! I'll resort to anything, everything, to make you + speak. As yet we've kept our evidence to ourselves; but if you compel us, + we shall know what to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + Turl let a frown of vexation appear. “I admit, that would put me out. It's + a thing I would go far to avoid. Not that I fear the law; but to make + matters public would spoil much. And I wouldn't make them public, except + in self-defence if the very worst threatened me. I don't think that + contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof is to be + feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make me speak. Be + reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what Murray Davenport + himself desired above all things.” + </p> + <p> + “Who authorized you to tell <i>me</i> what Murray Davenport desired? He + would have desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off + with a quiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force + you to speak. You admit you would go far to avoid the test.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because I shouldn't like to be involved in a raking over of the + affairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I do + admit. The man is best forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold you answerable + to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way to bring + you to account!” + </p> + <p> + Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver + to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened: + </p> + <p> + “In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know? + If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you. It will + end her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows.” + </p> + <p> + “She will grow out of that feeling,” said Turl, still watching her + compassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain her + composure. + </p> + <p> + “No, she won't!” put in Edna Hill, warmly. “You don't know her. I must + say, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse to + divulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she's + been undergoing for months, is too much for me!” + </p> + <p> + Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed her + eyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him. + </p> + <p> + “If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request,” said he, “you + wouldn't make it.” + </p> + <p> + “It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, is to + me,” said Florence, in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + “It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closest secret. + You don't know how earnestly he wished that.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through <i>my</i> knowledge + of any secret,” Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl was + again visibly moved. “But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart, he + would not have had this secret from me. And to think!—he disappeared + the very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now you + would keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learned too + well that fate is pitiless; and I find that men are no less so.” + </p> + <p> + Turl's face was a study, showing the play of various reflections. Finally + his ideas seemed to be resolved. “Are we likely to be interrupted here?” + he asked, in a tone of surrender. + </p> + <p> + “No; I have guarded against that,” said Florence, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll tell you Davenport's story. But you must be patient, and let me + tell it in my own way, and you must promise—all three—never to + reveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and great reason + for keeping it secret.” + </p> + <p> + On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken a moment's + preliminary thought, began his account. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV — A STRANGE DESIGN + </h2> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, “you know already + what was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediately + before his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall on + enterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, either + inseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that his + affairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he played the + merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for the profit, + of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect, equivalent to the + thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunities in the theatrical + market, with people not above the superstitions of their guild; also it + produced in him a discouragement, a self-depreciation, which kept the + quality of his work down to the level of hopeless hackery. For yielding to + this influence; for stooping, in his necessity, to the service of Bagley, + who had wronged him; for failing to find a way out of the slough of + mediocre production, poor pay, and company inferior to him in mind, he + began to detest himself. + </p> + <p> + “He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helped measuring + his taste and intellect with those of average people, and he had valued + himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him to think well of + himself. On his trip to Europe he had met—I needn't say more; but to + have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable was bound to elevate + him in his own esteem. This event in his life had roused his ambition and + filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, or rather had braced + him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputed bad luck. You can + imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause of hope, the reason for + striving, was—as he believed—withdrawn from him. He assumed + that this calamity was due to your having learned about the supposed + shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. And while he + did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time found cause in + himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must be worthless and + undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope that went with you, + was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, he had ever + apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fancied ill-luck, and + his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colors than ever + before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded on them. And so + he got into the state I just now described. + </p> + <p> + “He was dejected, embittered, wearied; sick of his way of livelihood, sick + of the atmosphere he moved in, sick of his reflections, sick of himself. + Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. His self-loathing, which + steadily grew, would have become a maddening torture if he hadn't found + refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved this by an outburst of + bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood found anybody at hand for + his confidences. But for the most part he lived in a lethargic + indifference, mechanically going through the form of earning his living. + </p> + <p> + “You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. It + may have been partly because he lacked the instinct—or perhaps the + initiative—for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at the + expense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause, which + of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said—or given the + impression—that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worth + having out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for the + not-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reserve + somewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it. + </p> + <p> + “That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though its + existence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea which + he had conceived,—he no longer knew when, nor in what mental + circumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave of + things for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth by + association. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden new + attractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grown + to look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and develop + it. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the time + of Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a region + of his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath his languid, + uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he had adopted as a + design of action for himself to realize,—perfecting it to the + smallest incidental detail. + </p> + <p> + “This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or less + capable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believe + that a thing is true—except where the physical condition is + concerned, or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct—he + can give himself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from + its really being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves + believe that the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted + man is Orlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we + make ourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We <i>know</i> these + make-believes are not realities, but we <i>feel</i> that they are; we have + the sensations that would be effected by their reality. Now this + self-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how children + content themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift, or + a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A man will + tell a false tale of some exploit or experience of his youth until, after + years, he can't for his life swear whether it really occurred or not. Many + people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories, and come + finally to believe them. Even where the <i>knowing</i> part of the mind + doesn't grant belief, the imagining part—and through it the feeling + part—does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the + effect of a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition—on + one's life, in short—may be much the same as that of actuality. All + depends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe is + supported. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; not + only that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, as + that man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel and + act, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in time + sufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes, + he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mind he + should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of his + imagination and feeling would in time be so potent that the man he coldly + <i>knew</i> himself to be—the actual Murray Davenport—would be + the stranger, while the man he <i>felt</i> himself to be would be his more + intimate self. Needless to say, this new self would be a very different + man from the old Murray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from + the old self, the old recollections, the old environment, and all the old + adverse circumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time + when you, Larcher, were working with him. + </p> + <p> + “He imagined a man such as would be produced by the happiest conditions; + one of those fortunate fellows who seem destined for easy, pleasant paths + all their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all the + cheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenport + believed that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by the + name or suspicion of ill-luck. + </p> + <p> + “I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this new + personality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite the + history he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he made + it as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. One + circumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwing + over his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all the + surroundings with which it had been closely intimate,—not cities and + public resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, but + rooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the old + identity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have made + many acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in the + places where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some of + these people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shifting + life, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanent + claim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places which Davenport + had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollections of, but + would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of a too + definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about old + friends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginning + to have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lasting + associations and friendships could be formed, and these could be cherished + as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time a good number + could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on. + </p> + <p> + “But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for the + new self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man should + find himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter, + a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefully + cultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough to + avoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far and + still be in hourly risk of running against one of the old Murray + Davenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to the + constant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport by + himself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glass + window, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt at mental + transformation with the reminder of his physical identity. Even if he + could avoid being confronted many times a day by the reflected face of + Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually brought back to his + inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of the face on the + glances of other people,—for you know that different faces evoke + different looks from observers, and the look that one man is accustomed to + meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not precisely the same as + that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to the point, Murray + Davenport saw that to make his change of identity really successful, to + avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, to make himself + another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all the more so in his + own through finding himself so in the world's, he must transform himself + physically—in face and figure—beyond the recognition of his + closest friend—beyond the recognition even of himself. How was it to + be done? + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problem + as if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see. + </p> + <p> + “In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished by + the touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort of + fairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real life + there have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dual + identity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts from + one to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor is + such a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenport + wasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if he + had been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, or + ensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise of + imagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in those + cases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change in facial + expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such as + Davenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to work + the mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He must + resort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, the + magic of witches, and the drugs of romance,—he must employ Science + and the physical means it afforded. + </p> + <p> + “Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had never + arrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interest in + them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. His general + reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curious odds and + ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employed by + criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition: not + merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removing beards, + changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening or thinning the + face by dietary means,—devices that won't fool a close acquaintance + for half a minute,—not merely these, but the practice of tampering + with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alter the very + hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certain muscle, the + cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over the wound, makes a + very great alteration of outward effect. The result of this operation, + however, is not an improvement in looks, and as Davenport's object was to + fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance, he could not resort to it + without modifications, and, besides that, he meant to achieve a far more + thorough transformation than it would produce. But the knowledge of this + operation was something to start with. It was partly to combat such + devices of criminals, that Bertillon invented his celebrated system of + identification by measurements. A slight study of that system gave + Davenport valuable hints. He was reminded by Bertillon's own words, of + what he already knew, that the skin of the face—the entire skin of + three layers, that is, not merely the outside covering—may be + compared to a curtain, and the underlying muscles to the cords by which it + is drawn aside. The constant drawing of these cords, you know, produces in + time the facial wrinkles, always perpendicular to the muscles causing + them. If you sever a number of these cords, you alter the entire drape of + the curtain. It was for Davenport to learn what severances would produce, + not the disagreeable effect of the operation known to criminals, but a + result altogether pleasing. He was to discover and perform a whole complex + set of operations instead of the single operation of the criminals; and + each operation must be of a delicacy that would ensure the desired general + effect of all. And this would be but a small part of his task. + </p> + <p> + “He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formed + noses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call + 'plastic surgery,' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery.' From the 'beauty + shops,' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changing his + nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminating the + hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as to produce + perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came the hint of + cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks,—a detail that fell in + admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimples would + be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. What are + commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made to serve + the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face where such + furrows would aid his plan,—at the ends of his lips, for instance, + where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth could be imitated + by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirth form in + good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free from wrinkles, + perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had taken refuge in. It + was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say in regard to make-up. + </p> + <p> + “But changing the general shape of the face—the general drape of the + curtain—and the form of the prominent features, would not begin to + suffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hair + arrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, the + complexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hair + rather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of the head + and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead was usually + concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, and having it cut + in a new fashion, he could materially change the appearance of his + forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, he could do as much + for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If the forehead needed + still more change, the line of implantation could be altered by removing + hairs with tweezers; and the same painful but possible means must be used + to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. By removing hairs from the tops + of the ends, and from the bottom of the middle, he would be able to raise + the arch of each eyebrow noticeably. This removal, along with the clearing + of hair from the forehead, and thinning the eyelashes by plucking out, + would contribute to another desirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what + are commonly called gray. In the course of his study of Bertillon, he came + upon the reminder that—to use the Frenchman's own words—'the + gray eye of the average person is generally only a blue one with a more or + less yellowish tinge, which appears gray solely on account of the shadow + cast by the eyebrows, etc.' Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, + and the clearing of the forehead of its hanging locks, must considerably + decrease that shadow. The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes + would be helped by something else, which I shall come to later. The use of + the tweezers on the eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, + 'no part of the face contributes a more important share to the general + expression of the physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow.' The + complexion would be easy to deal with. His way of life—midnight + hours, abstemiousness, languid habits—had produced bloodless cheeks. + A summary dosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a + reformation of diet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, + air, proper food, and rational living would not only preserve but + intensify. + </p> + <p> + “But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, would + not do. As long as his bodily form, walk, attitude, carriage of the head, + remained the same, so would his general appearance at a distance or when + seen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against the + disillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected in + some distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by some former + acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might be endangered, + if some particularly curious and discerning person should go in for + solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenport in a + man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, and so + forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto he had + leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of the + strongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give him + tightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame, + alter the swing of his arms, and entail—without effort on his part—a + change in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way of + placing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequent + throwing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration, too: + it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequently further + affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticed the great + difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward or thrown + back,—as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accounts for + the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they're taken + of,—a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to get a + stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their faces + slightly averted. + </p> + <p> + “You understand, of course, that only his entire <i>appearance</i> would + have to be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be + unable to recognize him, even vaguely as resembling some one they couldn't + 'place.' But there was, of course, no anthropometric record of him in + existence, such as is taken of criminals to ensure their identification by + the Bertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected without + the least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to his + hands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the body + make on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts to + identify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible. + Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and that + rather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity to + the observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borne + out by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decided + that his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degeneration + of the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the new + character he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taught + in most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a little care + and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small he could + soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to go carefully + until habituated to the new style, with which he might defy even the + handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man who would + disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that of an + uneducated person. + </p> + <p> + “There would still remain the voice to be made over,—quite as + important a matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict + an identification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkable + resemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail to + notice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-way + knowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music and + elocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll come + to that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operations + which he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightest + beginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete and + every facility offered. That was not till the last night you saw him, + Larcher,—the night before his disappearance. + </p> + <p> + “For operations so delicate, meant to be so lasting in their effect, so + important to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity of a + perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not erase errors, + or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub out misplaced lines + and try again, as an actor can in 'making up.' He had learned a good deal + about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contact with the stage. His + plan was to use first the materials employed by actors, until he should + succeed in producing a countenance to his liking; and then, by surgical + means, to make real and permanent the sham and transient effects of + paint-stick and pencil. He would violently compel nature to register the + disguise and maintain it. + </p> + <p> + “He was favored in one essential matter—that of a place in which to + perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at + leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would + spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock + himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and + remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would + probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more + under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort, + in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat, + water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited + solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a + living soul—a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. + He couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as + investigations would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly + ruined by the intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which + he owed to you, Larcher,—one of the few lucky circumstances that + ever came to the old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy + augury for his design,—that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. + Bud down on the water-front. + </p> + <p> + “He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his + permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his + absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept away + in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud—and you, + Larcher—knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you + two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that + access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been + there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it + wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport + could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing + whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need + only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr. + Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that the + shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old man + busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was now all + ready to put his design into execution.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV — TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + </h2> + <p> + “On the very afternoon,” Turl went on, “before the day when Davenport + could have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order to + confide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence, and, + rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport went and + received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot of money, in + bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placed the next + day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather in passively + letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as to whether he + would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that evening of anything + but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on the morrow. As not an + hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessary for the healing of + the operations, he would either have to despatch Bagley's business very + quickly or neglect it altogether. In the latter case, what about the money + in his hands? The sum was nearly equal to that which Bagley had morally + defrauded him of. + </p> + <p> + “This coincidence, coming at that moment, seemed like the work of fate. + Bagley was to be absent from town a week, and Murray Davenport was about + to undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. It really + appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poetic justice; had + deliberately planned a restitution; had determined to befriend the new man + as it had afflicted the old. For the new man would have to begin existence + with a very small cash balance, unless he accepted this donation from + chance. If there were any wrong in accepting it, that wrong would not be + the new man's; it would be the bygone Murray Davenport's; but Murray + Davenport was morally entitled to that much—and more—of + Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach of trust; but + Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and common humanity. + Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred times more than + this sum now represented to Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Davenport was pondering this on his way home from Bagley's rooms, + when he met Larcher. Partly a kind feeling toward a friend he was about to + lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting the + question of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made him + invite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrived + to introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteer + on the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. As for + your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and your eventual + inferences if he should disappear without using it for Bagley, the fact + would come out anyhow as soon as Bagley returned to New York. And whatever + you would think, either in condemnation or justification, would be thought + of the old Murray Davenport. It wouldn't matter to the new man. During + that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse of + communicativeness—such a desire for a moment's relief from his + long-maintained secrecy—that he was on the verge of confiding his + project to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; and + you had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations. + </p> + <p> + “He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as few + belongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides the + Bagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result of + his collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a few + instruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set of + shaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought the + day before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to their fate. + He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn't help + feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a new tenant + accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act. + </p> + <p> + “He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines of + tonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healing + preparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel. + His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed as for + travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward, whereas a + trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put out of sight. + Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put into wrapping-paper. His + second visit was to a department store, where he got the linen and other + articles he would need during his seclusion,—sheets, towels, + handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. He provided + himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear in immediately + after his transformation, until he could be supplied by regular tailors, + haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes, everything,—particularly + shoulder braces; he put those on when he came to be fitted with the suit + and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the old Davenport's was to emerge with + the new man. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he left his purchases to be called for. His paper parcel, + containing the instruments, drugs, and so forth, he thought best to cling + to. From the department store he went to some other shops in the + neighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in his + pockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of the + money again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing the + funds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the bills + themselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His next + important call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He had + got up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large part + of the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that he + was buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcels here + made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he went out, + hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and was driven to + the department store. The things he had bought there were put on the cab + seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, and had his parcels + from there stowed inside the cab, which they almost filled up. But he + managed to make room for himself, and ordered the man to drive to and + along South Street until told to stop. It was now quite dark, and he + thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory of the exact place + if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by being mentioned and looked + for. + </p> + <p> + “However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, when + Mr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no great + interest in the locality,—it was a cold night, and he was doubtless + thinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying his parcels + into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying the cabman. + As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving his things up + to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the door locked, and the + gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eye fell on Bagley's + money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to use it as Bagley had + ordered. Davenport wondered what he would do with it, but postponed the + problem; he thrust the package of bills out of view, behind the books on + Mr. Bud's shelf, and turned to the business he had come for. No one had + seen him take possession of the room; no eye but the cabman's had followed + him to the hallway below, and the cabman would probably think he was + merely housing his goods there till he should go aboard some vessel in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + “A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It was + the healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room was well + enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused the gas-stove + to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep the coal-stove + in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too great a problem. + As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its light couldn't reach + the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield for the keyhole. For + water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to a bath-room, of which + Mr. Bud kept a key hung up in his own apartment. During his secret + residence in the house, Davenport visited the bath-room only at night, + taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had first been puzzled by the + laundry problem, but it proved very simple. His costume during his time of + concealment was limited to pajamas and slippers. Of handkerchiefs he had + provided a large stock. When the towels and other articles did require + laundering, he managed it in a wash-basin. On the first night, he only + unpacked and arranged his things, and slept. At daylight he sat down + before a mirror, and began to design his new physiognomy with the make-up + pencils. By noon he was ready to lay aside the pencils and substitute + instruments of more lasting effect. Don't fear, Miss Hill, that I'm going + to describe his operations in detail. I'll pass them over entirely, merely + saying that after two days of work he was elated with the results he could + already foresee upon the healing of the cuts. Such pain as there was, he + had braced himself to endure. The worst of it came when he exchanged + knives for tweezers, and attacked his eyebrows. This was really a tedious + business, and he was glad to find that he could produce a sufficient + increase of curve without going the full length of his design. In his + necessary intervals of rest, he practised the new handwriting. He was most + regular in his diet, sleep, and use of medicines. After a few days, he had + nothing left to do, as far as the facial operations were concerned, but + attend to their healing. He then began to wear the shoulder-braces, and + took up the matter of voice. + </p> + <p> + “But meanwhile, in the midst of his work one day,—his second day of + concealment, it was,—he had a little experience that produced quite + as disturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he came + across the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in the + afternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, as + usual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in and + out. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by a knock. + He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fear the + knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heard + again, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them as yours, + Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days that they + might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned. Later, + in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many little alarms + at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as people went to + and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after he had + begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he made was + low, it might have been audible to a person just outside his door. But he + kept his ear alert, and the voice-practice was shut off at the slightest + intimation of a step on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard many + feet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If it + had been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuous sort + of growl, difficult to place or identify. + </p> + <p> + “You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than their + possessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of American + voices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, we + speak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middle + notes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice is + naturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases is + to glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had done + this. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading verse + aloud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in the slang + phrase, 'all there.' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way of bringing + the lower voice into predominance; of making it become the habitual voice, + to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one can do this in time by + studied practice, but the constant watchfulness is irksome and may lapse + at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and for all, so that the quick + unconscious response to the mind's order to speak would be from the lower + voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud's dictionary, opened it at U, + and recited one after another all the words beginning with that letter as + pronounced in 'under.' This he did through the whole list, again and + again, hour after hour, monotonously, in the lower register of his voice. + He went through this practice every day, with the result that his deeper + notes were brought into such activity as to make them supplant the higher + voice entirely. Pronunciation has something to do with voice effect, and, + besides, his complete transformation required some change in that on its + own account. This was easy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of + imitating dialects, foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier + in life he had naturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, + which is somewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in his + association with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed into + the slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only to + return to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as in + other details of the well-ordered life his new self was to lead. + </p> + <p> + “As I said, he was provided with shaving materials. But he couldn't cut + his own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in the + old fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the end of + that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could do + about it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longest + locks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After the + first two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention each + day. His vocal and handwriting exercises weren't to be carried to excess, + and so he had a good deal of time on his hands. Some of this, after his + face was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise, using + chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenic implements. + He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave the utmost care to + their composition from the preserved foods at his disposal. He slept from + nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed no artificial light. For pure + air, he kept a window open all night, being well wrapped up, but in the + daytime he didn't risk leaving open more than the cracks above and below + the sashes, for fear some observant person might suspect a lodger in the + room. Sometimes he read, renewing an acquaintance which the new man he was + beginning to be must naturally have made, in earlier days, with Scott's + novels. He had necessarily designed that the new man should possess the + same literature and general knowledge as the bygone Davenport had + possessed. For already, as soon as the general effect of the operations + began to emerge from bandages and temporary discoloration, he had begun to + consider Davenport as bygone,—as a man who had come to that place + one evening, remained a brief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving + behind him his clothes and sundry useful property which he, the new man + who found himself there, might use without fear of objection from the + former owner. + </p> + <p> + “The sense of new identity came with perfect ease at the first bidding. It + was not marred by such evidences of the old fact as still remained. These + were obliterated one by one. At last the healing was complete; there was + nothing to do but remove all traces of anybody's presence in the room + during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of a barber. + The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove, starting it with + the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feeding it first with + Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and other inflammable + things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He made one large + bundle of the shoes, cans, jars, surgical instruments, everything that + couldn't be easily burnt, and wrapped them in a sheet, along with the dead + ashes of the conflagration in the stove. He then made up Mr. Bud's bed, + restored the room to its original appearance in every respect, and waited + for night. As soon as access to the bath-room was safe, he made his final + toilet, as far as that house was concerned, and put on his new clothes for + the first time. About three o'clock in the morning, when the street was + entirely deserted, he lugged his bundle—containing the unburnable + things—down the stairs and across the street, and dropped it into + the river. Even if the things were ever found, they were such as might + come from a vessel, and wouldn't point either to Murray Davenport or to + Mr. Bud's room. + </p> + <p> + “He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his new + sensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a market + restaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop—one of those that + open in time for early-rising customers—and had his hair cut in the + desired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought a + supply of linen and so forth, with a trunk and hand-bag, so that he could + 'arrive' properly at a hotel. He did arrive at one, in a cab, with bag and + baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, he + called at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, he + recalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind the + books on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, but + in any case it oughtn't to remain where it was; so he went back to Mr. + Bud's room, entering the house unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + “He took the money from the cover it was in, and put it in an inside + pocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effects + of this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quite + irresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhile + before going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, was + only increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked very tempting. + To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down on the bed, + with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed. + </p> + <p> + “He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, and the + lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on the floor + and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; he then + sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed down the + cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left the room for + the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to the foot of the + stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One of them + happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had already seen + their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked his stars for + the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Bud and + Larcher.” + </p> + <p> + Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florence + and Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was now + complete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have to + make, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeed was + Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder shared with + him, could not be guessed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI — AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + </h2> + <p> + The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often + than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no + great stupidity in her remark to Turl: + </p> + <p> + “But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that + hallway one night, but it turned out to be you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was I,” was the quiet answer. “The name of the new man, you see, + was Francis Turl.” + </p> + <p> + As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a + certain doubt: “But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you + before he—before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the + night before he disappeared—it was signed Francis Turl.” + </p> + <p> + Turl smiled. “Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's character. + He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character he had + constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun practical + experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some of that + practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could better + mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than letters + between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief acquaintance, + which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray Davenport's affairs + ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This has already happened + in the matter of the money, for example. The name, too, was selected long + before the disappearance. That explains the letter you saw. I didn't dare + tell this earlier in the story,—I feared to reveal too suddenly what + had become of Murray Davenport. It was best to break it as I have, was it + not?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an + involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something + almost like repulsion. + </p> + <p> + “It's so strange,” she said, in a hushed voice. “I can't believe it. I + don't know what to think.” + </p> + <p> + Turl sighed patiently. “You can understand now why I didn't want to tell. + Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,—to + interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to perfect + it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it, of course. + I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll support the + illusion.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead + to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind + was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered + aversion in her look. + </p> + <p> + “I had meant to leave New York,” he went on, watching her with cautious + anxiety, “in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the + friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the street + that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell into a + strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about Davenport. + This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the disappearance, so I was + pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. Also, I wondered whether + he would detect any trace of my long occupancy of his room. I found I'd + forgot to bring out the cover taken from the bankbills. Suppose that were + seen, and you recognized it, what theories would you form? For the sake of + my purpose I ought to have put curiosity aside, but it was too keen; I + resolved to gratify it this one time only. The hallway was perfectly dark, + and all I had to do was to wait there till you and Mr. Bud should come + out. I knew he would accompany you down-stairs for a good-night drink in + the saloon when you left. The slightest remark would give me some insight + into your general views of the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came + down together. I stood well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. + And you can imagine what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. + Do you remember? Davenport—it couldn't be anybody else—had + disappeared just too soon to learn that 'the young lady'—so Mr. Bud + called her—had been true, after all! And it broke your heart to have + nothing to report when you saw her!” + </p> + <p> + “I do remember,” said Larcher. Florence's lip quivered. + </p> + <p> + “I stood there in the darkness, like a man stunned, for several minutes,” + Turl proceeded. “There was so much to make out. Perhaps there had been + something going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I—that + Davenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought out + things that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but the + end of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' was + deeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw her + frequently. + </p> + <p> + “I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. Had I—had + Davenport—(the distinction between the two was just then more + difficult to preserve)—mistakenly imagined himself deprived of that + which was of more value than anything else in life? had he—I—in + throwing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyond + recovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of my + soul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's last + crudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could I + remain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfully + carried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering the + happiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! I + couldn't give it up. But the great design—should all that skill and + labor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't be + undone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and the + coveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if the + transformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved at + least. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, there + was no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to the + old unlucky name and history!—it was asking too much! + </p> + <p> + “Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile the + alternatives—to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the + happiness. Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should + remain, and should play to win the happiness for himself. I would change + my plans somewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do + was to find you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit of + seeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch the houses + where he called. Knowing where he lived, and his favorite resorts, I had + never any difficulty in getting on his track. In that way, I came to keep + an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himself in with a + door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room I still occupy, + and managed very easily to throw myself in your father's way. You know the + rest, and how through you I met Miss Hill and Larcher. In this room, also, + I have had the—experience—of meeting Mr. Bagley.” + </p> + <p> + “And what of his money?” asked Florence. + </p> + <p> + “That has remained a question. It is still undecided. No doubt a third + person would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, the + creditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But the + creditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather than thought, + was sincere enough in considering the case at least debatable. As for me, + you will say, if I am Francis Turl, I am logically a third person. Even + so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems against nature. As + Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly Murray Davenport's claims, + perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing what my course would + ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim to certain money was in + dispute—that a decision might deprive me of it. I didn't explain, of + course, that the decision would be my own. If the money goes back to + Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. I made up my mind not + to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport had been; to rely entirely + on the one which seemed to promise most. I have to thank you, Larcher, for + having caused me to learn what that was, in my former iden—in the + person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old and new selves will still + overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense of being Francis Turl as + much as you might imagine; and the lapses will necessarily be fewer and + fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fall back on my ability as an + artist in black and white. But my work should be of a different line from + that which Murray Davenport had followed—not only to prevent + recognition of the style, but to accord with my new outlook—with + Francis Turl's outlook—on the world. That is why my work has dealt + with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comic sketches, and + shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decided against keeping + the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming in soon. What I received—what + Davenport received for illustrating your articles, Larcher, though it made + him richer than he had often found himself, had been pretty well used up + incidentally to the transformation and my subsequent emergence to the + world. So I resorted to you to facilitate my introduction to the market. + When I met you here one day, I expressed a wish that I might run across a + copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery. I knew—it was another piece + of my inherited information from Davenport—that you had that book. + In that way I drew an invitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that + began resulted as I desired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful + to you from the bottom of my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “The pleasure has been mine, I assure you,” replied Larcher, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “And the profit mine,” said Turl. “The check for those first three + sketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn't + been alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me—Francis Turl was + born to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagley + money would unlock a good store of the sweets of life.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found no + answer there—nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how + to regard him, how to place him in her heart. + </p> + <p> + “But the matter of livelihood, or the question of the money,” he resumed, + humbly and patiently, “wasn't what gave me most concern. You will + understand now—Florence”—his voice faltered as he uttered the + name—“why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said + what I did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway that + night: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. What had + caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I dared not—as + Turl—inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but it + wasn't for me—Turl—to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, + now was that you would forget Davenport—that the way would be free + for the newcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old + love, I was both touched and baffled—touched infinitely at your + loyalty to Murray Davenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis + Turl. I should have thought less of you—loved you less—if you + had so soon given up the unfortunate man who had passed; and yet my + dearest hopes depended on your giving him up. I even urged you to forget + him; assured you he would never reappear, and begged you to set your back + to the past. Though your refusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked + you for it—thanked you in behalf of the old self, the old memories + which had again become dear to me. It was a puzzling situation,—my + preferred rival was my former self; I had set the new self to win you from + constancy to the old, and my happiness lay in doing so; and yet for that + constancy I loved you more than ever, and if you had fallen from it, I + should have been wounded while I was made happy. All the time, however, my + will held out against telling you the secret. I feared the illusion must + lose something if it came short of being absolute reality to any one—even + you. I'm afraid I couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any + divulgence that might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate + self. It seemed better to wait till time should become my ally against my + rival in your heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival—the + old Murray Davenport—was installed there; when I saw how much you + suffered—how much you would still suffer—from uncertainty + about his fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>was</i> cruel,” said Florence. “I have suffered.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” he replied. “I didn't fully realize—I was too intent + on my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!—it was more than + cruel. I shall not forgive myself for that, at least.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “And now that you know?” he asked, in a low voice, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “It is so strange,” she replied, coldly. “I can't tell what I think. You + are not the same. I can see now that you are he—in spite of all your + skill, I can see that.” + </p> + <p> + He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back, + saying quickly: + </p> + <p> + “And yet you are not he.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” said Turl. “And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am + Francis Turl—” + </p> + <p> + “And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me,” she answered. “Oh, I see + now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost—more lost than ever. Your + design has been all too successful.” + </p> + <p> + “It was <i>his</i> design, remember,” pleaded Turl. “And I am the result + of it—the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. + Surely all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, + severed from the unhappy, and made fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + “But what was it in him that I loved?” she asked, looking at Turl as if in + search of something missing. + </p> + <p> + He could only say: “If you reject me, he is stultified. His plan + contemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you so + far bring disaster on his plan.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, and repeated sadly: “You are not the same.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely the love I have for you—that is the same—the old + love transmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport + survives in me—and I'm willing that he should.” + </p> + <p> + Again she vainly asked: “What was it in him that I loved—that I + still love when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray + Davenport I knew, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if I wished + to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myself is + impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, the return + would be mental only, and even mentally it would never be complete. You + say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it you loved in him? + Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, if you doom me to + unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for my unhappiness.” He + smiled despondently. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” she said. “It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or even by + thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It's so + strange as yet. We must wait.” She rose, rather weakly, and supported + herself with the back of a chair. “When I'm ready for you to call, I'll + send you a message.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, and + Larcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and rather + embarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to the company + of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once the effect of + comparative speechlessness. + </p> + <p> + Out in the hall, when the door of the Kenby suite had closed behind them, + Turl said to Larcher: “You've had a good deal of trouble over Murray + Davenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize for + the trouble,—as his representative, you know,—and thank you + for the kindness.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't mention either,” said Larcher, cordially. “I take it from your + tone,” said Turl, smiling, “that my story doesn't alter the friendly + relations between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for the + sake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do for + a conception like yours—so original and bold—to come to + failure. Are you going to turn in now?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worth + being out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat.” + </p> + <p> + He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came face + to face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold—a bulky + man with overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was a + look of vengeful triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Just the fellow I was lookin' for,” said this person to Turl. “Good + evening, Mr. Murray Davenport! How about my bunch of money?” + </p> + <p> + The speaker, of course, was Bagley. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII — BAGLEY SHINES OUT + </h2> + <h3> + “I beg pardon,” said Turl, coolly, as if he had not heard aright. + </h3> + <p> + “You needn't try to bluff <i>me</i>,” said Bagley. “I've been on to your + game for a good while. You can fool some of the people, but you can't fool + me. I'm too old a friend, Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “My name is Turl.” + </p> + <p> + “Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll + just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my money + back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's left of + it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist, you are. + We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like. We'll see how + clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed + perfectly at ease. + </p> + <p> + “You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion,” he replied. “Your + name, I believe, is Bagley.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go + through; it's not like your <i>ill</i>usion, as you call it—and very + ill you'll be—” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know I call it that?” asked Turl, quickly. “I never spoke of + having an illusion, in your presence—or till this evening.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish. + </p> + <p> + “You must have been overhearing,” added Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't mind telling you I have been,” replied Bagley, with + recovered insolence. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick + one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely I've + got the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and sportsmanlike”—Bagley's + eyes gleamed facetiously—“to let you know before I notify the + police. But if you can disappear again before I do that, it'll be a mighty + quick disappearance.” + </p> + <p> + He started for the hall, to leave the house. + </p> + <p> + Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. “You'll have a simple + task proving that I am Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation well + enough to convince the authorities.” + </p> + <p> + “They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous—and + the story is so probable.” + </p> + <p> + “You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though I + couldn't catch it all. You can make it as probable again.” + </p> + <p> + “But I sha'n't have to tell it again. As the accused person, I sha'n't + have to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking is + necessary, I shall have a clever lawyer to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can swear to what I heard from your own lips.” + </p> + <p> + “Through a keyhole? Such a long story? so full of details? Your having + heard it in that manner will add to its credibility, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I can swear I recognize you as Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “As the accuser, you'll have to support your statement with the testimony + of witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. What + do you suppose they'll swear? His landlady, for instance? Do you think, + Larcher, that Murray Davenport's landlady would swear that I'm he?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so,” said Larcher, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Here's Larcher himself as a witness,” said Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I can swear I don't see the slightest resemblance between Mr. Turl and + Murray Davenport,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “You can swear you <i>know</i> he is Murray Davenport, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “And when my lawyer asks him <i>how</i> he knows,” said Turl, “he can only + say, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, of + his own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn for + amusement? No.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of,” put + in Larcher, “if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can take a + holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some other + city, if necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “There are others,—the ladies in there, who heard the story,” said + Bagley, lightly. + </p> + <p> + “One of them didn't know Murray Davenport,” said Turl, “and the other—I + should be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of the + witness-stand on my account. I hardly think you would subject her to it, + Mr. Bagley,—I do you that credit.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know about that,” said Bagley. “I'll take my chances of showing + you up one way or another, just the same. You <i>are</i> Murray Davenport, + and I know it; that's pretty good material to start with. Your story has + managed to convince <i>me</i>, little as I could hear of it; and I'm not + exactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that—” + </p> + <p> + “It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of the + traits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that sense to + any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager you + can't tell it so as to convince a lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + “How much will you wager?” said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spirit + lighting up in him. + </p> + <p> + “I merely used the expression,” said Turl. “I'm not a betting man.” + </p> + <p> + “I am,” said Bagley. “What'll you bet I can't convince a lawyer?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a betting man,” repeated Turl, “but just for this occasion I + shouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyer + were accessible at this hour.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as a + request to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quite sure + whether he interpreted correctly, Larcher put in: + </p> + <p> + “I think there's one to be found not very far from here. I mean Mr. Barry + Tompkins; he passes most of his evenings at a Bohemian resort near Sixth + Avenue. He was slightly acquainted with Murray Davenport, though. Would + that fact militate?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, as far as I'm concerned,” said Turl, taking a bank-bill from + his pocket and handing it to Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins,” said Bagley. “He'd do all right. But + if he's a friend of Davenport's—” + </p> + <p> + “He isn't a friend,” corrected Larcher. “He met him once or twice in my + company for a few minutes at a time.” + </p> + <p> + “But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport's + friend,” rejoined Bagley to Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't thought of that,” said Turl. “I only meant I was willing to + undergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you told the + story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be some other + lawyer at the place Larcher speaks of.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; I'll cover your money quick enough,” said Bagley, doing so. “I + guess we'll find a lawyer to suit in that crowd. I know the place you + mean.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. When + he returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. The + snowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; but the + white mass, little trodden in that part of the city since nightfall, was + so thick that the feet sank deep at every step. The labor of walking, and + the cold, kept the party silent till they reached the place where Larcher + had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's first orders + about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door to enter, the + burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast to the snowy + night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway led them into + this scene,—the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talking people, + who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles and glasses. + An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. One would + have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words for the + general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noise was + but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of three or + four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possible under + cover of the general noise. + </p> + <p> + Before the three newcomers had finished their survey of the room, Larcher + saw Barry Tompkins signalling, with a raised glass and a grinning + countenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go over to him,” said Bagley, abruptly. “I see there's room there.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. The latter + merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeed leaped + suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly not yet in + Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all was friendly + between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why should Tompkins, supposing + he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion, conceal the fact? + </p> + <p> + Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairs by + the time Larcher had threaded a way to him. Larcher, looking around, saw + that Bagley had followed close. He therefore introduced Bagley first; and + then Turl. Tompkins had the same brief, hearty handshake, the same + mirthful grin—as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting + were an occasion for chuckling at it—for both. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport,” remarked Bagley to + Larcher, as soon as all in the party were seated. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” replied Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Then, Mr. Tompkins, you don't seem to live up to your reputation as a + quick-sighted man,” said Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon?” said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one of his + vanities. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible you don't recognize this gentleman?” asked Bagley, + indicating Turl. “As somebody you've met before, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Extremely possible,” replied Tompkins, with a sudden curtness in his + voice. “I do <i>not</i> recognize this gentleman as anybody I've met + before. But, as I never forget a face, I shall always recognize him in the + future as somebody I've met to-night.” Whereat he grinned benignly at + Turl, who acknowledged with a courteous “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “You never forget a face,” said Bagley, “and yet you don't remember this + one. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, and + look close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, and + don't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down over + the forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don't make + out your old acquaintance—and my old friend—Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally—with a + wondering inquiry—at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious,” said he. “He declares I am the + Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks you ought to + be able to identify me as that person.” + </p> + <p> + “If you gentlemen are working up a joke,” replied Tompkins, “I hope I + shall soon begin to see the fun; but if you're not, why then, Mr. Bagley, + I should earnestly advise you to take something for this.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just wait, Mr. Tompkins. You're a well-informed man, I believe. Now + let's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing his + appearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so as + almost to defy recognition?” + </p> + <p> + “I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defy + recognition by <i>me</i>. So much for your general question. As to this + gentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can only + wonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he said + to Larcher: “I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I was a + bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduce + you,” suggested Turl. + </p> + <p> + “You want a lawyer?” said Tompkins. “There are three or four here. Over + there's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, I + suppose,—a well-known criminologist.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think he'd be the very man for you,” said Turl to Bagley. + “Besides being a lawyer, he knows surgery, and he's an authority on the + habits of criminals.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he a friend of yours?” asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyes + lighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity of + ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “I never met him,” said Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” said Larcher; “and I don't think Murray Davenport ever did.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if Mr. Tompkins will introduce Mr. Larcher and me, and come away at + once without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet's + concerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way.” + </p> + <p> + Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legal + criminologist—a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely gray + hair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression—and, + having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagley + was not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, I've wanted to meet you,” he began, “to speak about a remarkable + case that comes right in your line. I'd like to tell you the story, just + as I know it, and get your opinion on it.” + </p> + <p> + The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness to + hear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he kept + during the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimes + turned penetratingly on Bagley, sometimes dropping idly to the table. + </p> + <p> + “There's a young fellow in this town, a friend of mine,” Bagley went on, + “of a literary turn of mind, and altogether what you'd call a queer Dick. + He'd got down on his luck, for one reason and another, and was dead sore + on himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took the most + remarkable notion you ever heard of.” And Bagley gave what Larcher had + inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the whole + transaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyes affected + the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by they occasionally + sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that those of Barry + Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the careful heeding of + every word, was maintained to the end of the story. + </p> + <p> + “And now, sir,” said Bagley, triumphantly, “I'd like to ask what you think + of that?” + </p> + <p> + The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the last + time his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: “It's + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “But I know it to be true!” blurted Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way you + describe,” said the medico-legal man. “But not such as would insure + against recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciable + length of time.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely you know what criminals have done to avoid identification?” + </p> + <p> + “Better than any other man in New York,” said the other, simply, without + any boastfulness. + </p> + <p> + “And you know what these facial surgeons do?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientific + monograph yet published on the art they profess.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you say that what my friend has done is impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “What you say he has done is quite impossible. Mr. Tompkins, for example, + whom you cite as having once met your friend and then failed to recognize + him, would recognize him in ten seconds after any transformation within + possibility. If he failed to recognize the man you take to be your friend + transformed, make up your mind the man is somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley drew a deep sigh, curtly thanked the criminologist, and rose, + saying to Larcher: “Well, you better turn over the stakes to your friend, + I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not going yet, are you?” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. I lose this bet; but I'll try my story on the police just the + same. Truth is mighty and will prevail.” + </p> + <p> + Before Bagley could make his way out, however, Turl, who had been watching + him, managed to get to his side. Larcher, waving a good-night to Barry + Tompkins, followed the two from the room. In the hall, he handed the + stakes to Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you win all right enough,” admitted Bagley. “My fun will come + later.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust you'll see the funny side of it,” replied Turl, accompanying him + forth to the snowy street. “You haven't laughed much at the little + foretaste of the incredulity that awaits you.” + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind. I'll make them believe me, before I'm through.” He had + turned toward Sixth Avenue. Turl and Larcher stuck close to him. + </p> + <p> + “You'll have them suggesting rest-cures for the mind, and that sort of + thing,” said Turl, pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “And the newspapers will be calling you the Great American Identifier,” + put in Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “There'll be somebody else as the chief identifier,” said Bagley, glaring + at Turl. “Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley.” Turl enforced obedience by stepping in front + of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, while an + elevated train rumbled along overhead. “I don't think you really mean + that. I don't think that, as an American, you would really subject a woman—such + a woman—to such an ordeal, to gain so little. Would you now?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't I?” Despite his defiant look, Bagley had weakened a bit. + </p> + <p> + “I can't imagine your doing it. But if you did, my lawyer would have to + make you tell how you had heard this wonderful tale.” + </p> + <p> + “Through the door. That's easy enough.” + </p> + <p> + “We could show that the tale couldn't possibly be heard through so thick a + door, except by the most careful attention—at the keyhole. You would + have to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole—at the + keyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, + attempting to answer that question—with the reporters eagerly + awaiting your reply to publish it to the town.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. At + last he growled: + </p> + <p> + “If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that money + have you got left?” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before he + disappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't it + the case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to that amount + from you?” + </p> + <p> + Bagley gave a contemptuous grunt; then, suddenly brightening up, he said: + “S'pose Davenport <i>was</i> entitled to it. As you ain't Davenport, why, + of course, you ain't entitled to it. Now what have you got to say?” + </p> + <p> + “Merely, that, as you're not Davenport, neither are you entitled to it.” + </p> + <p> + “But I was only supposin'. I don't admit that Davenport was entitled to + it. Ordinary law's good enough for me. I just wanted to show you where you + stand, you not bein' Davenport, even if he had a right to that money.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose Davenport had given me the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'd have to restore it, as it wasn't lawfully his.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can't prove that I have it, to restore.” + </p> + <p> + “If I can establish any sort of connection between you and Davenport, I + can cause your affairs to be thoroughly looked into,” retorted Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “But you can't establish that connection, any more than you can convince + anybody that I'm Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley was fiercely silent, taking in a deep breath for the cooling of his + rage. He was a man who saw whole vistas of probability in a moment, and + who was correspondingly quick in making decisions. + </p> + <p> + “We're at a deadlock,” said he. “You're a clever boy, Dav,—or Turl, + I might as well call you. I know the game's against me, and Turl you shall + be from now on, for all I've ever got to say. I did swear this evening to + make it hot for you, but I'm not as hot myself now as I was at that + moment. I'll give up the idea of causing trouble for you over that money; + but the money itself I must have.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you need it badly?” asked Turl. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Need</i> it!” cried Bagley, scorning the imputation. “Not me! The loss + of it would never touch me. But no man can ever say he's done me out of + that much money, no matter how smart he is. So I'll have that back, if + I've got to spend all the rest of my pile to get it. One way or another, + I'll manage to produce evidence connecting you with Murray Davenport at + the time he disappeared with my cash.” + </p> + <p> + Turl pondered. Presently he said: “If it were restored to you, Davenport's + moral right to it would still be insisted on. The restoration would be + merely on grounds of expediency.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” Turl went on, “Davenport no longer needs it; and certainly <i>I</i> + don't need it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't you, on the level?” inquired Bagley, surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. I can earn a very good income. Fortune smiles on me.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't mind your holding out a thousand or two of that money when + you pay it over,—say two thousand, as a sort of testimonial of my + regard,” said Bagley, good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. You mean to be generous; but I couldn't accept a + dollar as a gift, from the man who wouldn't pay Murray Davenport as a + right.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you accept the two thousand, then, as Murray Davenport's right,—you + being a kind of an heir of his?” + </p> + <p> + “I would accept the whole amount in dispute; but under that, not a cent.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked at Turl long and hard; then said, quietly: “I tell you what + I'll do with you. I'll toss up for that money,—the whole amount. If + you win, keep it, and I'll shut up. But if I win, you turn it over and + never let me hear another word about Davenport's right.” + </p> + <p> + “As I told you before, I'm not a gambling man. And I can't admit that + Davenport's right is open to settlement.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, at least you'll admit that you and I don't agree about it. You + can't deny there's a difference of opinion between us. If you want to + settle that difference once and for ever, inside of a minute, here's your + chance. It's just cases like this that the dice are good for. There's a + saloon over on that corner. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Turl. And the three strode diagonally across Sixth + Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme a box of dice,” said Bagley to the man behind the bar, when they + had entered the brightly lighted place. + </p> + <p> + “They're usin' it in the back room,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “Got a pack o' cards?” then asked Bagley. + </p> + <p> + The barkeeper handed over a pack which had been reposing in a cigar-box. + </p> + <p> + “I'll make it as sudden as you like,” said Bagley to Turl. “One cut + apiece, and highest wins. Or would you like something not so quick?” + </p> + <p> + “One cut, and the higher wins,” said Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Shuffle the cards,” said Bagley to Larcher, who obeyed. “Help yourself,” + said Bagley to Turl. The latter cut, and turned up a ten-spot. Bagley cut, + and showed a six. + </p> + <p> + “The money's yours,” said Bagley. “And now, gentlemen, what'll you have to + drink?” + </p> + <p> + The drinks were ordered, and taken in silence. “There's only one thing I'd + like to ask,” said Bagley thereupon. “That keyhole business—it + needn't go any further, I s'pose?” + </p> + <p> + “I give you my word,” said Turl. Larcher added his, whereupon Bagley bade + the barkeeper telephone for a four-wheeler, and would have taken them to + their homes in it. But they preferred a walk, and left him waiting for his + cab. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” exclaimed Larcher, as soon as he was out of the saloon. “I + congratulate you! I feared Bagley would give trouble. But how easily he + came around!” + </p> + <p> + “You forget how fortunate I am,” said Turl, smiling. “Poor Davenport could + never have brought him around.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no doubting your luck,” said Larcher; “even with cards.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky with cards,” began Turl, lightly; but broke off all at once, and + looked suddenly dubious as Larcher glanced at him in the electric light. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII — FLORENCE + </h2> + <p> + The morning brought sunshine and the sound of sleigh-bells. In the + wonderfully clear air of New York, the snow-covered streets dazzled the + eyes. Never did a town look more brilliant, or people feel more blithe, + than on this fine day after the long snow-storm. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it glorious?” Edna Hill was looking out on the shining white + gardens from Florence's parlor window. “Certainly, on a day like this, it + doesn't seem natural for one to cling to the past. It's a day for + beginning over again, if ever there are such days.” Her words had allusion + to the subject on which the two girls had talked late into the night. Edna + had waited for Florence to resume the theme in the morning, but the latter + had not done so yet, although breakfast was now over. Perhaps it was her + father's presence that had deterred her. The incident of the meal had been + the arrival of a note from Mr. Bagley to Mr. Kenby, expressing the + former's regret that he should be unavoidably prevented from keeping the + engagement to go sleighing. As Florence had forgotten to give her father + Mr. Bagley's verbal message, this note had brought her in for a quantity + of paternal complaint sufficient for the venting of the ill-humor due to + his having stayed up too late, and taken too much champagne the night + before. But now Mr. Kenby had gone out, wrapped up and overshod, to try + the effect of fresh air on his headache, and of shop-windows and pretty + women on his spirits. Florence, however, had still held off from the + all-important topic, until Edna was driven to introduce it herself. + </p> + <p> + “It's never a day for abandoning what has been dear to one,” replied + Florence. + </p> + <p> + “But you wouldn't be abandoning him. After all, he really is the same + man.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can't make myself regard him as the same. And he doesn't regard + himself so.” + </p> + <p> + “But in that case the other man has vanished. It's precisely as if he were + dead. No, it's even worse, for there isn't as much trace of him as there + would be of a man that had died. What's the use of being faithful to such + an utterly non-existent person? Why, there isn't even a grave, to put + flowers on;—or an unknown mound in a distant country, for the + imagination to cling to. There's just nothing to be constant to.” + </p> + <p> + “There are memories.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they'll remain. Does a widow lose her memories of number one when + she becomes Mrs. Number Two?” + </p> + <p> + “She changes the character of them; buries them out of sight; kills them + with neglect. Yes, she is false to them.” + </p> + <p> + “But your case isn't even like that. In these peculiar circumstances the + old memories will blend with the new.—And, dear me! he is such a + nice man! I don't see how the other could have been nicer. You couldn't + find anybody more congenial in tastes and manners, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't make you understand, dear. Suppose Tom Larcher went away for a + time, and came back so completely different that you couldn't see the old + Tom Larcher in him at all. And suppose he didn't even consider himself the + same person you had loved. Would you love him then as you do now?” + </p> + <p> + Edna was silenced for a moment; but for a moment only. “Well, if he came + back such a charming fellow as Turl, and if he loved me as much as Turl + loves you, I could soon manage to drop the old Tom out of my mind. But of + course, you know, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't forget for a moment + that he really was the old Tom.” + </p> + <p> + The talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. The servant gave the name + of Mr. Turl. Florence turned crimson, and stood at a loss. + </p> + <p> + “You can't truly say you're out, dear,” counselled Edna, in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + “Show him in,” said Florence. + </p> + <p> + Turl entered. + </p> + <p> + Florence looked and spoke coldly. “I told you I'd send a message when I + wished you to call.” + </p> + <p> + He was wistful, but resolute. “I know it,” he said. “But love doesn't + stand on ceremony; lovers are importunate; they come without bidding.—Good + morning, Miss Hill; you mustn't let me drive you away.” + </p> + <p> + For Edna had swished across the room, and was making for the hall. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to the drawing-room,” she said, airily, “to see the sleighs go + by.” + </p> + <p> + In another second, the door slammed, and Turl was alone with Florence. He + took a hesitating step toward her. + </p> + <p> + “It's useless,” she said, raising her hand as a barrier between them. “I + can't think of you as the same. I can't see <i>him</i> in you. I should + have to do that before I could offer you his place. All that I can love + now is the memory of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” said Turl, without moving. “I have thought it over. For your + sake, I will be the man I was. It's true, I can't restore the old face; + but the old outlook on life, the old habits, the old pensiveness, will + bring back the old expression. I will resume the old name, the old set of + memories, the old sense of personality. I said last night that a + resumption of the old self could be only mental, and incomplete even so. + But when I said that, I had not surrendered. The mental return can be + complete, and must reveal itself more or less on the surface. And the old + love,—surely where the feeling is the same, its outer showing can't + be utterly new and strange.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a more pleading and reverent note than he had yet used since + the revelation. A moist shine came into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Murray—it <i>is</i> you!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—sweetheart!” His smile of the utmost tenderness seemed more of + a kind with sadness than with pleasure. It was the smile of a man deeply + sensible of sorrow—of Murray Davenport,—not that of one versed + in good fortune alone—not that which a potent imagination had made + habitual to Francis Turl. + </p> + <p> + She gave herself to his arms, and for a time neither spoke. It was she who + broke the silence, looking up with tearful but smiling eyes: + </p> + <p> + “You shall not abandon your design. It's too marvellous, too successful; + it has been too dear to you for that.” + </p> + <p> + “It was dear to me when I thought I had lost you. And since then, the + pride of conceiving and accomplishing it, the labor and pain, kept it dear + to me. But now that I am sure of you, I can resign it without a murmur. + From the moment when I decided to sacrifice it, it has been nothing to me, + provided I could only regain you.” + </p> + <p> + “But the old failure, the old ill luck, the old unrewarded drudgery,—no, + you sha'n't go back to them. You shall be true to the illusion—we + shall be true to it—I will help you in it, strengthen you in it! I + needed only to see the old Murray Davenport appear in you one moment. + Hereafter you shall be Francis Turl, the happy and fortunate! But you and + I will have our secret—before the world you shall be Francis Turl—but + to me you shall be Murray Davenport, too—Murray Davenport hidden + away in Francis Turl. To me alone, for the sake of the old memories. It + will be another tie between us, this secret, something that is solely + ours, deep in our hearts, as the knowledge of your old self would always + have been deep in yours if you hadn't told me. Think how much better it is + that I share this knowledge with you; now nothing of your mind is + concealed from me, and we together shall have our smile at the world's + expense.” + </p> + <p> + “For being so kind to Francis Turl, the fortunate, after its cold + treatment of Murray Davenport, the unlucky,” said Turl, smiling. “It shall + be as you say, sweetheart. There can be no doubt about my good fortune. It + puts even the old proverb out. With me it is lucky in love as well as at + cards.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “The Bagley money—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that money. Listen, dear. Now that I have some right to speak, you + must return that money. I don't dispute your moral claim to it—such + things are for you to settle. But the danger of keeping it—” + </p> + <p> + “There's no longer any danger. The money is mine, of Bagley's own free + will and consent. I encountered him last night. He is in my secret now, + but it's safe with him. We cut cards for the money, and I won. I hate + gambling, but the situation was exceptional. He hoped that, once the + matter was settled by the cards, he should never hear a word about it + again. As he hadn't heard a word of it from me—Davenport—for + years, this meant that his own conscience had been troubling him about it + all along. That's why he was ready at last to put the question to a + toss-up; but first he established the fact that he wouldn't be 'done' out + of the money by anybody. I tell you all this, dear, in justice to the man; + and so, exit Bagley. As I said, my secret—<i>our</i> secret—is + safe with him. So it is, of course, with Miss Hill and Larcher. Nobody + else knows it, though others besides you three may have suspected that I + had something to do with the disappearance.” + </p> + <p> + “Only Mr. Bud.” + </p> + <p> + “Larcher can explain away Mr. Bud's suspicions. Larcher has been a good + friend. I can never be grateful enough—” + </p> + <p> + A knock at the door cut his speech short, and the servant announced + Larcher himself. It had been arranged that he should call for Edna's + orders. That young lady had just intercepted him in the hall, to prevent + his breaking in upon what might be occurring between Turl and Miss Kenby. + But Florence, holding the door open, called out to Edna and Larcher to + come in. Something in her voice and look conveyed news to them both, and + they came swiftly. Edna kissed Florence half a dozen times, while Larcher + was shaking hands with Turl; then waltzed across to the piano, and for a + moment drowned the outside noises—the jingle of sleigh-bells, and + the shouts of children snowballing in the sunshine—with the still + more joyous notes of a celebrated march by Mendelssohn. + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery of Murray Davenport, by +Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + +***** This file should be named 9185-h.htm or 9185-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/8/9185/ + + +Text file produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mystery of Murray Davenport + A Story of New York at the Present Day + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9185] +This file was first posted on September 12, 2003 +Last updated: May 29, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + + + + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + _A Story of New York at the Present Day_ + + By + + Robert Neilson Stephens + + 1903 + + + +Works of Robert Neilson Stephens + +An Enemy to the King + +The Continental Dragoon + +The Road to Paris + +A Gentleman Player + +Philip Winwood + +Captain Ravenshaw + +The Mystery of Murray Davenport + + + + +[Illustration: "'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A "JONAH" IS?'"] + + + + +CONTENTS + + I. MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + + II. ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + + III. A READY-MONEY MAN + + IV. AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + + V. A LODGING BY THE RIVER + + VI. THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + + VII. MYSTERY BEGINS + + VIII. MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + + IX. MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + + X. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + + XI. FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + + XII. LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + + XIII. MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + + XIV. A STRANGE DESIGN + + XV. TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + + XVI. AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + + XVII. BAGLEY SHINES OUT + +XVIII. FLORENCE + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + +"'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A "JONAH" IS?'" + +"THE PLAY BECAME THE PROPERTY OF BAGLEY" + +"'I'M AFRAID IT'S A CASE OF MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE'" + +"'YOU'RE QUITE WELCOME TO THE USE OF MY AUTOMOBILE'" + +"TURL, HAVING TAKEN A MOMENT'S PRELIMINARY THOUGHT, BEGAN HIS ACCOUNT" + +"'GOOD EVENING, MR. MURRAY DAVENPORT! HOW ABOUT MY BUNCH OF MONEY?'" + + + + +THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + +The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was +August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than +they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the +basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and +dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the +reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw +were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down +their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry +in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy +chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called +him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited +though home was to a second-story "bed sitting-room" in a house of +"furnished rooms to let" on a crosstown street traversing the part of New +York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. + +Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium +appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon +sat good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, +and made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and +a negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram. + +"Who the deuce--?" began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he opened +the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise. +"Can I call?" he said, aloud. "Well, rather!" He let his book drop +forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The +telegram read merely: + +"In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA." + +The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has +already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young +man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no +sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with +impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying +feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after +due announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was +kept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end +of that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. + +She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for +indoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in +a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and +she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair +arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless +skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's +conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility +in the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thing +compared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon +her with a serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made +it much less noticeable. + +"Well, this is a pleasure!" he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet +her. + +"Hello, Tom!" she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. "You +needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of +course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We +have at least an hour to ourselves." + +"An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at +this time of year. When I got your telegram--" + +"I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York in +August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot +wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I +invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a +cab. But I came just to see you." + +"How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true." +The young man spoke sincerely. + +"It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down +and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's +some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't +order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if +you'd prefer a cup of tea--and I could manage some toast." + +"No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing--with you to share +them. How thoughtful of you!" + +She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small +table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly +across at his hostess. + +"There's something I want you to do for me," she answered, sitting +composedly back in her chair, in an attitude as graceful as comfortable. + +"Nothing would make me happier." + +"Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?" she asked. + +"No," replied Larcher, wonderingly. + +"I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I +should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or +less--that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, +besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do +with theatres." + +"I never heard of him. But," said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, +"there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers." + +"I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, +of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?--going +about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be +easy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know +him." + +"Oh, am I to do that?" Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper. + +"Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting +along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or +the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he +fares." + +"Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man," said Larcher, +somewhat poutingly. + +"Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man," +she said, with lofty coolness. "But there are reasons why I must find out +about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you +hesitate, and hem and haw--" She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the +shoulders. + +"You might tell me the reasons, dear," he said, humbly. + +"I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this +information got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get +it, and not ask any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment." + +"Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts +to--prying into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather +intrusive, private detective sort of business." + +"Oh, but you don't know the reason--the object in view. Somebody's +happiness depends on it,--perhaps more than one person's; I may tell you +that much." + +"Whose happiness?" + +"It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't _my_ happiness, you +may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in +doing this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you should +be inquisitive beyond that." + +"You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you +ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to +think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and +question--" + +"Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this +particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon +my word, you don't flatter me!" + +"Don't be angry, dear. If you're really _sure_ it's all right--" + +"_If_ I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had +asked somebody else! It isn't too late--" + +Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand. + +"Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve +you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can +handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say; +writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has +something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start +with?" + +"No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly +good-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and takes +his meals at restaurants." + +"Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There _might_ +possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't +like to be looking up the wrong man." + +"Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means. +But I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course _I_ never +saw him." + +"There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a +writer and an artist and connected with theatres," said Larcher. "And it +isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a +thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidences +do occur." + +"He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember," added the young +lady. + +"He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want this +report?" + +"As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his +circumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and +when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to +Easthampton to-morrow, you know." + +A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up his +umbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue and a +car. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additional +minutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last to +consideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangeness +thereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate news +about a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on getting +that news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher could +only give it up, and think upon means for the early accomplishment of his +part in the matter. He had decided to begin immediately, for his first +inquiries would be made of men who kept late hours, and with whose +midnight haunts he was acquainted. + +He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below Fourteenth +Street. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement, +where he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an atmosphere +of tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap wine, and the +noisy talk of a numerous company sitting--for the most part--at long +tables whereon were the traces of a _table d'hote_ dinner. Coffee and +claret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and glasses, but +also on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but youth +preponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of saying +it. The ladies were, as to the majority, unattractive in appearance, +nasal in voice, and unabashed in manner. The assemblage was, in short, +a specimen of self-styled, self-conscious Bohemia; a far-off, +much-adulterated imitation of the sort of thing that some of the young +men with halos of hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen in +Paris in their days of art study. Larcher made his way through the crowd +in the front room to that in the back, acknowledging many salutations. +The last of these came from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose +round, humorous face was made additionally benevolent by spectacles, and +whose forward bend of the shoulders might be the consequence of studious +pursuits, or of much leaning over cafe-tables, or of both. + +"Hello, Barry Tompkins!" said Larcher. "I've been looking for you." + +Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their meeting +were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut manner: + +"You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius." Whereat he looked +around and chuckled afresh. + +Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low: + +"You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man named Murray +Davenport?" + +"I believe there is such a man--an illustrator. Is that the one you +mean?" + +"I suppose so. Where can I find him?" + +"I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of +his work--in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think." + +"I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence, +by the way." + +"All right. Have you looked in the directory?" + +"Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are +some things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting +acquainted with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So the +trouble is to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead up +to a pretty close acquaintance." + +"No trouble in that," said Tompkins, decidedly. "Look here. He's an +illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives, +call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. +That will begin an acquaintance." + +"And terminate it, too, don't you think? Would any self-respecting +illustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certainty +of his work ever appearing?" + +"Well, then, the next time you have anything accepted for publication, +get to the editor as fast as you can, and recommend this Davenport to do +the illustrations." + +"Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?" + +"Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider it +presumptuous if _I_ did it. Suppose it happened to be one of those +editors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in the +manuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport as +illustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editor +to make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even if +Davenport refused the job,--which he wouldn't,--you'd have an opportunity +to pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms of mind and +manner." + +"Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose he +turned out to be a bad illustrator?" + +"I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't have +remembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in my +room to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend him +intelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of yours +in hand just now?" + +"Why, yes," said Larcher, brightening, "I got a notice of acceptance +to-day from the _Avenue Magazine_, of a thing about the rivers of New +York City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration." + +"That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet for +illustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'll +think I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now and +tackle the old magazines in my room, to see what my praises of Mr. +Davenport shall rest on. As we go, we'll look the gentleman up in the +directory at the drug-store--unless you'd prefer to tarry here at the +banquet of wit and beauty." Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved a +hand over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and conceit +it largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances regularly +to inhabit. + +Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather for +the pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins led the +way up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign old +woman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that she, who +was on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent in the shape +of her customers, might know of Murray Davenport; or, indeed, as he had +whispered to Larcher, that the illustrator might be one of the crowd in +the restaurant at that very moment. But the proprietress knew no such +person, a fact which seemed to rate him very low in her estimation and +somewhat high in Mr. Tompkins's. The two young men thereupon hastened to +board a car going up Sixth Avenue. Being set down near Greeley Square, +they went into a drug-store and opened the directory. + +"Here's a Murray Davenport, all right enough," said Tompkins, "but he's +a playwright." + +"Probably the same," replied Larcher, remembering that his man had +something to do with theatres. "He's a gentleman of many professions, +let's see the address." + +It was a number and street in the same part of the town with Larcher's +abode, but east of Madison Avenue, while his own was west of Fifth. But +now his way was to the residence of Barry Tompkins, which proved to be a +shabby room on the fifth floor of an old building on Broadway; a room +serving as Mr. Tompkins's sleeping-chamber by night, and his law office +by day. For Mr. Tompkins, though he sought pleasure and forage under the +banners of literature and journalism, owned to no regular service but +that of the law. How it paid him might be inferred from the oldness of +his clothes and the ricketiness of his office. There was a card saying +"Back in ten minutes" on the door which he opened to admit Larcher and +himself. And his friends were wont to assert that he kept the card +"working overtime," himself, preferring to lay down the law to +companionable persons in neighboring cafes rather than to possible +clients in his office. When Tompkins had lighted the gas, Larcher saw a +cracked low ceiling, a threadbare carpet of no discoverable hue, an old +desk crowded with documents and volumes, some shelves of books at one +side, and the other three sides simply walled with books and magazines +in irregular piles, except where stood a bed-couch beneath a lot of +prints which served to conceal much of the faded wall-paper. + +Tompkins bravely went for the magazines, saying, "You begin with that +pile, and I'll take this. The names of the illustrators are always in the +table of contents; it's simply a matter of glancing down that." + +After half an hour's silent work, Tompkins exclaimed, "Here we are!" and +took a magazine to the desk, at which both young men sat down. "'A Heart +in Peril,'" he quoted; "'A Story by James Willis Archway. Illustrated by +Murray Davenport. Page 38.'" He turned over the leaves, and disclosed +some rather striking pictures in half-tone, signed "M.D." Two men and two +women figured in the different illustrations. + +"This isn't bad work," said Tompkins. "I can recommend 'M.D.' with a +clear conscience. His women are beautiful in a really high way,--but +they've got a heartless look. There's an odd sort of distinction in his +men's faces, too." + +"A kind of scornful discontent," ventured Larcher. "Perhaps the story +requires it." + +"Perhaps; but the thing I mean seems to be under the expressions +intended. I should say it was unconscious, a part of the artist's +conception of the masculine face in general before it's individualized. +I'll bet the chap that drew these illustrations isn't precisely the man +in the street, even among artists. He must have a queer outlook on life. +I congratulate you on your coming friend!" At which Mr. Tompkins, +chuckling, lighted a pipe for himself. + +Mr. Larcher sat looking dubious. If Murray Davenport was an unusual sort +of man, the more wonder that a girl like Edna Hill should so strangely +busy herself about him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + +Two days later, toward the close of a sunny afternoon, Mr. Thomas Larcher +was admitted by a lazy negro to an old brown-stone-front house half-way +between Madison and Fourth Avenues, and directed to the third story back, +whither he was left to find his way unaccompanied. Running up the dark +stairs swiftly, with his thoughts in advance of his body, he suddenly +checked himself, uncertain as to which floor he had attained. At a +hazard, he knocked on the door at the back of the dim, narrow passage he +was in. He heard slow steps upon the carpet, the door opened, and a man +slightly taller, thinner, and older than himself peered out. + +"Pardon me, I may have mistaken the floor," said Larcher. "I'm looking +for Mr. Murray Davenport." + +"'Myself and misery know the man,'" replied the other, with quiet +indifference, in a gloomy but not unpleasing voice, and stepped back to +allow his visitor's entrance. + +A little disconcerted at being received with a quotation, and one of such +import,--the more so as it came from the speaker's lips so naturally +and with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on a +stranger,--Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper, the +upholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in one +corner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the table +which stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk, were +all of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The same was +to be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black garment +of the square-cut "sack" or "lounge" shape. Books filled the mantel, the +flat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table, which held +also a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript paper, and the +paraphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the walls, and standing +about on top of books and elsewhere, were water-colors, drawings in +half-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many unfinished, besides a few +photographs of celebrated paintings and statues. But long before he had +sought more than the most general impression of these contents of the +room, Larcher had bent all his observation upon their possessor. + +The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by these +and kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose distinguished +by a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty of form was in +the distinctness of its lines. The complexion was colorless but clear, +the face being all smooth shaven. The slightly haggard eyes were gray, +rather of a plain and honest than a brilliant character, save for a tiny +light that burned far in their depths. The forehead was ample and smooth, +as far as could be seen, for rather longish brown hair hung over it, with +a negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an odd +painwearied dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an +unquenchable humor. + +"This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself," said Larcher, handing +it. + +"Mr. Rogers?" inquired Murray Davenport. + +"Editor of the _Avenue Magazine_." + +Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without +diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself +took a chair before the table. + +"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher," he said, conventionally; then, with +a change to informality, "I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers, +or any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any +offered me before." + +"Oh, but I've seen some of your work," contradicted Larcher. "The +illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'" + +"That wasn't offered me; I begged for it," said Davenport, quietly. + +"Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were +recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this +stuff of mine," and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from +under his coat. + +"It's so unprecedented," resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective +way of speaking. "I can scarcely help thinking there must be some +mistake." + +"But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril' +story?" + +"Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to +_me_--" + +"Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out new +illustrators they hear of." + +"Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer +to _me_--an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, like a +gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called good +luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen to me +before; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in spite +of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case." This was +said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling. + +Larcher smiled. "Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse to +do the pictures." + +"Oh, no," returned Davenport, indolently. "I won't refuse. I'll accept +the commission with pleasure--a certain amount of pleasure, that is. +There was a time when I should have danced a break-down for joy, +probably, at this opportunity. But a piece of good luck, strange as it +is to me, doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'll +receive it politely. In as much as I have plenty of time for this work, +and as Mr. Rogers seems to wish me to do it, I should be churlish if I +declined. The money too, is an object--I won't conceal that fact. To +think of a chance to earn a little money, coming my way without the +slightest effort on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'm +still tempted to think this is all a dream." + +Larcher laughed. "Well, as to effort," said he, "I don't think I should +be here now with that accepted manuscript for you to illustrate, if I +hadn't taken a good deal of pains to press my work on the attention of +editors." + +"Oh, I don't mean to say that your prosperity, and other men's, is due +to having good things thrust upon you in this way. But if you do owe all +to your own work, at least your work does bring a fair amount of reward, +your efforts are in a fair measure successful. But not so with me. The +greatest fortune I could ever have asked would have been that my pains +should bring their reasonable price, as other men's have done. Therefore, +this extreme case of good luck, small as it is, is the more to be +wondered at. The best a man has a right to ask is freedom from what +people call habitual bad luck. That's an immunity I've never had. My +labors have been always banned--except when the work has masqueraded +as some other man's. In that case they have been blessed. It will seem +strange to you, Mr. Larcher, but whatever I've done in my own name has +met with wretched pay and no recognition, while work of mine, no better, +when passed off as another man's, has won golden rewards--for him--in +money and reputation." + +"It does seem strange," admitted Larcher. + +"What can account for it?" + +"Do you know what a 'Jonah' is, in the speech of the vulgar?" + +"Yes; certainly." + +"Well, people have got me tagged with that name. I bring ill luck to +enterprises I'm concerned in, they say. That's a fatal reputation, Mr. +Larcher. It wasn't deserved in the beginning, but now that I have it, see +how the reputation itself is the cause of the apparent ill luck. Take +this thing, for instance." He held up a sheet of music paper, whereon he +had evidently been writing before Larcher's arrival. "A song, supposed to +be sentimental. As the idea is somewhat novel, the words happy, and the +tune rather quaint, I shall probably get a publisher for it, who will +offer me the lowest royalty. What then? Its fame and sale--or whether it +shall have any--will depend entirely on what advertising it gets from +being sung by professional singers. I have taken the precaution to submit +the idea and the air to a favorite of the music halls, and he has +promised to sing it. Now, if he sang it on the most auspicious occasion, +making it the second or third song of his turn, having it announced with +a flourish on the programme, and putting his best voice and style into +it, it would have a chance of popularity. Other singers would want it, it +would be whistled around, and thousands of copies sold. But will he do +that?" + +"I don't see why he shouldn't," said Larcher. + +"Oh, but he knows why. He remembers I am a Jonah. What comes from me +carries ill luck. He'll sing the song, yes, but he won't hazard any +auspicious occasion on it. He'll use it as a means of stopping encores +when he's tired of them; he'll sing it hurriedly and mechanically; he'll +make nothing of it on the programme; he'll hide the name of the author, +for fear by the association of the names some of my Jonahship might +extend to him. So, you see, bad luck _will_ attend my song; so, you see, +the name of bad luck brings bad luck. Not that there is really such a +thing as luck. Everything that occurs has a cause, an infinite line of +causes. But a man's success or failure is due partly to causes outside +of his control, often outside of his ken. As, for instance, a sudden +change of weather may defeat a clever general, and thrust victory upon +his incompetent adversary. Now when these outside causes are adverse, +and prevail, we say a man has bad luck. When they favor, and prevail, he +has good luck. It was a rapid succession of failures, due partly to folly +and carelessness of my own, I admit, but partly to a run of adverse +conjunctures far outside my sphere of influence, that got me my unlucky +name in the circles where I hunt a living. And now you are warned, Mr. +Larcher. Do you think you are safe in having my work associated with +yours, as Mr. Rogers proposes? It isn't too late to draw back." + +Whether the man still spoke seriously, Larcher could not exactly tell. +Certainly the man's eyes were fixed on Larcher's face in a manner that +made Larcher color as one detected. But his weakness had been for an +instant only, and he rallied laughingly. + +"Many thanks, but I'm not superstitious, Mr. Davenport. Anyhow, my +article has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish the +amount I'm to receive for it." + +"But consider the risk to your future career," pursued Davenport, with a +faint smile. + +"Oh, I'll take the chances," said Larcher, glad to treat the subject as +a joke. "I don't suppose the author of 'A Heart in Peril,' for instance, +has experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story." + +"As a matter of fact," replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy +humor, "the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital. +But I believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I +thank you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the _Avenue Magazine_, +it can afford a little bad luck." + +"Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as +a result of your contact with it." + +"Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are +right; Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must +know, Mr. Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure +in the world,--a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of +injustice. Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than +that. I never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up +apropos; but people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about +it, and find a moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused +at it, and benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For +it's been a part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should +often work for his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to +fall back on; he always has some little matter I can be useful in. He +poses then as my constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And +so he is, in fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on +the profits of the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr. +Larcher, to forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak of +me where my name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that the +wrong is an imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to +deserve the name of a man with a grievance." + +His composed, indifferent manner was true to his words. He spoke, indeed, +as one to whom things mattered little, yet who, being originally of a +social and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the first +intelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to make +the most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the man's +acquaintance. + +"You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject ever +comes up in my presence," said Larcher. "I can certainly testify to the +cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it." + +"I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about," +said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously. + +"Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?" + +"In my present environment." + +"Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings." + +Davenport shook his head. "My immediate environment would still be the +same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my old, +tiresome, unsuccessful self." + +"But if you got about more among mankind,--not that I know what your +habits are at present, but I should imagine--" Larcher hesitated. + +"You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary," said Davenport. +"That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'--to +fall back on Hamlet again--at least not from my present point of view." + +"'Nor woman neither'?" quoted Larcher, interrogatively. + +"'No, nor woman neither,'" said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming upon +his face. "I don't know what your experience may have been. We have only +our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing from +women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and are +unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is to +be worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love, +with a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment they +are bored with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injured +if the man complains. We take the beauty of their faces, the softness of +their eyes, for the outward signs of tenderness and fidelity; and for +those supposed qualities, and others which their looks seem to express, +we love them. But they have not those qualities; they don't even know +what it is that we love them for; they think it is for the outward +beauty, and that that is enough. They don't even know what it is that we, +misled by that outward softness, imagine is beyond; and when we are +disappointed to find it isn't there, they wonder at us and blame us for +inconstancy. The beautiful woman who could be what she looks--who could +really contain what her beauty seems the token of--whose soul, in short, +could come up to the promise of her face,--there would be a creature! +You'll think I've had bad luck in love, too, Mr. Larcher." + +Larcher was thinking, for the instant, about Edna Hill, and wondering +how near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women. For +himself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never seemed +the outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered conventionally: +"Well, one _would_ suppose so from your remarks. Of course, women like +to be amused, I know. Perhaps we expect too much from them. + + 'Oh, woman in our hours of ease, + Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, + And variable as the shade + By the light quivering aspen made.' + +I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines." Mr. Larcher sighed at +certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. "But then, you know,-- + + 'When pain and anguish wring the brow, + A ministering angel them.'" + +"I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish," said Davenport. "I've +experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on +women. But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on an +undeserving, but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, +after a time, she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck that +clung to him. What would she do then?" + +"Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil +influence," replied Larcher, laughingly. + +"Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she would +take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil +influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she would +doubtless live happy ever after." + +For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the +faintest cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face. + +"And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'" said Larcher, +looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject gaily, lest +he might betray his inquisitive purpose. + +"Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes +up a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations +here. I have amused myself a little in science, too,--you see the cabinet +over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, +but I wasn't fitted--or didn't care--to follow that profession in a +money-making way." + +"You are exceedingly versatile." + +"Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business. +When are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many are +wanted? I'm afraid I've been wasting your time." + +In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of +better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to +certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details +settled, Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked: + +"Have you any engagement for dining?" + +"No," said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion. + +"Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone." + +"Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say--it depends on where you +dine." + +"Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any +particular one." + +"I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,--on one or two good things well +cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'hote_ menu is +really too wearisome--even to a man who is used to weariness." + +"Well, I know a place--Giffen's chop-house--that will just suit you. As +a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get an +unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of +delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says +that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and +better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents." + +"I know the place, and your friend is quite right." + +Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle. +When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which +in that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already +heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating +respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway +and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner. + +"What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!" remarked +Larcher. + +Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest: + +'The shadows lay along Broadway, +'Twas near the twilight tide--And slowly there a lady fair +Was walking in her pride.' + +"Poe praised those lines," he added. "But it was a different Broadway +that Willis wrote them about." + +"Yes," said Larcher, "but in spite of the skyscrapers and the +incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?" + +"I used to," said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, +who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many +failures? Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had +been played by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? +And, finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's +reasons for seeking information? + +Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the +chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level +with the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about +to enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, +overbearing voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as +both young men turned around. A tall, broad man, with a coarse, red face; +a man with hard, glaring eyes and a heavy black mustache; a man who had +intruded into a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a large +diamond in his tie; a man who swung his arms and used plenty of the +surrounding space in walking, as if greedy of it,--this man came across +the street, and, with an air of proprietorship, claimed Murray +Davenport's attention. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +A READY-MONEY MAN + +"I want you," bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rustic +washerwoman summoning her offspring to a task. "I've got a little matter +for you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talk +it over." + +"I'm engaged to dine with this gentleman," said Davenport, coolly. + +"Well, that's all right," said the newcomer. "This gentleman can come, +too." + +"We prefer to dine here," said Davenport, with firmness. "We have our own +reasons. I can meet you later." + +"No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're +determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and +dine." + +Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then +introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a +brief condescending glance and a rough "How are you," Mr. Bagley led the +way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and +Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. + +Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the +state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from +the narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment +adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from +another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out +his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in +various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of +walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the +company's hearing capacity. + +As soon as dinner had been ordered,--a matter much complicated by Mr. +Bagley's calling for things which the house didn't serve, and then +wanting to know why it didn't,--he plunged at once into the details of +some business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulking +behind an evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By the +time the chops and potatoes had been brought, the business had been +communicated, and Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. He +suddenly took notice of Larcher. + +"So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?" quoth he, looking with benign +patronage from one young man to the other. + +"I've known Mr. Davenport a--short while," said Larcher, with all the +iciness of injured conceit. + +"Same business?" queried Bagley. + +"I beg your pardon," said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreign +language. + +"Are you in the same business he's in?" said Bagley, in a louder voice. + +"I--write," said Larcher, coldly. + +Bagley looked him over, and, with evident approval of his clothes, +remarked: "You seem to've made a better thing of it than Dav has." + +"I make a living," said Larcher, curtly, with a glance at Davenport, who +showed no feeling whatever. + +"Well, I guess that's about all Dav does," said Bagley, in a jocular +manner. "How is it, Dav, old man? But you never had any business sense." + +"I can't return the compliment," said Davenport, quietly. + +Bagley uttered a mirthful "Yah!" and looked very well contented with +himself. "I've always managed to get along," he admitted. "And a good +thing for you I have, Dav. Where'ud you be to-day if you hadn't had me +for your good angel whenever you struck hard luck?" + +"I haven't the remotest idea," said Davenport, as if vastly bored. + +"Neither have I," quoth Bagley, and filled his mouth with mutton and +potato. When he had got these sufficiently disposed of to permit further +speech, he added: "No, sir, you literary fellows think yourselves very +fine people, but I don't see many of you getting to be millionaires by +your work." + +"There are other ambitions in life," said Larcher. + +Mr. Bagley emitted a grunt of laughter. "Sour grapes! Sour grapes, young +fellow! I know what I'm talking about. I've been a literary man myself." + +Larcher arrested his fork half-way between his plate and his mouth, in +order to look his amazement. A curious twitch of the lips was the only +manifestation of Davenport, except that he took a long sip of ale. + +"Nobody would ever think it," said Larcher. + +"Yes, sir; I've been a literary man; a playwright, that is. Dramatic +author, my friend Dav here would call it, I s'pose. But I made it pay." + +"I must confess I don't recognize the name of Bagley as being attached to +any play I ever heard of," said Larcher. "And yet I've paid a good deal +of attention to the theatre." + +"That's because I never wrote but one play, and the money I made out of +that--twenty thousand dollars it was--I put into the business of managing +other people's plays. It didn't take me long to double it, did it, Dav? +Mr. Davenport here knows all about it." + +"I ought to," replied Davenport, coldly. + +"Yes, that's right, you ought to. We were chums in those days, Mr.--I +forget what your name is. We were both in hard luck then, me and Dav. But +I knew what to do if I ever got hold of a bit of capital. So I wrote that +play, and made a good arrangement with the actor that produced it, and +got hold of twenty thousand. And that was the foundation of _my_ fortune. +Oh, yes, Dav remembers. We had hall rooms in the same house in East +Fourteenth Street. We used to lend each other cuffs and collars. A man +never forgets those days." + +With Davenport's talk of the afternoon fresh in mind, Larcher had +promptly identified this big-talking vulgarian. Hot from several +affronts, which were equally galling, whether ignorant or intended, he +could conceive of nothing more sweet than to take the fellow down. + +"I shouldn't wonder," said he, "if Mr. Davenport had more particular +reasons to remember that play." + +Davenport looked up from his plate, but merely with slight surprise, not +with disapproval. Bagley himself stared hard at Larcher, then glanced at +Davenport, and finally blurted out a laugh, and said: + +"So Dav has been giving you his fairy tale? I thought he'd dropped it as +a played-out chestnut. God knows how the delusion ever started in his +head. That's a question for the psychologists--or the doctors, maybe. But +he used to imagine--I give him credit for really imagining it--he used to +imagine he had written that play. I s'pose that's what he's been telling +you. But I thought he'd got over the hallucination; or got tired telling +about it, anyhow." + +But, in the circumstances, no nice consideration of probabilities was +necessary to make Larcher the warm partisan of Davenport. He answered, +with as fine a derision as he could summon: + +"Any unbiased judge, with you two gentlemen before him, if he had to +decide which had written that play, wouldn't take long to agree with Mr. +Davenport's hallucination, as you call it." + +Mr. Bagley gazed at Larcher for a few moments in silence, as if not +knowing exactly what to make of him, or what manner to use toward him. He +seemed at last to decide against a wrathful attitude, and replied: + +"I suppose you're a very unbiased judge, and a very superior person all +round. But nobody's asking for your opinion, and I guess it wouldn't +count for much if they did. The public has long ago made up its mind +about Mr. Davenport's little delusion." + +"As one of 'the public,' perhaps I have a right to dispute that," +retorted Larcher. "Men don't have such delusions." + +"Oh, don't they? That's as much as you know about the eccentricities of +human nature,--and yet you presume to call yourself a writer. I guess you +don't know the full circumstances of this case. Davenport himself admits +that he was very ill at the time I disposed of the rights of that play. +We were in each other's confidence then, and I had read the play to him, +and talked it over with him, and he had taken a very keen interest in it, +as any chum would. And then this illness came on, just when the marketing +of the piece was on the cards. He was out of his head a good deal during +his illness, and I s'pose that's how he got the notion he was the author. +As it was, I gave him five hundred dollars as a present, to celebrate the +acceptance of the piece. And I gave him that at once, too--half the amount +of the money paid on acceptance, it was; for anything I knew then, it +might have been half of all I should ever get for the play, because +nobody could predict how it would pan out. Well, I've never borne him an +ounce of malice for his delusion. Maybe at this very moment he still +honestly thinks himself the author of that play; but I've always stood by +him, and always will. Many's the piece of work I've put in his hands; and +I will say he's never failed me on his side, either. Old Reliable Dav, +that's what I call him; Old Reliable Dav, and I'd trust him with every +dollar I've got in the world." He finished with a clap of good fellowship +on Davenport's shoulder, and then fell upon the remainder of his chop and +potato with a concentration of interest that put an end to the dispute. + +As for Davenport, he had continued eating in silence, with an +expressionless face, as if the matter were one that concerned a stranger. +Larcher, observing him, saw that he had indeed put that matter behind +him, as one to which there was nothing but weariness to be gained in +returning. The rest of the meal passed without event. Mr. Bagley made +short work of his food, and left the two others with their coffee, +departing in as self-satisfied a mood as he had arrived in, and without +any trace of the little passage of words with Larcher. + +A breath of relief escaped Davenport, and he said, with a faint smile: + +"There was a time when I had my say about the play. We've had scenes, I +can tell you. But Bagley is a man who can brazen out any assertion; he's +a man impossible to outface. Even when he and I are alone together, he +plays the same part; won't admit that I wrote the piece; and pretends to +think I suffer under a delusion. I _was_ ill at the time he disposed of +my play; but I had written it long before the time of my illness." + +"How did he manage to pass it off as his?" + +"We were friends then, as he says, or at least comrades. We met through +being inmates of the same lodging-house. I rather took to him at first. +I thought he was a breezy, cordial fellow; mistook his loudness for +frankness, and found something droll and pleasing in his nasal drawl. +That brass-horn voice!--ye gods, how I grew to shudder at it afterward! +But I liked his company over a glass of beer; he was convivial, and told +amusing stories of the people in the country town he came from, and of +his struggles in trying to get a start in business. I was struggling as +hard in my different way--a very different way, for he was an utter +savage as far as art and letters were concerned. But we exchanged +accounts of our daily efforts and disappointments, and knew all about +each other's affairs,--at least he knew all about mine. And one of mine +was the play which I wrote during the first months of our acquaintance. +I read it to him, and he seemed impressed by it, or as much of it as he +could understand. I had some idea of sending it to an actor who was then +in need of a new piece, through the failure of one he had just produced. +My play seemed rather suitable to him, and I told Bagley I thought of +submitting it as soon as I could get it typewritten. But before I could +do that, I was on my back with pneumonia, utterly helpless, and not +thinking of anything in the world except how to draw my breath. + +"The first thing I did begin to worry about, when I was on the way to +recovery, was my debts, and particularly my debt to the landlady. She +was a good woman, and wouldn't let me be moved to a hospital, but took +care of me herself through all my illness. She furnished my food during +that time, and paid for my medicines; and, furthermore, I owed her for +several weeks' previous rent. So I bemoaned my indebtedness, and the +hopelessness of ever getting out of it, a thousand times, day and night, +till it became an old song in the ears of Bagley. One day he came in +with his face full of news, and told me he had got some money from the +sale of a farm, in which he had inherited a ninth interest. He said he +intended to risk his portion in the theatrical business--he had had some +experience as an advance agent--and offered to buy my play outright for +five hundred dollars. + +"Well, it was like an oar held out to a drowning man. I had never before +had as much money at the same time. It was enough to pay all my debts, +and keep me on my feet for awhile to come. Of course I knew that if my +play were a fair success, the author's percentage would be many times +five hundred dollars. But it might never be accepted,--no play of mine +had been, and I had hawked two or three around among the managers,--and +in that case I should get nothing at all. As for Bagley, his risk in +producing a play by an unknown man was great. His chances of loss seemed +to me about nine in ten. I took it that his offer was out of friendship. +I grasped at the immediate certainty, and the play became the property +of Bagley. + +"I consoled myself with the reflection that, if the play made a real +success, I should gain some prestige as an author, and find an easier +hearing for future work. I was reading a newspaper one morning when the +name of my play caught my eye. You can imagine how eagerly I started to +read the item about it, and what my feelings were when I saw that it was +immediately to be produced by the very actor to whom I had talked of +sending it, and that the author was George A. Bagley. I thought there +must be some mistake, and fell upon Bagley for an explanation as soon as +he came home. He laughed, as men of his kind do when they think they have +played some clever business trick; said he had decided to rent the play +to the actor instead of taking it on the road himself; and declared that +as it was his sole property, he could represent it as the work of anybody +he chose. I raised a great stew about the matter; wrote to the +newspapers, and rushed to see the actor. He may have thought I was a +lunatic from my excitement; however, he showed me the manuscript Bagley +had given him. It was typewritten, but the address of the typewriter +copyist was on the cover. I hastened to the lady, and inquired about the +manuscript from which she had made the copy. I showed her some of my +penmanship, but she assured me the manuscript was in another hand. I ran +home, and demanded the original manuscript from Bagley. 'Oh, certainly,' +he said, and fished out a manuscript in his own writing. He had copied +even my interlineations and erasures, to give his manuscript the look of +an original draft. This was the copy from which the typewriter had +worked. My own handwritten copy he had destroyed. I have sometimes +thought that when the idea first occurred to him of submitting my play to +the actor, he had meant to deal fairly with me, and to profit only by an +agent's commission. But he may have inquired about the earnings of plays, +and learned how much money a successful one brings; and the discovery may +have tempted him to the fraud. Or his design may have been complete from +the first. It is easy to understand his desire to become the sole owner +of the play. Why he wanted to figure as the author is not so clear. It +may have been mere vanity; it may have been--more probably was--a desire +to keep to himself even the author's prestige, to serve him in future +transactions of the same sort. In any case, he had created evidence of +his authorship, and destroyed all existing proof of mine. He had made +good terms,--a percentage on a sliding scale; one thousand dollars down +on account. It was out of that thousand that he paid me the five hundred. +The play was a great money-winner; Bagley's earnings from it were more +than twenty thousand dollars in two seasons. That is the sum I should +have had if I had submitted the play to the same actor, as I had intended +to do. I made a stir in the newspapers for awhile; told my tale to +managers and actors and reporters; started to take it to the courts, but +had to give up for lack of funds; in short, got myself the name, as I +told you today, of a man with a grievance. People smiled tolerantly at my +story; it got to be one of the jokes of the Rialto. Bagley soon hit on +the policy of claiming the authorship to my face, and pretending to treat +my assertion charitably, as the result of a delusion conceived in +illness. You heard him tonight. But it no longer disturbs me." + +"Has he ever written any plays of his own? Or had any more produced over +his name?" asked Larcher. + +"No. He put the greater part of his profits into theatrical management. +He multiplied his investment. Then he 'branched out;' tried Wall Street +and the race-tracks; went into real estate. He speculates now in many +things. I don't know how rich he is. He isn't openly in theatrical +management any more, but he still has large interests there; he is what +they call an 'angel.'" + +"He spoke of being your good angel." + +"He has been the reverse, perhaps. It's true, many a time when I've been +at the last pinch, he has come to my rescue, employing me in some affair +incidental to his manifold operations. Unless you have been hungry, and +without a market for your work; unless you have walked the streets +penniless, and been generally 'despised and rejected of men,' you, +perhaps, can't understand how I could accept anything at his hands. But +I could, and sometimes eagerly. As soon as possible after our break, he +assumed the benevolent attitude toward me. I resisted it with proper +scorn for a time. But hard lines came; 'my poverty but not my will' +consented. In course of time, there ceased to be anything strange in the +situation. I got used to his service, and his pay, yet without ever +compounding for the trick he played me. He trusts me thoroughly--he +knows men. This association with him, though it has saved me from +desperate straits, is loathsome to me, of course. It has contributed as +much as anything to my self-hate. If I had resolutely declined it, I +might have found other resources at the last extremity. My life might +have taken a different course. That is why I say he has been, perhaps, +the reverse of a good angel to me." + +"But you must have written other plays," pursued Larcher. + +"Yes; and have even had three of them produced. Two had moderate success; +but one of those I sold on low terms, in my eagerness to have it accepted +and establish a name. On the other, I couldn't collect my royalties. The +third was a failure. But none of these, or of any I have written, was up +to the level of the play that Bagley dealt with. I admit that. It was my +one work of first-class merit. I think my poor powers were affected by my +experience with that play; but certainly for some reason I + + '... never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture.' + +I should have been a different man if I had received the honor and the +profits of that first accepted play of mine." + +"I should think that, as Bagley is so rich, he would quietly hand you +over twenty thousand dollars, at least, for the sake of his conscience." + +"Men of Bagley's sort have no conscience where money is concerned. I used +to wonder just what share of his fortune was rightly mine, if one knew +how to estimate. It was my twenty thousand dollars he invested; what +percentage of the gains would belong to me, giving him his full due for +labor and skill? And then the credit of the authorship,--which he flatly +robbed me of,--what would be its value? But that is all matter for mere +speculation. As to the twenty thousand alone, there can be no doubt." + +"And yet he said tonight he would trust you with every dollar he had in +the world." + +"Yes, he would." Davenport smiled. "He knows that _I_ know the difference +between a moral right and a legal right. He knows the difficulties in +the way of any attempt at self-restitution on my part,--and the +unpleasant consequences. Oh, yes, he would trust me with large sums; has +done so, in fact. I have handled plenty of his cash. He is what they call +a 'ready-money man;' does a good deal of business with bank-notes of high +denomination,--it enables him to seize opportunities and make swift +transactions. He should interest you, if you have an eye for character." + +Upon which remark, Davenport raised his cup, as if to finish the coffee +and the subject at the same time. Larcher sat silently wondering what +other dramas were comprised in the history of his singular companion, +besides that wherein Bagley was concerned, and that in which the fickle +woman had borne a part. He found himself interested, on his own account, +in this haggard-eyed, world-wearied, yet not unattractive man, as well +as for Miss Hill. When Davenport spoke again, it was in regard to the +artistic business which now formed a tie between himself and Larcher. + +This business was in due time performed. It entailed as much association +with Davenport as Larcher could wish for his purpose. He learnt little +more of the man than he had learned on the first day of their +acquaintance, but that in itself was considerable. Of it he wrote a full +report to Miss Hill; and in the next few weeks he added some trifling +discoveries. In October that young woman and her aunt returned to town, +and to possession of a flat immediately south of Central Park. Often as +Larcher called there, he could not draw from Edna the cause of her +interest in Davenport. But his own interest sufficed to keep him the +regular associate of that gentleman; he planned further magazine work for +himself to write and Davenport to illustrate, and their collaboration +took them together to various parts of the city. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + +The lower part of Fifth Avenue, the part between Madison and Washington +Squares, the part which alone was "the Fifth Avenue" whereof Thackeray +wrote in the far-off days when it was the abode of fashion,--the far-off +days when fashion itself had not become old-fashioned and got improved +into Smart Society,--this haunted half-mile or more still retains many +fine old residences of brown stone and of red brick, which are spruce +and well-kept. One such, on the west side of the street, of red brick, +with a high stoop of brown stone, is a boarding-house, and in it is an +apartment to which, on a certain clear, cold afternoon in October, the +reader's presence in the spirit is respectfully invited. + +The hallway of the house is prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits of +hallways, in order to lead to a secluded parlor at the rear, apparently +used by its occupants as a private sitting and dining room. At the left +side of this room, after one enters, are folding doors opening from what +is evidently somebody's bed-chamber. At the same side, further on, is a +large window, the only window in the room. As the ceiling is so high, and +the wall-paper so dark, the place is rather dim of light at all times, +even on this sunny autumn afternoon when the world outside is so full of +wintry brightness. + +The view of the world outside afforded by the window--which looks +southward--is of part of a Gothic church in profile, and the backs of +houses, all framing an expanse of gardens. It is a peaceful view, and +this back parlor itself, being such a very back parlor, receives the +city's noises dulled and softened. One seems very far, here, from the +clatter and bang, the rush and strenuousness, really so near at hand. +The dimness is restful; it is relieved, near the window, by a splash of +sunlight; and, at the rear of the room, by a coal fire in the grate. The +furniture is old and heavy, consisting largely of chairs of black wood +in red velvet. Half lying back in one of these is a fretful-looking, +fine-featured man of late middle age, with flowing gray hair and flowing +gray mustache. His eyes are closed, but perhaps he is not asleep. There +is a piano near a corner, opposite the window, and out of the splash of +sunshine, but its rosewood surface reflects here and there the firelight. +And at the piano, playing a soft accompaniment, sits a tall, slender +young woman, with a beautiful but troubled face, who sings in a low voice +one of Tosti's love-songs. + +Her figure is still girlish, but her face is womanly; a classic face, not +like the man's in expression, but faintly resembling it in form, though +her features, clearly outlined, have not the smallness of his. Her eyes +are large and deep blue. There is enough rich color of lip, and fainter +color of cheek, to relieve the whiteness of her complexion. The trouble +on her face is of some permanence; it is not petty like that of the +man's, but is at one with the nobility of her countenance. It seems to +find rest in the tender sadness of the song, which, having finished, she +softly begins again: + +"'I think of what thou art to me, +I think of what thou canst not be'"-- + +As the man gives signs of animation, such as yawning, and moving in his +chair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed by +the song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice: + +"Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And such +expression!--unconscious expression, too. What a pity--what a +shame--that your gift should be utterly wasted!" + +"It isn't wasted if my singing pleases you, father," says the girl, +patiently. + +"I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself," replies the man, +peevishly. "I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide +our light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the +world pays for them, too. Think of the money--think of how we might live! +Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!" + +She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers +as one who has as often made the same answer: + +"I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage, +and the choirs are all full." + +"You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic +opera--" + +The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: "And +you know well enough my determination about that. The one week's +experience I had--" + +"Oh, nonsense!" interrupted the man. "All managers are not like that +fellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic opera +stage." + +"No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If I +absolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put to +that necessity." + +"Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?" + +"We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us our +present allowance--" + +"Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom I +brought up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father to +the full extent of his ability!" + +"All the same, it's a far greater allowance than most sons or brothers +make." + +"Because other sons are ungrateful, and blind to their duty, it doesn't +follow that Dick ought to be. Thank Heaven, I brought him up better than +that. I'm only sorry that his sister can't see things in the same light +as he does. After all the trouble of raising my children, and the hopes +I've built on them--" + +"But you know perfectly well," she protests, softly, "that Dick makes us +such a liberal allowance in order that I needn't go out and earn money. +He has often said that. Even when you praise him for his dutifulness to +you, he says it's not that, but his love for me. And because it is the +free gift of his love, I'm willing to accept it." + +"I suppose so, I suppose so," says the man, in a tone of resignation to +injury. "It's very little that I'm considered, after all. You were always +a pair, always insensible of the pains I've taken over you. You always +seemed to regard it as a matter of course that I should feed you, and +clothe you, and educate you." + +The girl sighs, and begins faintly to touch the keys of the piano again. +The man sighs, too, and continues, with a heightened note of personal +grievance: + +"If any man's hopes ever came to shipwreck, mine have. Just look back +over my life. Look at the professional career I gave up when I married +your mother, in order to be with her more than I otherwise could have +been. Look how poorly we lived, she and I, on the little income she +brought me. And then the burden of you children! And what some men would +have felt a burden, as you grew up, I made a source of hopes. I had +endowed you both with good looks and talent; Dick with business ability, +and you with a gift for music. In order to cultivate these advantages, +which you had inherited from me, I refrained from going into any business +when your mother died. I was satisfied to share the small allowance her +father made you two children. I never complained. I said to myself, 'I +will invest my time in bringing up my children.' I thought it would turn +out the most profitable investment in the world,--I gave you children +that much credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I should +begin to realize on the investment!" + +"I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you," says the girl. "He +began to earn money as soon as he was nineteen, and he has never--" + +"Time enough, too," the man breaks in. "It was a very fortunate thing I +had fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, when +your grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if I +hadn't prepared Dick to step in and make his living?" + +"_Our_ living," says the girl. + +"Our living, of course. It would be very strange if I weren't to reap a +bare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a living +out of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualities +for success?" The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuable +qualities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. "Dick hasn't +done any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what _he_ has +done, is so much more than nothing at all, that--" He stops as if it were +useless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact that +this conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with displeasure. + +After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: "Well, if I haven't +earned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to please +you." + +"You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our trip +to Europe?" + +"The young man who did us so many kindnesses, and was of so much use to +you, on our trip to Europe," she corrects. + +"He thought I was rich, my dear, and that you were an heiress. He was a +nobody, an adventurer, probably. If things had gone any further between +you and him, your future might have been ruined. It was only another +example of my solicitude for you; another instance that deserves your +thanks, but elicits your ingratitude. If you are fastidious about a +musical career, at least you have still a possibility of a good marriage. +It was my duty to prevent that possibility from being cut off." + +She turns upon him a look of high reproach. + +"And that was the only motive, then," she cries, "for your tears and your +illness, and the scenes that wrung from me the promise to break with +him?" + +"It was motive enough, wasn't it?" he replies, defensively, a little +frightened at her sudden manner of revolt. "My thoughtfulness for your +future--my duty as a father--my love for my child--" + +"You pretended it was your jealous love for me, your feeling of +desertion, your loneliness. I might have known better! You played on my +pity, on my love for you, on my sense of duty as a daughter left to fill +my mother's place. When you cried over being abandoned, when you looked +so forlorn, my heart melted. And that night when you said you were dying, +when you kept calling for me--'Flo, where is little Flo'--although I was +there leaning over you, I couldn't endure to grieve you, and I gave my +promise. And it was only that mercenary motive, after all!--to save me +for a profitable marriage!" She gazes at her father with an expression so +new to him on her face, that he moves about in his chair, and coughs +before answering: + +"You will appreciate my action some day. And besides, your promise to +drop the man wasn't so much to give. You admitted, yourself, he hadn't +written to you. He had afforded you good cause, by his neglect." + +"He was very busy at that time. I always thought there was something +strange about his sudden failure to write--something that could have +been explained, if my promise to you hadn't kept me from inquiring." + +The father coughs again, at this, and turns his gaze upon the fire, which +he contemplates deeply, to the exclusion of all other objects. The girl, +after regarding him for a moment, sighs profoundly; placing her elbows on +the keyboard, she leans forward and buries her face in her hands. + +This picture, not disturbed by further speech, abides for several ticks +of the French clock on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it is broken by a knock +at the door. Florence sits upright, and dries her eyes. A negro man +servant with a discreet manner enters and announces two visitors. "Show +them in at once," says Florence, quickly, as if to forestall any possible +objection from her father. The negro withdraws, and presently, with a +rapid swish of skirts, in marches a very spick and span young lady, +her diminutive but exceedingly trim figure dressed like an animated +fashion-plate. She is Miss Edna Hill, and she comes brisk and dashing, +with cheeks afire from the cold, bringing into the dull, dreamy room the +life and freshness of the wintry day without. Behind her appears a +stranger, whose name Florence scarcely heeded when it was announced, and +who enters with the solemn, hesitant air of one hitherto unknown to the +people of the house. He is a young man clothed to be the fit companion of +Miss Hill, and he waits self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciously +greets Florence as her dearest, and while she bestows a touch of her +gloved fingers and a "How d'ye do, Mr. Kenby," on the father. She then +introduces the young man as Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, there +appears a surprised admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty. + +Miss Hill monopolizes Florence, however, and Larcher is left to wander to +the fire, and take a pose there, and discuss the weather with Mr. Kenby, +who does not seem to find the subject, or Larcher himself, at all +interesting, a fact which the young man is not slow in divining. Strained +relations immediately ensue between the two gentlemen. + +As soon as the young ladies are over the preliminary burst of compliments +and news, Edna says: + +"I'm lucky to find you at home, but really you oughtn't to be moping in +a dark place like this, such a fine afternoon." + +"Father can't go out because of his rheumatism, and I stay to keep him +company," replies Florence. + +"Oh, dear me, Mr. Kenby," says Edna, looking at the gentleman rather +skeptically, as if she knew him of old and suspected a habit of +exaggerating his ailments, "can't you pass the time reading or +something? Florence _must_ go out every day; she'll ruin her looks if +she doesn't,--her health, too. I should think you could manage to +entertain yourself alone an hour or two." + +"It isn't that," explains Florence; "he often wants little things done, +and it's painful for him to move about. In a house like this, the +servants aren't always available, except for routine duties." + +"Well, I'll tell you what," proposes Edna, blithely; "you get on your +things, dear, and we'll run around and have tea with Aunt Clara at +Purcell's. Mr. Larcher and I were to meet her there, but you come with +me, and Mr. Larcher will stay and look after your father. He'll be very +glad to, I know." + +Mr. Larcher is too much taken by surprise to be able to say how very +glad he will be. Mr. Kenby, with Miss Hill's sharp glance upon him, +seems to feel that he would cut a poor figure by opposing. So Florence +is rushed by her friend's impetuosity into coat and hat, and carried +off, Miss Hill promising to return with her for Mr. Larcher "in an hour +or two." Before Mr. Larcher has had time to collect his scattered +faculties, he is alone with the pettish-looking old man to whom he has +felt himself an object of perfect indifference. He glares, with a defiant +sense of his own worth, at the old man, until the old man takes notice of +his existence. + +"Oh, it's kind of you to stay, Mr.--ahem. But they really needn't have +troubled you. I can get along well enough myself, when it's absolutely +necessary. Of course, my daughter will be easier in mind to have some +one here." + +"I am very glad to be of service--to so charming a young woman," says +Larcher, very distinctly. + +"A charming girl, yes. I'm very proud of my daughter. She's my constant +thought. Children are a great care, a great responsibility." + +"Yes, they are," asserts Larcher, jumping at the chance to show this +uninterested old person that wise young men may sometimes be entertained +unawares. "It's a sign of progress that parents are learning on which +side the responsibility lies. It used to be universally accepted that +the obligation was on the part of the children. Now every writer on the +subject starts on the basis that the obligation is on the side of the +parent. It's hard to see how the world could have been so idiotic +formerly. As if the child, summoned here in ignorance by the parents for +their own happiness, owed them anything!" + +Mr. Kenby stares at the young man for a time, and then says, icily: + +"I don't quite follow you." + +"Why, it's very clear," says Larcher, interested now for his argument. +"You spoke of your sense of responsibility toward your child." + +("The deuce I did!" thinks Mr. Kenby.) + +"Well, that sense is most natural in you, and shows an enlightened mind. +For how can parents feel other than deeply responsible toward the being +they have called into existence? How can they help seeing their +obligation to make existence for that being as good and happy as it's in +their power to make it? Who dare say that there is a limit to their +obligation toward that being?" + +"And how about that being's obligations in return?" Mr. Kenby demands, +rather loftily. + +"That being's obligations go forward to the beings it in turn summons to +life. The child, becoming in time a parent, assumes a parent's debt. The +obligation passes on from generation to generation, moving always to the +future, never back to the past." + +"Somewhat original theories!" sniffs the old man. "I suppose, then, a +parent in his old age has no right to look for support to his children?" + +"It is the duty of people, before they presume to become parents, to +provide against the likelihood of ever being a burden to their children. +In accepting from their children, they rob their children's children. +But the world isn't sufficiently advanced yet to make people so +far-seeing and provident, and many parents do have to look to their +children for support. In such cases, the child ought to provide for the +parent, but out of love or humanity, not because of any purely logical +claim. You see the difference, of course." + +Mr. Kenby gives a shrug, and grunts ironically. + +"The old-fashioned idea still persists among the multitude," Larcher +goes on, "and many parents abuse it in practice. There are people who +look upon their children mainly as instruments sent from Heaven for them +to live by. From the time their children begin to show signs of +intelligence, they lay plans and build hopes of future gain upon them. +It makes my blood boil, sometimes, to see mothers trying to get their +pretty daughters on the stage, or at a typewriter, in order to live at +ease themselves. And fathers, too, by George! Well, I don't think there's +a more despicable type of humanity in this world than the able-bodied +father who brings his children up with the idea of making use of them!" + +Mr. Larcher has worked himself into a genuine and very hearty +indignation. Before he can entirely calm down, he is put to some wonder +by seeing his auditor rise, in spite of rheumatism, and walk to the door +at the side of the room. "I think I'll lie down awhile," says Mr. Kenby, +curtly, and disappears, closing the door behind him. Mr. Larcher, after +standing like a statue for some time by the fire, ensconces himself in a +great armchair before it, and gazes into it until, gradually stolen upon +by a sense of restful comfort in the darkening room, he falls asleep. + +He is awakened by the gay laugh of Edna Hill, as she and Florence enter +the room. He is on his feet in time to keep his slumbers a secret, and +explains that Mr. Kenby has gone for a nap. When the gas is lit, he sees +that Florence, too, is bright-faced from the outer air, that her eye has +a fresher sparkle, and that she is more beautiful than before. As it is +getting late, and Edna's Aunt Clara is to be picked up in a shop in +Twenty-third Street where the girls have left her, Larcher is borne off +before he can sufficiently contemplate Miss Kenby's beauty. Florence is +no sooner alone than Mr. Kenby comes out of the little chamber. + +"I hope you feel better for your nap, father." + +"I didn't sleep any, thank you," says Mr. Kenby. "What an odious young +man that was! He has the most horrible principles. I think he must be an +anarchist, or something of that sort. Did you enjoy your tea?" + +The odious young man, walking briskly up the lighted avenue, past piano +shops and publishing houses, praises Miss Kenby's beauty to Edna Hill, +who echoes the praise without jealousy. + +"She's perfectly lovely," Edna asserts, "and then, think of it, she has +had a romance, too; but I mustn't tell that." + +"It's strange you never mentioned her to me before, being such good +friends with her." + +"Oh, they've only just got settled back in town," answers Edna, +evasively. "What do you think of the old gentleman?" + +"He seems a rather queer sort. Do you know him very well?" + +"Well enough. He's one of those people whose dream in life is to make +money out of their children." + +"What! Then I _did_ put my foot in it!" Larcher tells of the brief +conversation he had with Mr. Kenby. It makes Edna laugh heartily. + +"Good for him!" she cries. "It's a shame, his treatment of Florence. Her +brother out West supports them, and is very glad to do so on her account. +Yet the covetous old man thinks she ought to be earning money, too. She's +quite too fond of him--she even gave up a nice young man she was in love +with, for her father's sake. But listen. I don't want you to mention +these people's names to anybody--not to _anybody_, mind! Promise." + +"Very well. But why?" + +"I won't tell you," she says, decidedly; and, when he looks at her in +mute protest, she laughs merrily at his helplessness. So they go on up +the avenue. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +A LODGING BY THE RIVER + +The day after his introduction to the Kenbys, Larcher went with Murray +Davenport on one of those expeditions incidental to their collaboration +as writer and illustrator. Larcher had observed an increase of the +strange indifference which had appeared through all the artist's +loquacity at their first interview. This loquacity was sometimes +repeated, but more often Davenport's way was of silence. His apathy, or +it might have been abstraction, usually wore the outer look of +dreaminess. + +"Your friend seems to go about in a trance," Barry Tompkins said of him +one day, after a chance meeting in which Larcher had made the two +acquainted. + +This was a near enough description of the man as he accompanied Larcher +to a part of the riverfront not far from the Brooklyn Bridge, on the +afternoon at which we have arrived. The two were walking along a squalid +street lined on one side with old brick houses containing junk-shops, +shipping offices, liquor saloons, sailors' hotels, and all the various +establishments that sea-folk use. On the other side were the wharves, +with a throng of vessels moored, and glimpses of craft on the broad +river. + +"Here we are," said Larcher, who as he walked had been referring to a +pocket map of the city. The two men came to a stop, and Davenport took +from a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century, +representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this with +the scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport then +looked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon on +the ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottles +in the window. + +"If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows up +there," said Davenport, glancing at the first story over the saloon. + +"Suppose we go in and see what can be done," suggested Larcher. + +They found the saloon a small, homely place, with only one attendant +behind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing some +sort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third old +fellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seated +by himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly all +head-lines. + +Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who lived +overhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect, +gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, and +finally vouchsafed the single word: + +"Roomers." + +"I should like to see the person that has the front room up one flight," +began Larcher. + +"All right; that won't cost you nothing. There he sets." And the +barkeeper pointed to the rural-looking old man with the newspaper, at +the same time calling out, sportively: "Hey, Mr. Bud, here's a couple o' +gents wants to look at you." + +Mr. Bud, who was tall, spare, and bent, about sixty, and the possessor +of a pleasant knobby face half surrounded by a gray beard that stretched +from ear to ear beneath his lower jaw, dropped his paper and scrutinized +the young men benevolently. They went over to him, and Larcher explained +their intrusion with as good a grace as possible. + +"Why, certainly, certainly," the old man chirped with alacrity. "Glad to +have yuh. I'll be proud to do anything in the cause of literature. Come +right up." And he rose and led the way to the street door. + +"Take care, Mr. Bud," said the jocular barkeeper. "Don't let them sell +you no gold bricks or nothin'. I never see them before, so you can't +hold me if you lose your money." + +"You keep your mouth shut, Mick," answered the old man, "and send me up +a bottle o' whisky and a siphon o' seltzer as soon as your side partner +comes in. This way, gentlemen." + +He conducted them out to the sidewalk, and then in through another door, +and up a narrow stairway, to a room with two windows overlooking the +river. It was a room of moderate size, provided with old furniture, a +faded carpet, mended curtains, and lithographs of the sort given away +with Sunday newspapers. It had, in its shabbiness, that curious effect +of cosiness and comfort which these shabby old rooms somehow possess, +and luxurious rooms somehow lack. A narrow bed in a corner was covered +with an old-fashioned patchwork quilt. There was a cylindrical stove, +but not in use, as the weather had changed since the day before; and +beside the stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partly +full of coal. While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud was +offering chairs, Davenport made directly for the window and looked out +with an interest limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so. + +"This is my city residence," said the host, dropping into a chair. "It +ain't every hard-worked countryman, these times, that's able to keep up +a city residence." As this was evidently one of Mr. Bud's favorite jests, +Larcher politically smiled. Mr. Bud soon showed that he had other +favorite jests. "Yuh see, I make my livin' up the State, but every now +and then I feel like comin' to the city for rest and quiet, and so I keep +this place the year round." + +"You come to New York for rest and quiet?" exclaimed Larcher, still +kindly feigning amusement. + +"Sure! Why not? As fur as rest goes, I just loaf around and watch other +people work. That's what I call rest with a sauce to it. And as fur as +quiet goes, I get used to the noises. Any sound that don't concern me, +don't annoy me. I go about unknown, with nobody carin' what my business +is, or where I'm bound fur. Now in the country everybody wants to know +where from, and where to, and what fur. The only place to be reely alone +is where thur's so many people that one man don't count for anything. And +talk about noise!--What's all the clatter and bang amount to, if it's got +nothin' to do with your own movements? Now at my home where the noise +consists of half a dozen women's voices askin' me about this, and wantin' +that, and callin' me to account for t'other,--that's the kind o' noise +that jars a man. Yuh see, I got a wife and four daughters. They're very +good women--very good women, the whole bunch--but I do find it restful +and refreshin' to take the train to New York about once a month, and loaf +around a week or so without anybody takin' notice, and no questions ast." + +"And what does your family say to that?" + +"Nothin', now. They used to say considerable when I first fell into the +habit. I hev some poultry customers here in the city, and I make out I +got to come to look after business. That story don't go fur with the +fam'ly; but they hev their way about everything else, so they got to +gimme my way about this." + +Davenport turned around from the window, and spoke for the first time +since entering: + +"Then you don't occupy this room more than half the time?" + +"No, sir, I close it up, and thank the Lord there ain't nothin' in it +worth stealin'." + +"Oh, in that case," Davenport went on, "if I began some sketches here, +and you left town before they were done, I should have to go somewhere +else to finish them." + +It was a remark that made Larcher wonder a little, at the moment, knowing +the artist's usual methods of work. But Mr. Bud, ignorant of such +matters, replied without question: + +"Well, I don't know. That might be fixed all right, I guess." + +"I see you have a library," said Davenport, abruptly, walking over to a +row of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His sudden +interest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise in +Larcher. + +"Yes, sir," said the old man, with pride and affection, "them books is my +chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and +again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three +that's pretty rough travellin'. But the others!--well, I've tried a good +many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of +novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people +in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would +blow 'em away. But look at the _body_ to Scott's people! They're all the +way round, and clear through, his characters are.--Of course, I'm no +literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion." Mr. Bud's +manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its +bold enthusiasm. + +"Your small opinion is quite right," said Davenport. "There's no doubt +about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters." He took +one of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on +with brightened eyes. "Andrew Fairservice--there's a character. 'Gude +e'en--gude e'en t' ye'--how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a +wild slip, that'--there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant +in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the +hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as +fast as he can." + +"Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol +Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him." The old man +grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another +to praise, his favorite author. + +"Interesting old illustrations these are," said Davenport, taking up +another volume. "Dryburgh Abbey--that's how it looks on a gray day. I +was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then." + +"What?" exclaimed Mr. Bud. "You been to Dryburgh Abbey?--to Scott's +grave?" + +"Oh, yes," said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which +was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had +been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New +York. + +"You don't say! Well, to think of it! I _am_ happy to meet you. By +George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe +you've seen Abbotsford?" + +"Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the +house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns." + +Mr. Bud's excitement was great. "Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and +High Street--" + +"Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the +Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands +of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?" + +The old man shook his head. "That's all too fur away from home fur me. +The women are afraid o' the water, and they'd never let me go alone. I +kind o' just drifted into this New York business, but if I undertook to +go across the ocean, that _would_ be the last straw. And I'm afraid I +couldn't get on to the manners and customs over there. They say +everything's different from here. To tell the truth, I'm timid where I +don't know the ways. If I was like you--I shouldn't wonder if you'd been +to some of the other places where things happen in his novels?" + +With a smile, Davenport began to enumerate and describe. The old man sat +enraptured. The whisky and seltzer came up, and the host saw that the +glasses were filled and refilled, but he kept Davenport to the same +subject. Larcher felt himself quite out of the talk, but found +compensation in the whisky and in watching the old man's greedy enjoyment +of Davenport's every word. The afternoon waned, and all opportunity of +making the intended sketches passed for that day. Mr. Bud was for +lighting up, or inviting the young men to dinner, but they found pretexts +for tearing themselves away. They did not go, however, until Davenport +had arranged to come the next day and perform his neglected task. Mr. Bud +accompanied them out, and stood on the corner looking after them until +they were out of sight. + +"You've made a hit with the agriculturist," said Larcher, as they took +their way through a narrow street of old warehouses toward the region of +skyscrapers and lower Broadway. + +"Scott is evidently his hobby," replied Davenport, with a careless smile, +"and I liked to please him in it." + +He lapsed into that reticence which, as it was his manner during most of +the time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the more +remarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came on +in Larcher's presence. + +It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner in +Madison Avenue, and he thus found himself not far from Davenport's abode. +Going thither upon an impulse, he beheld the artist seated at the table, +leaning forward over a confusion of old books, some of them open. He +looked pallid in the light of the reading lamp at his elbow, and his +eyes seemed withdrawn deep into their hollows. He welcomed his visitor +with conventional politeness. + +"How's this?" began Larcher. "Do I find you pondering, + + '... weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore?'" + +"No; merely rambling over familiar fields." Davenport held out the +topmost book. + +"Oh, Shakespeare," laughed Larcher. "The Sonnets. Hello, you've marked +part of this." + +"Little need to mark anything so famous. But it comes closer to me than +to most men, I fancy." And he recited slowly, without looking down at the +page: + +'When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, +I all alone beweep my outcast state, +And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, +And look upon myself, and curse my fate,'-- + +He stopped, whereupon Larcher, not to be behind, and also without having +recourse to the page, went on: + +'Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, +Featured like him, like him with friends possest, +Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,'-- + +"But I think that hits all men," said Larcher, interrupting himself. +"Everybody has wished himself in somebody else's shoes, now and again, +don't you believe?" + +"I have certainly wished myself out of my own shoes," replied Davenport, +almost with vehemence. "I have hated myself and my failures, God knows! +I have wished hard enough that I were not I. But I haven't wished I were +any other person now existing. I wouldn't change selves with this +particular man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throw +off the burden of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my life +and conduct, and take up the burden of some other man's--though I +should be the gainer even by that, in a thousand cases I could name." + +"Oh, I don't exactly mean changing with somebody else," said Larcher. +"We all prefer to remain ourselves, with our own tastes, I suppose. But +we often wish our lot was like somebody else's." + +Davenport shook his head. "I don't prefer to remain myself, any more +than to be some man whom I know or have heard of. I am tired of myself; +weary and sick of Murray Davenport. To be a new man, of my own +imagining--that would be something;--to begin afresh, with an +unencumbered personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning and +find that I was not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I know +of, but a different self, formed according to ideals of my own. There +_would_ be a liberation!" + +"Well," said Larcher, "if a man can't change to another self, he can at +least change his place and his way of life." + +"But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the new +place. And even change of scene and habits is next to impossible +without money." + +"I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enough +for me just now," said Larcher. + +Davenport's only reply was a short laugh. + +"Suppose you had the money, and could live as you liked, where would +_you_ go?" demanded Larcher, slightly nettled. + +"I would live a varied life. Probably it would have four phases, +generally speaking, of unequal duration and no fixed order. For one +phase, the chief scene would be a small secluded country-house in an old +walled garden. There would be the home of my books, and the centre of my +walks over moors and hills. From this, I would transport myself, when +the mood came, to the intellectual society of some large city--that of +London would be most to my choice. Mind you, I say the _intellectual_ +society; a far different thing from the Society that spells itself with +a capital S." + +"Why not of New York? There's intellectual society here." + +"Yes; a trifle fussy and self-conscious, though. I should prefer a +society more reposeful. From this, again, I would go to the life of the +streets and byways of the city. And then, for the fourth phase, to the +direct contemplation of art--music, architecture, sculpture, +painting;--to haunting the great galleries, especially of Italy, +studying and copying the old masters. I have no desire to originate. I +should be satisfied, in the arts, rather to receive than to give; to be +audience and spectator; to contemplate and admire." + +"Well, I hope you may have your wish yet," was all that Larcher +could say. + +"I _should_ like to have just one whack at life before I finish," +replied Davenport, gazing thoughtfully into the shadow beyond the +lamplight. "Just one taste of comparative happiness." + +"Haven't you ever had even one?" + +"I thought I had, for a brief season, but I was deceived." (Larcher +remembered the talk of an inconstant woman.) "No, I have never been +anything like happy. My father was a cold man who chilled all around +him. He died when I was a boy, and left my mother and me to poverty. My +mother loved me well enough; she taught me music, encouraged my +studies, and persuaded a distant relation to send me to the College of +Medicine and Surgery; but her life was darkened by grief, and the +darkness fell over me, too. When she died, my relation dropped me, and +I undertook to make a living in New York. There was first the struggle +for existence, then the sickening affair of that play; afterward, +misfortune enough to fill a dozen biographies, the fatal reputation of +ill luck, the brief dream of consolation in the love of woman, the +awakening,--and the rest of it." + +He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, to +the book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which they +had already been quoting: + +'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising--Haply I think on thee; +and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen +earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love--' + +He broke off, and closed the book. "'For thy sweet love,'" he repeated. +"You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those +lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly +song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,--a little +poem of Frank L. Stanton's." He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a +light baritone: + + 'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong, + For God gives grief with the gift of song, + And poverty, too; but your love is more--' + +Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. "What an ass I was! As +if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!" + +"Oh, never be disheartened," said Larcher. "Your time is to come; you'll +have your 'whack at life' yet." + +"It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two +of the dreams of youth--the dreams an unhappy lad consoled himself with." + +"What were they?" inquired Larcher. + +"What were they not, that is fine and pleasant? I had my share of diverse +ambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, in +Longfellow: + + _'For a boy's will is the wind's will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"_ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + +A month passed. All the work in which Larcher had enlisted Davenport's +cooperation was done. Larcher would have projected more, but the +artist could not be pinned down to any definite engagement. He was +non-committal, with the evasiveness of apathy. He seemed not to care any +longer about anything. More than ever he appeared to go about in a dream. +Larcher might have suspected some drug-taking habit, but for having +observed the man so constantly, at such different hours, and often with +so little warning, as to be convinced to the contrary. + +One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and the +beauty of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a sense +of life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met his +friend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his +inner contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as +a man could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped, +however, when Larcher did. + +"Where are you going?" the latter asked. + +"Home," was the reply; thus amended the next instant: "To my room, that +is." + +"I'll walk with you, if you don't mind. I feel like stretching my legs." + +"Glad to have you," said Davenport, indifferently. They turned from +Broadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of which +rose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larcher +called the artist's attention to it. Davenport replied by quoting, +mechanically: + +"'With how slow steps, O moon, thou clim'st the sky, +How silently, and with how wan a face!'" + +"I'm glad to see you out on so fine a night," pursued Larcher. + +"I came out on business," said the other. "I got a request by telegraph +from the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurry +call' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, to +look after a few matters in his absence." + +"I trust you'll find them interesting," said Larcher, comparing his own +failure with Bagley's success in obtaining Davenport's services. + +"Not in the slightest," replied Davenport. + +"Then remunerative, at least." + +"Not sufficiently to attract _me_," said the other. + +"Then, if you'll pardon the remark, I really can't understand--" + +"Mere force of habit," replied Davenport, listlessly. "When he summons, I +attend. When he entrusts, I accept. I've done it so long, and so often, I +can't break myself of the habit. That is, of course, I could if I chose, +but it would require an effort, and efforts aren't worth while at this +stage." + +With little more talk, they arrived at the artist's house. + +"If you talk of moonlight," said Davenport, in a manner of some +kindliness, "you should see its effect on the back yards, from my +windows. You know how half-hearted the few trees look in the daytime; +but I don't think you've seen that view on a moonlight night. The yards, +taken as a whole, have some semblance to a real garden. Will you come +up?" + +Larcher assented readily. A minute later, while his host was seeking +matches, he looked down from the dark chamber, and saw that the +transformation wrought in the rectangular space of back yards had not +been exaggerated. The shrubbery by the fences might have sheltered +fairies. The boughs of the trees, now leafless, gently stirred. Even the +plain house-backs were clad in beauty. + +When Larcher turned from the window, Davenport lighted the gas, but not +his lamp; then drew from an inside pocket, and tossed on the table, +something which Larcher took to be a stenographer's note-book, narrow, +thick, and with stiff brown covers. Its unbound end was confined by a +thin rubber band. Davenport opened a drawer of the table, and essayed +to sweep the book thereinto by a careless push. The book went too +far, struck the arm of a chair, flew open at the breaking of the +overstretched rubber, fell on its side by the chair leg, and disclosed a +pile of bank-notes. These, tightly flattened, were the sole contents of +the covers. As Larcher's startled eyes rested upon them, he saw that the +topmost bill was for five hundred dollars. + +Davenport exhibited a momentary vexation, then picked up the bills, and +laid them on the table in full view. + +"Bagley's money," said he, sitting down before the table. "I'm to place +it for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carrying +out personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business to +the reliable Davenport." + +"When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of so +much money," said Larcher, who had taken a chair near his friend. + +"I don't suppose there's another man in New York to-night with so much +ready money on his person," said Davenport, smiling. "These are large +bills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walking +about with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket." + +"Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were--" Larcher checked +himself. + +"Yes," said Davenport, unmoved. "Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that +morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to +very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could +make it go far--exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a +congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am +I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat +it as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?" + +He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them +in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying +there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this +up, and handed it to Larcher, saying: + +"You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you +make of this man's character?" + +Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise, +round hand: + +"MY DEAR DAVENPORT:--I will meet you at the place and time you suggest. +We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our different +ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, still less. +Yours truly, + +"FRANCIS TURL." + +"Francis Turl," repeated Larcher. "I never heard the name before." + +"No, I suppose you never have," replied Davenport, dryly. "But what +character would you infer from his penmanship?" + +"Well,--I don't know." Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. "An +educated person, I should think; even scholarly, perhaps. Fastidious, +steady, exact, reserved,--that's about all." + +"Not very much," said Davenport, taking back the sheet. "You merely +describe the handwriting itself. Your characterization, as far as it +goes, would fit men who write very differently from this. It fits me, +for instance, and yet look at my angular scrawl." He held up a specimen +of his own irregular hand, beside the elegant penmanship of the note, +and Larcher had to admit himself a humbug as a graphologist. + +"But," he demanded, "did my description happen to fit that particular +man--Francis Turl?" + +"Oh, more or less," said Davenport, evasively, as if not inclined to give +any information about that person. This apparent disinclination increased +Larcher's hidden curiosity as to who Francis Turl might be, and why +Davenport had never mentioned him before, and what might be between the +two for settlement. + +Davenport put Turl's writing back into the drawer, but continued to +regard his own. "'A vile cramped hand,'" he quoted. "I hate it, as I have +grown to hate everything that partakes of me, or proceeds from me. +Sometimes I fancy that my abominable handwriting had as much to do with +alienating a certain fair inconstant as the news of my reputed +unluckiness. Both coming to her at once, the combined effect was too +much." + +"Why?--Did you break that news to her by letter?" + +"That seems strange to you, perhaps. But you see, at first it didn't +occur to me that I should have to break it to her at all. We met abroad; +we were tourists whose paths happened to cross. Over there I almost +forgot about the bad luck. It wasn't till both of us were back in New +York, that I felt I should have to tell her, lest she might hear it first +from somebody else. But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough to +make me put the revelation off from day to day. The more I put it off, +the more difficult it seemed--you know how the smallest matter, even the +writing of an overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So this +little ordeal got magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't brace +myself to go through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in his +affairs, and he kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I got +free, I was surprised to find she had left town. I hadn't the least idea +where she'd gone; till one day I received a letter from her. She wrote as +if she thought I had known where she was; she reproached me with +negligence, but was friendly nevertheless. I replied at once, clearing +myself of the charge; and in that same letter I unburdened my soul of the +bad luck secret. It was easier to write it than speak it." + +"And what then?" + +"Nothing. I never heard from her again." + +"But your letter may have miscarried,--something of that sort." + +"I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. +She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. +But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a +one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history +of Murray Davenport.--She was a fine young woman, as the world judges; +she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines." + +"Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You +remember his library--made up entirely of Scott?" + +"Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of +living did." + +"I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the +country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless." + +"I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in +the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short +spell,' as he calls it." + +"You still keep in touch with him?" asked Larcher, in surprise. + +"Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable--allowing me the use of his room to +sketch in." + +"Even during his absence?" + +"Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. +He's proud of them." + +Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on +the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This +stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent +for a moment; then rose, with the words: + +"Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit +garden. When shall I see you again?" + +"Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't +find me here." + +"I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I +shall have them day after to-morrow. Let's see--I'm engaged for that day. +How will the next day suit you?" + +"All right. Come the next day if you like." + +"That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch +together." + +"Just as you please." + +"One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!" + +"Good night!" + +At the door, Larcher turned for a moment in passing out, and saw +Davenport standing by the table, looking after him. What was the +inscrutable expression--half amusement, half friendliness and +self-accusing regret--which faintly relieved for a moment the +indifference of the man's face? + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +MYSTERY BEGINS + +The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dull +person in not having yet put this and that together and associated the +love-affair of Murray Davenport with the "romance" of Miss Florence +Kenby. One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, and +her inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair of +connecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probably +judge otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought to +Larcher's notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation, +as she necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fully +in possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were the +circumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up his +life, as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's +"romance" had been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had given +up a lover to please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandoned +him because he was unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such a +woman, and so of a different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. To +be sure, he knew now that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but so +had most young women. In short, the small connecting facts had no such +significance in his mind, where they were not grouped away from other +facts, as they must have in these pages, where their very presence +together implies inter-relation. + +In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightly +upon the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessed +that those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But a +certain manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point in +spite of all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenport +ascribed the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's present +opinion of her. "He was thrown over by some woman whose name he never +mentions; since then he has steered clear of the sex," was what Larcher +replied to Edna a hundred times, in a hundred different sets of phrases; +and it was all he replied on the subject. + +So matters stood until two days after the interview related in the +previous chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said that +for the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointed +the third day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement for +the second day was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at a +riding-school. Upon arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mild +protection of her easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in the +arrangement. To this he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well as +beautiful; and Larcher was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Edna +that he could play the cavalier to one pretty girl as well as to another. +He did not, however, manage to disturb her serenity at all during the +afternoon. The three returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of the +utmost readiness for afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. To +make things pleasanter, Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking a +nap. The three young people had the drawing-room, with its bright coal +fire, to themselves. + +Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid who +placed the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have been +transported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat was +her black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so clean +her slender hands. + +"What a sweet place you have, Edna," remarked Florence Kenby, looking +around. + +"So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make it +sweeter, for good, you've only got to move in." + +Florence laughed, but with something very like a sigh. + +"What, are you willing to take boarders?" said Larcher. "If that's the +case, put me down as the first applicant." + +"Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, and +no gentlemen need apply. Two lumps, Flo dear?" + +"Yes, please.--If only your restrictions didn't keep out poor father--" + +"If only your poor father would consider your happiness instead of his +own selfish plans." + +"Edna, dear! You mustn't." + +"Why mustn't I?" replied Edna, pouring tea. "Truth's truth. He's your +father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would +do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have +better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why +doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the +reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own +projects. You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read +your father like a book the first time he ever met him." + +Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked +very wise and penetrative. + +"I should think your father himself would be happier," said he, "if he +lived less privately and had more of men's society." + +"He's often in poor health," replied Florence. + +"In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium, +where the life is as luxurious as can be." + +"I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he--weren't altogether +unselfish about me, there would always be my promise." + +"What does that matter--such a promise?" inquired Edna, between sips of +tea. + +"You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear," said +Florence, smiling. "But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred." + +"Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?" + +"No, not all," replied Larcher. "It's like this: When you make a bad +promise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, you +perpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break the +promise." + +"Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, and +your promise did inaugurate a wrong--a wrong against yourself." + +"Well, then, it's allowable to wrong oneself," said Florence. + +"But not one's friends--one's true, disinterested friends. And as for +that other promise of yours--that _fearful_ promise!--you can't deny you +wronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to wrong." + +"It was a choice between him and my father," replied Florence, in a low +voice, and turning very red. + +"Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?" cried Edna, her eyes and +tone showing that the subject was a heating one. "Which was likely to +suffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers _don't_ die +in those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics _must_ have been +put on for effect. Oh, don't tell me!--it makes me wild to think of it! +Your father would have been all right in a week; whereas the other man's +whole life is darkened." + +"Don't say that, dear," pleaded Florence, gently. "Men soon get over such +things." + +"Not so awfully soon;--not sincere men. Their views of life are changed, +for all time. And _this_ man seems to grow more and more melancholy, if +what Tom says is true." + +"What I say?" exclaimed Larcher. + +The two girls looked at each other. + +"Goodness! I _have_ given it away!" cried Edna. + +"More and more melancholy?" repeated Larcher. "Why, that must be Murray +Davenport. Was he the--? Then you must be the--! But surely _you_ +wouldn't have given him up on account of the bad luck nonsense." + +"Bad luck nonsense?" echoed Edna, while Miss Kenby looked bewildered. + +"The silly idea of some foolish people, that he carried bad luck with +him," Larcher explained, addressing Florence. "He sent you a letter about +it." + +"I never got any such letter from him," said Florence, in wonderment. + +"Then you didn't know? And that had nothing to do with your giving him +up?" + +"Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that--But the letter you +speak of--when was it? I never had a letter from him after I left town. +He didn't even answer when I told him we were going." + +"Because he never heard you were going. He got a letter after you had +gone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There must +have been some strange defect in your mail arrangements." + +"I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarried +between us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains to +clear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time--" She +stopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering. + +"Speaking of your father," said Larcher, "you must have got a subsequent +letter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receipt +came back with your father's signature." + +"No, I never got that, either," said Florence, before the inference +struck her. When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless, +wounded look, and blushed as if the shame were her own. + +Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her +friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner. + +"Why didn't you tell me all this before?" + +"I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about +the letters till the night before last." + +"And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him +over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?" + +"Well, more or less,--and the general fickleness of the sex." + +"General fick--! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on thinking +so?" + +"But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told +me it was for her you wanted news of him--" + +"Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some +news of _her_. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such paltry, +childish motive." + +"By George, I agree with you!" cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. "If +you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss +Kenby! I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to +that; he had causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away +all consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life." + +"Has it made him so bitter?" asked Florence, sadly. + +"I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for +strong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to the +last stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch to +making his life a wearisome drudgery, without motive or hope." + +Florence sighed deeply. + +"To think that he could believe such a thing of Florence," put in Edna. +"I'm sure _I_ couldn't. Could you, Tom?" + +"When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions," +said Larcher, authoritatively. "He exaggerates both the favors and the +rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he +thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his +sufferings. As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty +correspondingly great. Nobody will believe such good things of a woman +as the man who loves her; but nobody will believe such bad things if +matters go wrong." + +"Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!" + +But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. "So I really think, +Miss Kenby, if you'll pardon me," Larcher continued, "that Murray +Davenport ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if +matters never go any further, he ought to know that you still--h'm--feel +an interest in him--still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your +solicitude--how it was the cause of my looking him up--I can see through +all that now--" + +"I can never thank you enough--and Edna," said Florence, in a tremulous +voice. + +"No thanks are due me," replied Larcher, emphatically. "I value his +acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your +real motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to +see you again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life. +I'm sure it would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in +humanity. It would console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet +to him. It would change the color of his view of life; give him hope and +strength; make a new man of him." + +Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. "I should be so glad," she +said, gently, "if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort of +communication with him." + +"Oh, that promise!" cried Edna. "Just think how it was obtained. And +think about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't +release you, I wonder what!" + +Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder. + +"Moreover," said Larcher, "you won't be holding communication. The +matter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky +forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him +to-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I really +don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby." + +Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and +a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared. + +"You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather +have than to see him made happy." + +"If you'd like to see it with your own eyes," said Larcher, "let me send +him to you for the news." + +"Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came +to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of +meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York." + +Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys +to anybody. "Well," said he, "in that case, Murray Davenport shall be +made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon." + +"And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it," cried +Edna. "Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom +and kidnap you." + +"I think I can come voluntarily," said Florence, smiling through her +tears. + +"And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any +silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea +get cold. I must have another cup." And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot +water. + +The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and +laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous +cause of love and truth against the old, old foes--mercenary design, +false appearance, and mistaken duty. + +Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time +previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out +his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the +disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his +friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the +appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. +Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's +lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day. + +"I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room," he said to the negro boy at +the door. + +"All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there," +replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand. + +Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. "When did that +telegram come?" he inquired. + +"Last evening." + +"It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he +hasn't been in?" + +Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming +of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, +with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly +look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady. + +"Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?" she asked, quickly. + +"No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock." + +"Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that +engagement?" + +"On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?" + +"Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport +hasn't been home for two days!" + +"Two days! Why, that's rather strange!" + +"Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either +told me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about +saving me trouble or anxiety." + +"And this time he said nothing about it?" + +"Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the +morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry +any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel +wrapped in brown paper." + +"Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn't +soon turn up--What do you think about it?" + +"I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of +mysterious disappearance--that's what I think!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + +Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher +spoke first. + +"He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now." + +The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street. +But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady. + +"Perhaps he left a note for me on the table," said Larcher. "I have the +freedom of his room, you know." + +"Go up and see, then. I'll go with you." + +The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a +person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. +None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or +covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing +addressed to Larcher or anybody else. + +"It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon," remarked the +landlady. + +"It certainly does." Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. +He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession +at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on +leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but +something checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a +way that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly +wished to keep it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything. + +"Of course," said Larcher, "he might have met with an accident." + +"I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's +nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked +down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache." + +"And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd +meant to stay away so long?" + +"Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he +met me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in +advance." + +"But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some +time." + +"No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little +money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me +for another month.' He knew I gener'ly--had use for money whenever it +happened along. He was a kind-hearted--I mean he _is_ a kind-hearted man. +Hear me speakin' of him as if--What's that?" + +It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned +to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came +almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the +flight above. + +"It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up," said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected +whisper. + +The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the +hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance +became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill +and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of +the landlady. + +"Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?" said +she, still in a lowered voice. + +"I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general +alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I +believe. There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened +without sufficient cause." + +"I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send +out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make +a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun." + +"That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better +wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he +hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment, +though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a +fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons +for this, how we shall all feel." + +"He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only +friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good +many single men are,--that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days at +a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it. +But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow, +till you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?" + +"Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll +give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then, +if he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance +he might be. I've only just now thought of it." + +The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had +spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might +have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance--a +bare chance--of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that place +or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of him +than Mrs. Haze had. + +That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the +very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled +Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything +in connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and +the solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say +to the girls when he met them at tea? + +At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went +down-stairs, and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised +to return about four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an +elevated car, and out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to +imagine his friend had by that time arrived home. This feeling remained +with him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the +house on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at +Mr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in +the ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the +thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked. + +"Evidently nobody at home," said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs +again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had +seen on his first visit to the place. + +"I thought I might find a friend of mine here," he said, after ordering a +drink. "Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeks +ago." + +"I remember all right enough," said the bar-keeper. "He ain't here now." + +"He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?" + +"Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old +man Bud." + +"What day was that?" + +"Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the day +before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did." + +It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. "And so +you haven't seen my friend since Monday?" he asked, insistently. + +"That's what I said." + +"And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?" + +"That's what I said." + +"When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?" + +"You can search _me,_" was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all +knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions. + +Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling +that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he +was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. +It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The +telegram was still on the hat-stand. + +"Any news?" asked the landlady, appearing from the rear. + +"No. I was hoping you might have some." + +After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his +engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat. + +"Here he is!" cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high +spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in +great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet +unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating. + +"Well? Well? Well?" said Edna. "How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your +good news, and then we'll tell you ours." Florence only watched his face, +but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's +noise. + +"Well, the fact is," began Larcher, embarrassed, "I can't tell you any +good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me +to-day, and I haven't been able to see him." + +"Not able to see him?" Edna exclaimed, hotly. "Why didn't you go and +find him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with +men--always afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an +unreliable, helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!" + +Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied: + +"I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've +spent the afternoon doing that." + +"A woman would have managed to find out where he was," retorted Edna. + +"His landlady's a woman," rejoined Larcher, doggedly, "and she hasn't +managed to find out." + +"Has she been trying to?" + +"Well--no," stammered Larcher, repenting. + +"Yes, she has!" said Edna, with a changed manner. "But what for? Why is +she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom--I can tell by your +looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?" + +A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier +or pleasanter. + +"I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away +from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his +landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all." + +"And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?" +persisted Edna. + +"No. I suppose it slipped his mind." + +"And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?" + +"Not when I saw her last--about half an hour ago." + +"Well!" ejaculated Edna. "That _is_ a mysterious disappearance!" + +The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental +observation in the moment's silence that followed,--a silence broken by +a low cry from Florence Kenby. + +"Oh, if anything has happened to him!" + +The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which +Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time +he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed +by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport, +undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to +raise. + +"Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men +often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's +quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom +says." + +"As I say!" exclaimed Larcher. "_I_ don't say it's bad at all. It's your +own imagination, Edna,--your sudden and sensational imagination. There's +no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says--" + +"But I must make sure," interrupted Florence. "If anything _is_ wrong, +we're losing time. He must be sought for--the police must be notified." + +"His landlady--a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze--spoke of that, +and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to wait +awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got +noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of +things--as of course he will--why, how foolish we should all feel!" + +"What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?" + +"Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how +he would hate that sort of publicity." + +"That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if +you knew my anxiety!" + +"I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters +at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go +around to the--to other places where people inquire in such cases." + +"And you'll let me know immediately--as soon as you find out anything?" + +"Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?" + +"Stay here to-night, Florence," put in Edna. "It will be all right, +_now_." + +"Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher." + +Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little. + +"She's had an understanding with her father," said Edna, having noted +his look. "She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was +yesterday." + +"Yes," said Florence, "I--I had a talk with him--I spoke to him about +those letters, and he finally--explained the matter. We settled many +things. He released me from the promise we were talking about yesterday." + +"Good! That's excellent news!" + +"It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a +disappointment," bemoaned Edna. + +"It's news that will change the world for Davenport," replied Larcher. +"I _must_ find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he +wouldn't be long missing." + +"It would be too cruel if any harm befell him"--Florence's voice quivered +as she spoke--"at this time, of all times. It would be the crowning +misfortune." + +"I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby." + +"I don't see how Heaven could allow it," said Florence, earnestly. + +"Well, he's simply _got_ to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can +go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you +on the way?" + +"I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would +stop at a telegraph-office--" + +"Oh, that's all right," broke in Edna. "There's a call-box down-stairs. +I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom." + +Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While +they waited for that, she asked, cautiously: + +"Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before +Florence?" + +A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again +he felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and +should be treated by him--for the present, at least--as non-existent. + +"No," he replied. "I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So +far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves, +probably, for having been at all worked up over it.--She's a lovely girl, +isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself." + +"She's proof against your charms," said Edna, coolly. + +"I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm +brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern +if _I_ were missing?" + +"I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in +suspense. You're a dear boy! _Au revoir!_" + +With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish +motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This +time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home; +yet it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The +same deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was +mirrored in the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no +news. + +Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in +which, the choice being "optional," sundry of the lodgers took their +rooms "with board." Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of +"helping out" the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself +disguised as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and +threw on her things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There +she told all that was necessary, to an official at a desk,--a big, +comfortable man with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman, +after briefly questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible +notes, and setting a subordinate to looking through the latest entries +in a large record, dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was +proper to be done _would_ be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with +him, as if he doubted, not only that Murray Davenport was missing, but +that any such person as Murray Davenport existed to _be_ missing; as if +he merely indulged his visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as +if in any case the matter was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate +reported that nothing in the record for the past two days showed any +such man, or the body of any such man, to have come under the all-seeing +eye of the police. Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an +investigation should be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that +no dead body had been found, and repeated that all proper steps would be +taken. With this grain of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned +to her bread pudding, for which her boarders were by that time waiting. + +When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed +to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any +considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently +allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. "Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think +so," she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so +short, and might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not +yet warrant the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished +to keep private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be +made from that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at +the inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard +his friend from that. + +Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he +required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine +at her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat +at one of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking +together are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in +the world. He soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely +given his order when in sauntered Barry Tompkins. + +"Stop right here," cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and +pulling him into a seat. "You are commandeered." + +"What for?" asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile. + +"Dinner first, and then--" + +"All right. Do you give me _carte blanche_ with the bill of fare? May I +roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?" + +"None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals, +station-houses, morgue, _et cetera_. There's a man missing. You've made +those rounds before." + +"Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and +again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to +him in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest." + +"I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening--" + +"Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have +search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's +the latest victim of the strenuous life?" + +"Murray Davenport!" + +"What! is he occurring again?" + +Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two +made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing +inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have +ever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the +experience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure +from a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, the +rebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless +information from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingled +hope and dread of coming upon the object of the search at the next place, +the recurring feeling that the whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose +chase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few features +of the disheartening business. The labors of Larcher and Tompkins +elicited nothing; lightened though they were by the impecunious lawyer's +tact, knowledge, and good humor, they left the young men dispirited and +dead tired. Larcher had nothing to telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of +her passing a sleepless night, waiting for news, the dupe and victim of +every sound that might herald a messenger. He slept ill himself, the +short time he had left for sleep. In the morning he made a swift +breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. Davenport's room was still +untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram still lay unclaimed in the +hall below. + +Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night, +for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the +morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an +indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was +the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her +lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair, +during the ensuing days,--for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or +heard of the missing one,--but of these Larcher was not often a witness. +Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an +unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time +between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was +subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek, +cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He +volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of +Davenport's disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His +diminution spoke volumes for the unexpected force of personality +Florence must have shown in that unrelated interview about the letters, +in which she had got back her promise. + +The burden of action during those ensuing days fell on Larcher. Besides +regular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house, +and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to every +place he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person he +had ever known Davenport to be acquainted with. Only, for a time Mr. +Bagley had to be excepted, he not having yet returned from Chicago. + +It appeared that the big man at police headquarters had really caused +the proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house and +searched the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most of +the newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that Murray +Davenport, "a song-writer," was missing from his lodging-house. Larcher +hoped that this, if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoy +him, would certainly bring word from him. But the man remained as silent +as unseen. Was there, indeed, what the newspapers call "foul play"? And +was Larcher called upon yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? The +knowledge of that would give the case an importance in the eyes of the +police, but would it, even if the worst had happened, do any good to +Davenport? Larcher thought not; and held his tongue. + +One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance,--or, as Larcher +preferred to call it, non-appearance,--that gentleman, having just sat +down in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first page of +an evening paper--one of the yellow brand--which he had bought a minute +before. All at once he was struck in the face, metaphorically speaking, +by a particular set of headlines. He held his breath, and read the +following opening paragraph: + +"The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phase +on the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has not +been seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house,--East----th +Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a large amount of +cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposes the +previous night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when he +called this morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the money +should have been handed over, he found that not a cent of it had been +disposed of according to orders. Davenport had for some years frequently +acted as a secretary or agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousands +of dollars for the latter in such a manner as to gain the highest +confidence." + +There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times over +on the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girls +were sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Edna +sprang to her feet, and Florence's lips parted. + +"What is it?" cried Edna. "You've got news! What is it?" + +"No. Not any news of _his_ whereabouts." + +"What of, then? It's in that paper." + +She seized the yellow journal, and threw her glance from headline to +headline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate of +utterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer. + +"Well! What do you think of _that_?" she said, and stopped to take +breath. + +"Do you think it is true?" asked Florence. + +"There is some reason to believe it is!" replied Larcher, awkwardly. + +Florence rose, in great excitement. "Then this affair _must_ be cleared +up!" she cried. "For don't you see? He may have been robbed--waylaid for +the money--made away with! God knows what else can have happened! The +newspaper hints that he ran away with the money. I'll never believe that. +It must be cleared up--I tell you it _must_!" + +Edna tried to soothe the agitated girl, and looked sorrowfully at +Larcher, who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve the +mystery. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + +A month passed, and it was not cleared up. Larcher became hopeless of +ever having sight or word of Murray Davenport again. For himself, he +missed the man; for the man, assuming a tragic fate behind the mystery, +he had pity; but his sorrow was keenest for Miss Kenby. No description, +nothing but experience, can inform the reader what was her torment of +mind: to be so impatient of suspense as to cry out as she had done, and +yet perforce to wait hour after hour, day after day, week after week, +in the same unrelieved anxiety,--this prolonged torture is not to be told +in words. She schooled herself against further outcries, but the evidence +of her suffering was no less in her settled look of baffled expectancy, +her fits of mute abstraction, the start of her eyes at any sound of bell +or knock. She clutched back hope as it was slipping away, and would not +surrender uncertainty for its less harrowing follower, despair. She had +resumed, as the probability of immediate news decreased, her former way +of existence, living with her father at the house in lower Fifth Avenue, +where Miss Hill saw her every day except when she went to see Miss Hill, +who denied herself the Horse Show, the football games, and the opera for +the sake of her friend. Larcher called on the Kenbys twice or thrice a +week, sometimes with Edna, sometimes alone. + +There was one possibility which Larcher never mentioned to Miss Kenby +in discussing the case. He feared it might fit too well her own secret +thought. That was the possibility of suicide. What could be more +consistent with Davenport's outspoken distaste for life, as he found it, +or with his listless endurance of it, than a voluntary departure from it? +He had never talked suicide, but this, in his state of mind, was rather +an argument in favor of his having acted it. No threatened men live +longer, as a class, than those who have themselves as threateners. It was +true, Larcher had seen in Davenport's copy of Keats, this passage marked: + +"... for many a time +I have been half in love with easeful Death." + +But an unhappy man might endorse that saying without a thought of +possible self-destruction. So, for Davenport's very silence on that way +of escape from his tasteless life, Larcher thought he might have taken +it. + +He confided this thought to no less a person than Bagley, some weeks +after the return of that capitalist from Chicago. Two or three times, +meeting by chance, they had briefly discussed the disappearance, each +being more than willing to obtain whatever light the other might be able +to throw on the case. Finally Bagley, to whom Larcher had given his +address, had sent for him to call at the former's rooms on a certain +evening. These rooms proved to be a luxurious set of bachelor apartments +in one of the new tall buildings just off Broadway. Hard wood, stamped +leather, costly rugs, carved furniture, the richest upholstery, the art +of the old world and the inventiveness of the new, had made this a +handsome abode at any time, and a particularly inviting one on a cold +December night. Larcher, therefore, was not sorry he had responded to +the summons. He found Bagley sharing cigars and brandy with another man, +a squat, burly, middle-aged stranger, with a dyed mustache and the dress +and general appearance of a retired hotel-porter, cheap restaurant +proprietor, theatre doorkeeper, or some such useful but not interesting +member of society. This person, for a time, fulfilled the promise of +his looks, of being uninteresting. On being introduced to Larcher as Mr. +Lafferty, he uttered a quick "Howdy," with a jerk of the head, and +lapsed into a mute regard of tobacco smoke and brandy bottle, which he +maintained while Bagley and Larcher went more fully into the Davenport +case than they had before gone together. Larcher felt that he was being +sounded, but he saw no reason to withhold anything except what related +to Miss Kenby. It was now that he mentioned possible suicide. + +"Suicide? Not much," said Bagley. "A man _would_ be a chump to turn on +the gas with all that money about him. No, sir; it wasn't suicide. We +know that much." + +"You _know_ it?" exclaimed Larcher. + +"Yes, we know it. A man don't make the preparations he did, when he's +got suicide on his mind. I guess we might as well put Mr. Larcher on, +Lafferty, do you think?" + +"Jess' you say," replied Mr. Lafferty, briefly. + +"You see," continued Bagley to Larcher, "I sent for you, so's I could +pump you in front of Lafferty here. I'm satisfied you've told all you +know, and though that's absolutely nothing at all--ain't that so, +Lafferty?" + +"Yep,--nothin' 'tall." + +"Though it's nothing at all, a fair exchange is no robbery, and I'm +willing for you to know as much as I do. The knowledge won't do you any +good--it hasn't done me any good--but it'll give you an insight into your +friend Davenport. Then you and his other friends, if he's got any, won't +roast me because I claim that he flew the coop and not that somebody did +him for the money. See?" + +"Not exactly." + +"All right; then we'll open your eyes. I guess you don't happen to know +who Mr. Lafferty here is, do you?" + +"Not yet." + +"Well, he's a central office detective." (Mr. Lafferty bore Larcher's +look of increased interest with becoming modesty.) "He's been on this +case ever since I came back from Chicago, and by a piece of dumb luck, +he got next to Davenport's trail for part of the day he was last seen. +He'll tell you how far he traced him. It's up to you now, Lafferty. +Speak out." + +Mr. Lafferty, pretending to take as a good joke the attribution of his +discoveries to "dumb luck," promptly discoursed in a somewhat thick but +rapid voice. + +"On the Wednesday morning he was las' seen, he left the house about nine +o'clock, with a package wrapt in brown paper. I lose sight of'm f'r a +couple 'f hours, but I pick'm up again a little before twelve. He's still +got the same package. He goes into a certain department store, and buys +a suit o' clothes in the clothin' department; shirts, socks, an' +underclothes in the gents' furnishin' department; a pair o' shoes in the +shoe department, an' s'mother things in other departments. These he has +all done up in wrappin'-paper, pays fur 'em, and leaves 'em to be called +fur later. He then goes an' has his lunch." + +"Where does he have his lunch?" asked Bagley. + +"Never mind where he has his lunch," said Mr. Lafferty, annoyed. "That's +got no bearin' on the case. After he has his lunch, he goes to a certain +big grocer's and provision dealer's, an' buys a lot o' canned meats and +various provisions,--I can give you a complete list if you want it." + +This last offer, accompanied by a movement of a hand to an inner pocket, +was addressed to Bagley, who declined with the words, "That's all right. +I've seen it before." + +"He has these things all done up in heavy paper, so's to make a dozen'r +so big packages. Then he pays fur 'em, an' leaves 'em to be called fur. +It's late in the afternoon by this time, and comin' on dark. Understand, +he's still got the 'riginal brown paper package with him. The next thing +he does is, he hires a cab, and has himself druv around to the department +store he was at before. He gets the things he bought there, an' puts 'em +on the cab, an' has himself druv on to the grocer's an' provision +dealer's, an' gets the packages he bought there, an' has them put _in_ +the cab. The cab's so full o' his parcels now, he's only got just room +fur himself on the back seat. An' then he has the hackman drive to a +place away down-town." + +Mr. Lafferty paused for a moment to wet his throat with brandy and +water. Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shown +in withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reserving +something to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that the +man he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. + +"By the description, of course," replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust at +Larcher's inferiority of intelligence. "D'yuh s'pose I'd foller a man's +trail as fur as that, if everything didn't tally--face, eyes, nose, +height, build, clo'es, hat, brown paper parcel, everything?" + +"Then it's simply marvellous," said Larcher, with genuine astonishment, +"how you managed to get on his track, and to follow it from place to +place." + +"Oh, it's my business to know how to do them things," replied Mr. +Lafferty, deprecatingly. + +"Your business!" said Bagley. "Dumb luck, I tell you. Can't you see how +it was?" He had turned to Larcher. "The cabman read of Davenport's +disappearance, and putting together the day, and the description in the +papers, and the queer load of parcels, goes and tells the police. +Lafferty is put on the case, pumps the cabman dry, then goes to the +stores where the cab stopped to collect the goods, and finds out the +rest. Only, when he comes to tell the story, he tells the facts not in +their order as he found them out, but in their order as they occurred." + +"You know all about it, Mr. Bagley," said Lafferty, taking refuge in +jocular irony. "You'd ought 'a' worked up the case yourself." + +"You left Davenport being driven down-town," Larcher reminded the +detective. + +"Yes, an' that about lets me out. The cabman druv 'im to somewhere on +South Street, by the wharves. It was dark by that time, and the driver +didn't notice the exact spot--he just druv along the street till the man +told him to stop, that was his orders,--an' then the man got out, took +out his parcels, an' carried them across the sidewalk into a dark +hallway. Then he paid the cabman, an' the cabman druv off. The last the +cabman seen of 'im, he was goin' into the hallway where his goods were, +an' that's the last any one seen of 'im in New York, as fur as known. +Prob'ly you've got enough imagination to give a guess what became of him +after that." + +"No, I haven't," said Larcher. + +"Jes' think it over. You can put two and two together, can't you? A new +outfit o' clo'es, first of all. Then a stock o' provisions. To make it +easier, I'll tell yuh this much: they was the kind o' provisions people +take on yachts, an' he even admitted to the salesman they was for that +purpose. And then South Street--the wharves; does that mean ships? Does +the whole business mean a voyage? But a man don't have to stock up extry +food if he's goin' by any regular steamer line, does he? What fur, then? +And what kind o' ships lays off South Street? Sailin' ships; them that +goes to South America, an' Asia, and the South Seas, and God knows where +all. Now do you think you can guess?" + +"But why would he put his things in a hallway?" queried Larcher. + +"To wait fur the boat that was to take 'em out to the vessel late at +night. Why did he wait fur dark to be druv down there? You bet, he was +makin' his flittin' as silent as possible. He'd prob'ly squared it with +a skipper to take 'im aboard on the dead quiet. That's why there ain't +much use our knowin' what vessels sailed about that time. I _do_ know, +but much good we'll get out o' that. What port he gets off at, who'll +ever tell? It'll be sure to be in a country where we ain't got no +extradition treaty. And when this particular captain shows up again at +this port, innocent enough _he'll_ be; _he_ never took no passenger +aboard in the night, an' put 'im off somewheres below the 'quator. I +guess Mr. Bagley can about consider his twenty thousand to the bad, +unless his young friend takes a notion to return to his native land +before he's got it all spent." + +"And that's your belief?" said Larcher to Bagley, "--that he went to some +other country with the money?" + +"Absconded," replied the ready-money man. "Yes; there's nothing else to +believe. At first I thought you might have some notion where he was; +that's what made me send for you. But I see he left you out of his +confidence. So I thought you might as well know his real character. +Lafferty's going to give the result of his investigation to the newspaper +men, anyhow. The only satisfaction I can get is to show the fellow up." + +When Larcher left the presence of Bagley, he carried away no definite +conclusion except that Bagley was an even more detestable animal than he +had before supposed. If the man whom Lafferty had traced was really +Davenport, then indeed the theory of suicide was shaken. There remained +the possibility of murder or flight. The purchases indeed seemed to +indicate flight, especially when viewed in association with South Street. +South Street? Why, that was Mr. Bud's street. And a hallway? Mr. Bud's +room was approached through a hallway. Mr. Bud had left town the day +before that Wednesday; but if Davenport had made frequent visits there +for sketching, was it not certain that he had had access to the room in +Mr. Bud's absence? Larcher had knocked at that room two days after the +Wednesday, and had got no answer, but this was no evidence that Davenport +might not have made some use of the room in the meanwhile. If he had made +use of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to his +subsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley's +apartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quarters +before saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one. + +He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soon +as he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs +from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more +answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to +the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. + +"Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?" inquired Larcher, having observed the +usual preliminaries to interrogation. + +"Not to my knowledge." + +"When was he here last?" + +"Not for a long time. 'Most two months, I guess." + +"But I was here five or six weeks ago, and he'd been gone only three days +then." + +"Then you know more about it than I do; so don't ast me." + +"He hasn't been here since I was?" + +"He hasn't." + +"And my friend who was here with me the first time--has he been here +since?" + +"Not while I've been." + +"When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?" + +"Give it up. I ain't his private secretary." + +Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a +man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud +himself. + +"I was just looking for you," cried Larcher. + +"That so?" replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. "I just +got into town. It's blame cold out." He set his hand-bag on the bar, +saying to the bartender, "Keep my gripsack back there awhile, Mick, will +yuh? I got to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plate +o' soup on that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Two +plates o' soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, set +down, sir. Make yourself at home." + +Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and the +old man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject. + +"Do you know what's become of my friend Davenport?" he asked, in a low +tone. + +"No. Hope he's well and all right. What makes you ask like that?" + +"Haven't you read of his disappearance?" + +"Disappearance? The devil! Not a word! I been too busy to read the +papers. When was it?" + +"Several weeks ago." Larcher recited the main facts, and finished thus: +"So if there isn't a mistake, he was last seen going into your hallway. +Did he have a key to your room?" + +"Yes, so's he could draw pictures while I was away. My hallway? Let's +go and see." + +In some excitement, without waiting for partiallars, the farmer rose +and led the way out. It was already quite dark. + +"Oh, I don't expect to find him in your room," said Larcher, at his +heels. "But he may have left some trace there." + +Mr. Bud turned into the hallway, of which the door was never locked till +late at night. The hallway was not lighted, save as far as the rays of a +street-lamp went across the threshold. Plunging into the darkness with +haste, closely followed by Larcher, the old man suddenly brushed against +some one coming from the stairs. + +"Excuse _me_" said Mr. Bud. "I didn't see anybody. It's all-fired dark in +here." + +"It _is_ dark," replied the stranger, and passed out to the street. +Larcher, at the words of the other two, had stepped back into a corner +to make way. Mr. Bud turned to look at the stranger; and the stranger, +just outside the doorway, turned to look at Mr. Bud. Then both went their +different directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs. + +"Must be a new lodger," said Mr. Bud. "He was comin' from these stairs +when I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before." + +"You can't truly say you saw him even then," replied Larcher, guiding +himself by the stair wall. + +"Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. A +good-lookin' young chap, to be roomin' on these premises." + +"I didn't see his face," replied Larcher, stumbling. + +"Look out fur yur feet. Here we are at the top." + +Mr. Bud groped to his door, and fumblingly unlocked it. Once inside his +room, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners. + +"Everything same as ever," said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centre +of the room. "Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I left +it--" + +"Hello, what's this?" exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollow +metallic object on the floor and knocked his head against a ropey, +rubbery something in the air. + +"That's a gas-heater--Mr. Davenport made me a present of it. It's +convenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas it +burned when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that." + +The ropey, rubbery something was the tube connecting the heater with the +gas-fixture. + +"I move we light 'er up, and make the place comfortable; then we can talk +this matter over," continued Mr. Bud. "Shet the door, an' siddown." + +Seated in the waves of warmth from the gas-stove, the two went into the +details of the case. + +Larcher not withholding the theory of Mr. Lafferty, and even touching +briefly on Davenport's misunderstanding as to Florence Kenby. + +"Well," said Mr. Bud, thoughtfully, "if he reely went into a hallway in +these parts, it would prob'ly be the hallway he was acquainted with. But +he wouldn't stay in the hallway. He'd prob'ly come to this room. An' he'd +no doubt bring his parcels here. But one thing's certain: if he did that, +he took 'em all away again. He might 'a' left somethin' in the closet, or +under the bed, or somewheres." + +A search was made of the places named, as well as of drawers and +wash-stand, but Mr. Bud found no additions to his property. He even +looked in the coal-box,--and stooped and fished something out, which he +held up to the light. "Hello, I don't reco'nize this!" + +Larcher uttered an exclamation. "He _has_ been here! That's the note-book +cover the money was in. He had it the night before he was last seen. I +could swear to it." + +"It's all dirty with coal-dust," cautioned Mr. Bud, as Larcher seized it +for closer examination. + +"It proves he's been here, at least. We've got him traced further than +the detective, anyhow." + +"But not so very fur, at that. What if he was here? Mind, I ain't +a-sayin' one thing ur another,--but if he _was_ contemplatin' a voyage, +an' had fixed to be took aboard late at night, what better place to wait +fur the ship's boat than just this here?" + +"But the money must have been handled here--taken out of this cover, and +the cover thrown away. Suppose somebody _had_ seen him display that money +during the day; _had_ shadowed him here, followed him to this room, taken +him by surprise?" + +"No signs of a struggle, fur as I c'n see." + +"But a single blow with a black-jack, from behind, would do the +business." + +"An' what about the--remains?" + +"The river is just across the street. This would occur at night, +remember." + +Mr. Bud shook his head. "An' the load o' parcels--what 'ud become o' +them?" + +"The criminal might convey them away, too, at his leisure during the +night. They would be worth something." + +Evidently to test the resourcefulness of the young man's imagination, Mr. +Bud continued, "But why should the criminal go to the trouble o' removin' +the body from here?" + +"To delay its discovery, or create an impression of suicide if it were +found," ventured Larcher, rather lamely. "The criminal would naturally +suppose that a chambermaid visited the room every day." + +"The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don't +stand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take any +chances f'r the sake o' the parcels. No; your the'ry's got as much agin' +it, as the detective's has fur it. It's built on nothin' but random +guesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with the +money,--you say the other fellow'd done him out o' that much, anyhow. +I'd rather that than somebody else got away with him." + +"So would I--in the circumstances," confessed Larcher. + +Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and "tackle the +soup." Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As +they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the +coal-dust on the covers. + +"There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there," said +Mr. Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the +light of matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein +were an ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other +products of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the +aid of light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs. + +"Yes," spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, "one 'ud almost +imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of +the young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just +in time to miss the news! That beats me!" + +"And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?" said Larcher. "It +breaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's really +an angel of a girl." + +They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the stranger +he had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves in +the saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to the +bartender: + +"I see there's a new roomer, Mick?" + +"Where?" asked Mick. + +"In the house here. Somewheres up-stairs." + +"If there is, he's a new one on me," said Mick, decidedly. + +"What? _Ain't_ there a new roomer come in since I was here last?" + +"No, sir, there ain't there." + +"Well, that's funny," said Mr. Bud, looking to Larcher for comment. But +Larcher had no thought just then for any subject but Davenport, and to +that he kept the farmer's attention during the rest of their talk. When +the talk was finished, simultaneously with the soup, it had been agreed +that Mr. Bud should "nose around" thereabouts for any confirmation of +Lafferty's theory, or any trace of Davenport, and should send for Larcher +if any such turned up. + +"I'll be in town a week ur two," said the old man, at parting. "I +been kep' so long up-country this time, 'count o' the turkey +trade--Thanksgivin' and Chris'mas, y'know. I do considerable in poultry." + +But some days passed, and Larcher heard nothing from Mr. Bud. A few of +the newspapers published Detective Lafferty's unearthings, before Larcher +had time to prepare Miss Kenby for them. She hailed them with gladness as +pointing to a likelihood that Davenport was alive; but she ignored all +implications of probable guilt on his part. That the amount of Bagley's +loss through Davenport was no more than Bagley's rightful debt to +Davenport, Larcher had already taken it on himself delicately to inform +her. She had not seemed to think that fact, or any fact, necessary to her +lover's justification. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + +Meanwhile Larcher was treated to an odd experience. One afternoon, as +he turned into the house of flats in which Edna Hill lived, he chanced +to look back toward Sixth Avenue. He noticed a pleasant-looking, +smooth-faced young man, very erect in carriage and trim in appearance, +coming along from that thoroughfare. He recalled now that he had observed +this same young man, who was a stranger to him, standing at the corner of +his own street as he left his lodgings that morning; and again sauntering +along behind him as he took the car to come up-town. Doubtless, thought +he, the young man had caught the next car, and, by a coincidence, got off +at the same street. He passed in, and the matter dropped from his mind. + +But the next day, as he was coming out of the restaurant where he usually +lunched, his look met that of the same neat, braced-up young man, who was +standing in the vestibule of a theatre across the way. "It seems I am +haunted by this gentleman," mused Larcher, and scrutinized him rather +intently. Even across the street, Larcher was impressed anew with the +young man's engagingness of expression, which owed much to a whimsical, +amiable look about the mouth. + +Two hours later, having turned aside on Broadway to greet an +acquaintance, his roving eye fell again on the spruce young man, this +time in the act of stepping into a saloon which Larcher had just passed. +"By George, this _is_ strange!" he exclaimed. + +"What?" asked his acquaintance. + +"That's the fifth time I've seen the same man in two days. He's just gone +into that saloon." + +"You're being shadowed by the police," said the other, jokingly. "What +crime have you committed?" + +The next afternoon, as Larcher stood on the stoop of the house in lower +Fifth Avenue, and glanced idly around while waiting for an answer to his +ring, he beheld the young man coming down the other side of the avenue. +"Now this is too much," said Larcher to himself, glaring across at the +stranger, but instantly feeling rebuked by the innocent good humor that +lurked about the stranger's mouth. As the young man came directly +opposite, without having apparently noticed Larcher, the latter's +attention was called away by the coming of the servant in response to +the bell. He entered the house, and, as he awaited the announcement of +his name to Miss Kenby, he asked himself whether this haunting of his +footsteps might indeed be an intended act. "Do they think I may be in +communication with Davenport? and _are_ they having me shadowed? That +would be interesting." But this strange young man looked too intelligent, +too refined, too superior in every way, for the trade of a shadowing +detective. Besides, a "shadow" would not, as a rule, appear on three +successive days in precisely the same clothes and hat. + +And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he see +gazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same side +of the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to the +probability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight to +the young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man's +reflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casual +manner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed his +contemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the young +man's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face, +disarmed resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an +interest in the show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way, +leaving the young man before the window. Larcher presently looked back; +the young man was still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he +was not taking further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end of +Larcher's odd experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself +followed. + +The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not +been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door. +Florence rose and opened it. + +"I beg your pardon, Miss Kenby," said a very masculine, almost husky +voice in the hall; "these are the cigars I was speaking of to your +father. May I leave them?" + +"Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Turl," called out Miss Kenby's father himself +from the fireside. + +"Thank you, no; I won't intrude." + +"But you must; I want to see you," Mr. Kenby insisted, fussily getting +to his feet. + +Larcher asked himself where he had heard the name of Turl. Before his +memory could answer, the person addressed by that name entered the room +in a politely hesitating manner, bowed, and stood waiting for father +and daughter to be seated. He was none other than the smooth-faced, +pleasant-looking young man with the trim appearance and erect attitude. +Larcher sat open-eyed and dumb. + +Mr. Kenby was for not only throwing his attention entirely around the +newcomer, but for snubbing Larcher utterly forthwith; seeing which, +Florence took upon herself the office of introducing the two young men. +Mr. Turl, in resting his eyes on Larcher, showed no consciousness of +having encountered him before. They were blue eyes, clear and soft, and +with something kind and well-wishing in their look. Larcher found the +whole face, now that it was animated with a sense of his existence, +pleasanter than ever. He found himself attracted by it; and all the +more for that did he wonder at the young man's appearance in the house +of his acquaintances, after those numerous appearances in his wake in +the street. + +Mr. Kenby now took exclusive possession of Mr. Turl, and while those two +were discussing the qualities of the cigars, Larcher had an opportunity +of asking Florence, quietly: + +"Who is your visitor? Have you known him long?" + +"Only three or four days. He is a new guest in the house. Father met +him in the public drawing-room, and has taken a liking to him." + +"He seems likeable. I was wondering where I'd heard the name. It's not a +common name." + +No, it was not common. Florence had seen it in a novel or somewhere, but +had never before met anybody possessing it. She agreed that he seemed +likeable,--agreed, that is to say, as far as she thought of him at all, +for what was he, or any casual acquaintance, to a woman in her state of +mind? + +Larcher regarded him with interest. The full, clear brow, from which the +hair was tightly brushed, denoted intellectual qualities, but the rest +of the face--straight-bridged nose, dimpled cheeks, and quizzical +mouth--meant urbanity. The warm healthy tinge of his complexion, evenly +spread from brow to chin, from ear-tip to ear-tip, was that of a social +rather than bookish or thoughtful person. He soon showed his civility by +adroitly contriving to include Florence and Larcher in his conversation +with Mr. Kenby. Talk ran along easily for half an hour upon the shop +windows during the Christmas season, the new calendars, the picture +exhibitions, the "art gift-books," and such topics, on all of which Mr. +Turl spoke with liveliness and taste. ("Fancy my supposing this man a +detective," mused Larcher.) + +"I've been looking about in the art shops and the old book stores," said +Mr. Turl, "for a copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, as it was +called. You know, of course,--engravings from the Boydell collection of +Shakespearean paintings. It was convenient to have them in a volume. I'm +sorry it has disappeared from the shops. I'd like very much to have +another look through it." + +"You can easily have that," said Larcher, who had impatiently awaited a +chance to speak. "I happen to possess the book." + +"Oh, indeed? I envy you. I haven't seen a copy of it in years." + +"You're very welcome to see mine. I wouldn't part with it permanently, +of course, but if you don't object to borrowing--" + +"Oh, I wouldn't deprive you of it, even for a short time. The value of +owning such a thing is to have it always by; one mayn't touch it for +months, but, when the mood comes for it, there it is. I never permit +anybody to lend me such things." + +"Then if you deprive me of the pleasure of lending it, will you take the +trouble of coming to see it?" Larcher handed him his card. + +"You're very kind," replied Turl, glancing at the address. "If you're +sure it won't be putting you to trouble. At what time shall I be least +in your way?" + +"I shall be in to-morrow afternoon,--but perhaps you're not free till +evening." + +"Oh, I can choose my hours; I have nothing to do to-morrow afternoon." + +("Evidently a gentleman of leisure," thought Larcher.) + +So it was settled that he should call about three o'clock, an appointment +which Mr. Kenby, whose opinion of Larcher had not changed since their +first meeting, viewed with decided lack of interest. + +When Larcher left, a few minutes later, he was so far under the spell of +the newcomer's amiability that he felt as if their acquaintance were +considerably older than three-quarters of an hour. + +Nevertheless, he kept ransacking his memory for the circumstances in +which he had before heard the name of Turl. To be sure, this Turl might +not be the Turl whose name he had heard; but the fact that he _had_ heard +the name, and the coincidences in his observation of the man himself, +made the question perpetually insistent. He sought out Barry Tompkins, +and asked, "Did you ever mention to me a man named Turl?" + +"Never in a state of consciousness," was Tompkins's reply; and an equally +negative answer came from everybody else to whom Larcher put the query +that day. + +He thought of friend after friend until it came Murray Davenport's turn +in his mental review. He had a momentary feeling that the search was +warm here; but the feeling succumbed to the consideration that Davenport +had never much to say about acquaintances. Davenport seemed to have put +friendship behind him, unless that which existed between him and Larcher +could be called friendship; his talk was not often of any individual +person. + +"Well," thought Larcher, "when Mr. Turl comes to see me, I shall find, +out whether there's anybody we both know. If there is, I shall learn more +of Mr. Turl. Then light may be thrown on his haunting my steps for three +days, and subsequently turning up in the rooms of people I visit." + +The arrival of Mr. Turl, at the appointed hour the next afternoon, +instantly put to rout all doubts of his being other than he seemed. In +the man's agreeable presence, Larcher felt that to imagine the +coincidences anything _but_ coincidences was absurd. + +The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, which +lay on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher had +never observed. + +"You talk like an artist," said Larcher. + +"I have dabbled a little," was the reply. "I believe I can draw, when put +to it." + +"You ought to be put to it occasionally, then." + +"I have sometimes thought of putting myself to it. Illustrating, I mean, +as a profession. One never knows when one may have to go to work for a +living. If one has a start when that time comes, so much the better." + +"Perhaps I might be of some service to you. I know a few editors." + +"Thank you very much. You mean you would ask them to give me work to +illustrate?" + +"If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be done +first, and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some success +with me that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and the +combination took its chances. We did very well. My friend was Murray +Davenport, who disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him." + +"I think I read something in the papers," replied Turl. "He went to +South America or somewhere, didn't he?" + +"A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery," said +Larcher, making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known +Davenport, it could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. "Hasn't +Mr. Kenby or his daughter ever spoken of it to you?" added Larcher, +after a moment. + +"No. Why should they?" asked the other, turning over a page of the +volume. + +"They knew him. Miss Kenby is very unhappy over his disappearance." + +Did a curious look come over Mr. Turl's face for an instant, as he +carefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it passed. + +"I've noticed she has seemed depressed, or abstracted," he replied. "It's +a pity. She's very beautiful and womanly. She loved this man, do you +mean?" + +"Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on +his part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That +aggravates her unhappiness." + +"I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort." + +"I hope it will in this case--if it doesn't turn it to joy by bringing +Davenport back." + +Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When the +visitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at the +fire, resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsome +easy-chairs--new specimens of an old style--in which Larcher indulged +himself. + +"A pleasant place you have here," said the guest, while Larcher was +bringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty as +sideboard. + +"It ought to be," replied Larcher. "Some fellows in this town only sleep +in their rooms, but I work in mine." + +"And entertain," said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things +were placed on a little round table at his elbow. "Here's variety of +choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a +sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out +of conceit with my own." + +"Why, you live in a good house," said Larcher, helping himself in turn. + +"Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fashionable +boarding-house.' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!" He smiled. "But +my own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present I +come under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom +has supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding +geniuses; but I prefer comfort to romance." + +"How did you happen to go to that house?" + +"I saw its advertisement in the 'boarders wanted' column. I liked the +neighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not much +of the old Knickerbocker atmosphere left. It's my first experience as a +'boarder' in New York. I think, on the whole, I prefer to be a 'roomer' +and 'eat out.' I have been a 'paying guest' in London, but fared better +there as a mere 'lodger.'" + +"You're not English, are you?" + +"No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood and +political principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to the +resources of any one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but of +course before the era of sky-scrapers, multitudinous noises, and +perpetual building operations." + +"I thought there was something of an English accent in your speech now +and then." + +"Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took us +to England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to a +private school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greek +at all, that I boast of. Do you know Folkestone? The wind on the cliffs, +the pine-trees down their slopes, the vessels in the channel, the faint +coast of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to one +of the universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after,--the +only sorrows I've ever had,--and I decided, on my own, to cut the +university career, and jump into the study of pictorial art. Since then, +I've always done as I liked." + +"You don't seem to have made any great mistakes." + +"No. I've never gone hunting trouble. Unlike most people who are doomed +to uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure." + +"Then your life has been uneventful since you jumped into the study of +art?" + +"Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first in +a London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe and +the United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I've +never had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone--I +spent the principal because I had other expectations. And now this other +little fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may be +deprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shall +have to earn my mutton chops like many a better man." + +"You seem to take the prospect very cheerfully." + +"Oh, I shall be fortunate. Good fortune is my destiny. Things come my +way. My wants are few. I make friends easily. I have to make them easily, +or I shouldn't make any, changing my place so often. A new place, new +friends. Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form new +friendships that chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones. +I must confess I find new friends the more interesting, the more suited +to my new wants. Old friends so often disappoint on revisitation. You +change, they don't; or they change, you don't; or they change, and you +change, but not in the same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brown +of yesterday were eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones of +to-day and the Brown of to-day are different men, through different +experiences, and don't harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?" + +As he sipped his wine and ate his sandwich, gazing contentedly into the +fire the while, Mr. Turl looked the living justification of his +philosophy. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + +During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys, +living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable +that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She +declared him "nice," and was not above trying to make Larcher a little +jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was +not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the +slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded, +or spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it. +The newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image +filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelings +indeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should take +hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to warn him. + +If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's +heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With +Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his +thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of +inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. +That good woman had his address "in case anything turned up." She had +rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed +by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed +by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of +his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all. + +It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his +writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was +surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara. + +"Well, this is jolly!" he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face. + +"It's not half bad," said Edna, applying the expression to the room. "I +don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man." + +She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs +before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the +stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other. + +"But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see," he replied, with a +gesture toward the table. + +"Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?" asked +Edna. "Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, +auntie?" + +"Charming," said Aunt Clara, still panting. "You must miss an elevator +in the house, Mr. Larcher." + +"If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there +was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the +lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up." + +"We're keeping you from your work, Tommy," said Edna, with sudden +seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell. + +"Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea +made for you? Or will you take some wine?" + +"No, thanks; we've just had tea." + +"I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb," +suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a +chair for himself. + +"I just came in to tell you what I've discovered," said Edna. "Mr. Turl +is in love with Florence Kenby!" + +"How do you know?" asked Larcher. + +"By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, +too--I can see that." + +"And what does she appear to think about it?" + +"What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of +course it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know +that yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid +him as much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity." + +"What is?" + +"That she isn't open to--new impressions,--you know what I mean. He's an +awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,--they would look so well +together." + +"Edna, you amaze me!" said Larcher. "How can you want her to be +inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to +Davenport." + +"So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was +alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out +between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that." + +"I know you like to play the goddess from the machine," observed Larcher. + +"She's prematurely given to match-making," said Aunt Clara, now restored +to her placidity. + +"Be good, auntie, or I'll make a match between you and Mr. Kenby," +threatened Edna. "Well, now that the best we can hope for about Davenport +is that he went away with another man's money--" + +"But I've told you the other man morally owed him that much money." + +"That won't make it any safer for him to come back to New York. And you +know what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got an +awfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chance +is there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one of +those impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place where +he'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if she +isn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried to +forget the absent." + +"I suppose you're right," said Larcher. + +"So I came in to say that I'm going to do all I quietly can to distract +her thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I see +any way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. And +what I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints or +allusions--to Davenport, you understand." + +"Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm +neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him--and +yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl, +much as I like him." + +"All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his +plan of going to work?" + +"Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of +black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no +trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with." + +"Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?" + +"I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately." + +"He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep +Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken +her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive +with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?" + +"I jump at the chance--if there's room." + +"There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr. +Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit." + +"Neither do I, but for the sake of your society--" + +"All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way +to the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to +cheer up Florence." + +This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's +pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave +himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and +listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna +was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and +then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have +eyes for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating +afternoon. In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more +than the usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in +handsome wraps and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was +adroit enough not to prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and +melancholy. She had just ordered the coachman to drive home, when the +rear of the carriage suddenly sank a little and a wheel ground against +the side. Edna screamed, and the driver stopped the horses. People came +running up from the walks, and the words "broken axle" went round. + +"We shall have to get out," said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly +helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby. + +"Oh, what a nuisance!" cried Edna. "We can't go home in this carriage, of +course." + +"No, miss," said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park +policeman, and was examining the break. "But you'll be able to pick up a +cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so." + +"What a bore!" said Edna, vexatiously. + +Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble +was. From one of them--an automobile--a large, well-dressed man strode +over and greeted Larcher with the words: + +"How are you? Had an accident?" + +It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, "Broken axle." + +"Well," said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, "I suppose +we'd better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab." + +"You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party," said +Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party. + +As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher +with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He +did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls +exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward +a man who owned an automobile and had an air of money. + +"I'm sorry you've had this break-down," said Bagley, addressing the +party collectively. "Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're +not likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood." + +"Thank you," said Edna Hill, chillily. "We can't think of putting you +out." + +"Oh, you won't put _me_ out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. My +car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when mine's +here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your homes +without any trouble." + +During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr. +Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went +back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him. + +"Your kindness is most opportune, sir," said Mr. Kenby, mustering +cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. "I'm not at +my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the +cold, I don't know what would happen." + +He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the +girls to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for +Larcher to do but follow the girls. + +Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he +turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His +glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with +Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and +Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was +reached, as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her +flat; but Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by +automobile than wait and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to +the escort of Larcher, and remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger. + +"That was _the_ Mr. Bagley, was it?" asked Florence, as the three young +people turned into the house. + +"Yes," said Larcher. "I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But +Edna's look was so imperative." + +"I didn't know who he was, then," put in Edna. + +"But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile." + +"Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his +money," said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna. + +"Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and +the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,--men like +that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, coarse-looking +creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him." + +"I trust not," said Larcher; "but he's one of the pushful sort. He +doesn't know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man +anywhere. I'm sorry he turned up at that moment." + +"So am I," said Florence, and added, explanatorily, "you know how ready +my father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider." + +That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days +later, when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great +red roses in a vase on the table. + +"Oh, what beauties!" cried Edna. + +"Mr. Bagley sent them," replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless, +perplexed air. "Father invited him to call." + +"H'm! Why didn't you send them back?" + +"I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And +then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send +flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to +treat flowers badly. _They_ can't help it." + +"Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?" + +"I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father +says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can +understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other +countries." + +"It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners," +said Edna. "But what would you expect of men who consider money-making +the greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be +afflicted with any more visits from Mr. Bagley." + +"I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he +did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise." + +When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first +sent him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from +the introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his +verbal self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying: + +"Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned +out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with +the other man they see much of,--I mean Turl, not you. The more she +loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good +qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to +tolerate Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after +all, to try for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way, +he'll be at his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because +Turl makes no secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing +for Turl is to have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?" + +"Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so +heartily? We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance, +after all." + +"Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right +by just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!" + +"So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best +fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember--" + +"Well, what? What do you remember?" + +"Oh, nothing,--only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and that +sort of thing." + +In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more +appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the +immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that +Turl was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young +man's own story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory +that Bagley, if he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence +of a rival. As Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl +eventually met in the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna +Hill's last recorded talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words +were wasted between them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the +younger man as of no consequence, because lacking the signs of a +money-grabber; and the younger man, having shown a moment's curiosity, +dropped Bagley as beneath interest for possessing those signs. Bagley +tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the advantage of later arrival and +of perfect control of temper. Bagley took his departure, therefore, with +the dry voice and set face of one who has difficulty in holding his +wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. Kenby made a pretext to +accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the design of leaving him in a +better humor. In magnifying his newly discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby +committed the blunder of taking too little account of Turl; and thus +Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence. + +The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the +fire was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take +second place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking +absently out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear +profile of the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her +face, with a softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking +of the clock on the mantel grew very loud. + +Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner. + +"You must not be unhappy." + +She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew +her heart. + +"I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're +doing," he said. + +"If you mean that I seem grave," she replied, with a faint smile, "it's +only my way. I've always been a serious person." + +"But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of +brooding anxiety." + +"How do you know?" she asked, wonderingly. + +"I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have +heard the cause mentioned." There was an odd expression for a moment on +his face, an odd wavering in his voice. + +"Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause." + +"But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to +be, when the cause belongs to the past,--unless there's reason for +self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to +carry the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed +by it. We should put it where it belongs,--behind us. We should sweep +the old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness +the present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too +great a claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You +needn't be unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob +yourself,--you rob others." + +She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: "But you +don't understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past. +It's a matter of--of absence." + +"I think," he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could +not have taken offence, "it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you +do wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to +believe that all is of the past; and then try to forget." + +"How do you know?" she cried, turning pale. + +Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single +twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor. + +"One can see how much you cared for him," was his reply, sadly uttered. + +"Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past? +What makes you say that?" + +"I only--look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more calmly +than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again in +New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your whole +life will be darkened if you don't." + +"Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I +believe I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened +by being true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened! +I'll never give him up! Never!" + +Pain showed on Turl's countenance. "You mustn't doom yourself--you +mustn't waste your life," he protested. + +"Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?" + +He waited a moment; then answered, simply, "I love you." + +The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to +her question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when +she spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality. + +"I belong to the absent--entirely and forever. Nothing can change my +hope; or make me forget or want to forget." + +Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which +he had shown before; but this time it was more poignant. + +"I see I must wait," he said, quietly. + +There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient +laugh, "It will be a long time of waiting." + +He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous +manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed +him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + +Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher, +incidentally to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of +an hour in a gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, +whose name was not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the +stairs, he met the other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just +directed to Larcher's room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer +and outgoer passed each other; but, the servant at that instant lighting +the gas, Turl glanced around for a better look, and encountered the +other's glance at the same time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl +for a scarce perceptible instant, the other for a moment longer. Then +Turl passed out, the servant having run to open the door; and the new +visitor went on up the stairs. + +The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either +bored or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. +But when a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black +clothes appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling. + +"Why, Mr. Bud! This _is_ a pleasant surprise!" + +Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into +heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat +and be comfortable before the fire. "I thought, as you'd gev me your +address, you wouldn't object--" Mr. Bud began with a beaming countenance; +but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. "Say--I met a young man +down-stairs, goin' out." + +"Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young +man, smartly dressed." + +"That's him. What name did you say?" + +"Turl." + +"Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's +funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as +if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But +I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that +same place." + +"We often have that feeling--of precisely the same thing having happened +a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' There's a +scientific theory--" + +"Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm +dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny +thing is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like +you are in this." + +"Well, that's interesting," said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once +seemed to be haunting his footsteps. + +"I've got it!" cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. "D'yuh mind that night you +came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?--and we went up an' +searched my room fur a trace?" + +"And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes." + +"Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, +an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now +down-stairs." + +"Are you sure?" + +"Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' +the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times +him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a +good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, +that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?" + +"Turl--T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?" + +"Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new +lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers +knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that +evening. So what the dickens _was_ he doin' there?" + +"It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been +some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed +to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow--here are some +comic sketches he brought me this afternoon." Larcher got the drawings +from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. "I don't know how good these +are; I haven't examined them yet." + +The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the +name, "F. Turl." + +"Oh, has he signed this lot?" asked Larcher. "I told him he ought to. +Let's see what his signature looks like." He glanced at the corner of the +sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: "By George, I've seen that name!--and +written just like that!" + +"Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'." + +"Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since +I've known him. Where the deuce?" He shut his eyes, and made a strong +effort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at +the signature. "Yes, sir! _Francis_ Turl--that was the name. And who do +you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very +handwriting?" + +"Give it up." + +"Murray Davenport." + +"Yuh don't say." + +"Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me +to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about +a meeting between the two. Now I wonder--was that an old note, and had +the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, +the next day Davenport disappeared." + +"H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway +Davenport was seen goin' into." + +"But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there +was a meeting _after_ Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have +been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur +there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there +in search of Davenport--or for some other purpose connected with him." + +"H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?" + +"Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with +Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet +he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.--And then +his following me about!--Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed him +several times apparently on my track. And when I _did_ make his +acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in +love with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her +father had taken him up. His going there to live looks like another +queer thing." + +"There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I +guess he's wuth studyin'." + +"I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in +chronological order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting +to occur between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place +Murray Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he +shadows the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few +more days he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's +sweetheart lives, and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when +Davenport is mentioned, lets it be assumed that he didn't know the man." + +"And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr. +Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make +out o' all that?" + +"To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and +Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do +_you_ make out of it?" + +"That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl +to the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin' +too big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance. +This Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as +you c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin' +in the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game." + +"You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll +be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course, +where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair +object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me." + +"If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all +you know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her +interest in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp +eyes fur anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to +live, you say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to +study him in. She might find out considerable." + +"That's true," said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna +would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. +But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not +prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He +resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after +first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna. + +"Between you an' the young lady," Mr. Bud went on, "you may discover +enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about +Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They +may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's +confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid +o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had +anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to +knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. +The thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver +up what he knows." + +Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive. +Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man +declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and +finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel +like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town +car, with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had +turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. +His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised +himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal +way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of +suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her +former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence +straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the +instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about. +Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day; +she would send a cab for her, to make sure. + +The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly +impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared. + +"What is it, dear?" were almost her first words. "Why do you look +so serious?" + +"I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom +will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very +delicate matter." + +Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her +wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough +to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had +to be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly +lady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so +the young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who +have lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the +inmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile. + +Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand +before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the +blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an +armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies. + +Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. "Now tell Florence +all about it, from the beginning." + +"Have you told her whom it concerns?" he asked Edna. + +"I haven't told her a word." + +"Well, then, I think she'd better know first"--he turned to +Florence--"that it concerns somebody we met through her--through you, +Miss Kenby. But we think the importance of the matter justifies--" + +"Oh, that's all right," broke in Edna. "He's nothing to Florence. We're +perfectly free to speak of him as we like.--It's about Mr. Turl, dear." + +"Mr. Turl?" There was something eager in Florence's surprise, a more than +expected readiness to hear. + +"Why," said Larcher, struck by her expression, "have _you_ noticed +anything about his conduct--anything odd?" + +"I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made me +think." + +"Things in connection with somebody we know?" queried Larcher. + +"Yes." + +"With--Murray Davenport?" + +"Yes--tell me what you know." Florence's eyes were poignantly intent. + +Larcher made rapid work of his story, in impatience for hers. His +relation deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, in +suppressed excitement: + +"With all those circumstances--there can be no doubt he knows something. +And two things I can add. He spoke once as if he had seen me in the +past;--I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange is, I +don't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the other +thing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back"--her +voice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: "He _must_ know something +about the disappearance. What could he have had to do with Murray?" + +Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud--without credit to +that gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turl +might still be in Davenport's confidence. "For all we know," said +Larcher, "it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with us +through Turl. Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed about +our welfare. In some way or other he may be acting for Davenport, +secretly, of course." + +Florence slowly shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. + +"Why not?" asked Edna, quickly, with a searching look. "Has he been +making love to you?" + +Florence blushed. "I can hardly put it as positively as that," she +answered, reluctantly. + +"He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen in +love," suggested Larcher. + +"Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of," put in +Edna. "But if he did that--if he was in Davenport's confidence, and yet +spoke of love, or showed it--he was false to Davenport. And so in any +case he's got to give an account of himself." + +"How are we to make him do it?" asked Larcher. + +Edna, by a glance, passed the question on to Florence. + +"We must go cautiously," Florence said, gazing into the fire. "We don't +know what occurred between him and Murray. He may have been for Murray; +or he may have been against him. They may have acted together in bringing +about his--departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for his +own purposes. We must draw the truth from him--we must have him where +he can't elude us." + +Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacability +toward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part toward +Davenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to stand +in her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised. + +"You mean that we should force matters?--not wait and watch for other +circumstances to come out?" queried Larcher. + +"I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with what +we already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantage +against him--first make sure to have him alone with us three, and then +suddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'll +startle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary--I'll put the +worst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him to +tell all in self-defence." Florence was scarlet with suppressed energy +of purpose. + +"The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us," said +Larcher, yielding at once to her initiative. + +"As soon as possible," replied Florence, falling into thought. + +"We might send for him to call here," suggested Edna, who found the +situation as exciting as a play. "But then Aunt Clara would be in the +way. I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come to +your rooms, and you invite him there." + +Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to invite +another to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on this +occasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough at +best, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before he +could be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief. + +"Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairs +who always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms to +ourselves--and Mr. Turl. I'll see to it that he comes. I'll go home now, +and give orders requesting him to call. But you two must be there when he +arrives. Come to dinner--or come back with me now. You will stay all +night, Edna." + +After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompany +Florence home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. +This arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to Aunt +Clara and go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for the +afternoon. As Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, +nervously: "It's quite thrilling, isn't it?" He faced the blizzard again +with a feeling that the anticipatory thrill of the coming evening's +business was anything but pleasant. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + +The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive than +those to which the ordinary residents of boarding-houses are subject. +Father and daughter had their meals served in their own principal room, +the one with the large fireplace, the piano, the big red easy chairs, and +the great window looking across the back gardens to the Gothic church. +The small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby. +Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above. + +The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when +Mr. Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had +confided to the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the +shape of claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in +from a restaurant at eleven o'clock. + +"So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three +hours," said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together. + +"How excited you are, dear!" was the reply. "You're almost shaking." + +"No, I'm not--it's from the cold." + +"Why, I don't think it's cold here." + +"It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see +the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!" She gazed out at the +whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between +the furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the +pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the +gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and +shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever +augmented by the myriad rushing particles. + +Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was +already seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall. + +"It's Tom," cried Edna. "Good boy!--ahead of time." But the negro man +servant announced Mr. Bagley. + +A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. "Tell him my father is +not here--is spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence." + +"Mr. Bagley!--he _must_ be devoted, to call on such a night!" remarked +Edna, when the servant had gone. + +"He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations--he's forever +wanting us to go to the theatre--or on his automobile--or to dine at +Delmonico's--or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals don't +discourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to give +us some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father sometimes +accepts--for himself." + +Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentleman +wished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenby +for her father. + +"Very well," she sighed. "Show him in." + +"If he threatens to stay two minutes, I'll see what I can do to make it +chilly," volunteered Edna. + +Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted and +undauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on Miss +Kenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he took +somewhat aback by barely noticing at all. + +He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voice +about the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed a +mind for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read an +evening paper. + +She had not. + +"I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, in +spite of the blizzard," said Mr. Bagley. "I s'pose he wasn't going to +take any chances of losing his heiress." + +Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could not +keep silent. + +"Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of her +title--poor thing!" + +"Oh, you mustn't say that," interposed Florence, gently. "Perhaps they +love each other." + +"Titled Europeans don't marry American girls for love," said Edna. +"Haven't you been abroad enough to find out that? Or if they ever do, +they keep that motive a secret. You ought to hear them talk, over there. +They can't conceive of an American girl being married for anything _but_ +money. It's quite the proper thing to marry one for that, but very bad +form to marry one for love." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling to +Edna's knowledge, "they've got to admit that our girls are a very +charming, superior lot--with a few exceptions." His look placed Miss +Kenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else. + +"Have they, really?" retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. "I know +some of them admit it,--and what they say and write is published and +quoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written in +Europe about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresay +that's the reason of your one-sided impression." + +Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for the +approval of Miss Kenby: + +"Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if they +don't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, and +cleverest, they're a long way off the truth, that's all." + +"I'd like to know what you mean by _the_ American girl. There are all +sorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations: +pretty girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girls +and silly ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've got +a larger proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any other +country. But then we make up for that by so many of us having frightful +_ya-ya_ voices and raw pronunciations. As for our wonderful cleverness, +we have the assurance to talk about things we know nothing of, in such a +way as to deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nations +haven't, and that's the chief difference." + +Bagley looked as if he knew not exactly where he stood in the argument, +or exactly what the argument was about; but he returned to the business +of impressing Florence. + +"Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothing +of. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question which +nation had the most beautiful and sensible women." + +Florence winced at the crude directness. "You are too kind," she said, +perfunctorily. + +"As for me," he went on, "I've got my opinion of these European gentlemen +that marry for money." + +"We all have, in this country, I hope," said Edna; "except, possibly, the +few silly women that become the victims." + +"I should be perfectly willing," pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watching +for the effect on Florence, "to marry a girl without a cent." + +"And no doubt perfectly able to afford it," remarked Edna, serenely. + +He missed the point, and saw a compliment instead. + +"Well, you're not so far out of the way there, if I do say it myself," he +replied, with a stony smile. "I've had my share of good luck. Since the +tide turned in my affairs, some years ago, I've been a steady winner. +Somehow or other, nothing seems able to fail that I go into. It's really +been monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousand +dollars that a trusted agent absconded with." + +"You're mistaken," Florence broke in, with a note of indignation that +made Bagley stare. "He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and your +money may be gone for the present. But there was no crime on his part." + +"Why, do you know anything about it?" asked Bagley, in a voice subdued by +sheer wonder. + +"I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers said +about your money; that is all." + +"Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? I +inquire merely for information." Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he could +be in his manner of inquiry. + +"I _know_ Murray Davenport," was her reply. + +"You knew him well?" + +"Very well." + +"You--took a great interest in him?" + +"Very great." + +"Indeed!" said Bagley, in pure surprise, and gazing at her as if she +were a puzzle. + +"You said you had a message for my father," replied Florence, coldly. + +Bagley rose slowly. "Oh, yes,"--he spoke very dryly and looked very +blank,--"please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I wish +you and he would go sleighing to-morrow. I'll call at half-past two." + +"Thank you; I'll tell him." + +Bagley summoned up as natural a "good night" as possible, and went. As he +emerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any one +who had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of the +blank expression with which he had left the room. "She gave me the dead +freeze-out," he muttered. "The dead freeze-out! So she knew Davenport! +and cared for the poverty-stricken dog, too!" + +Startled by a ring at the door-bell, Bagley turned into the common +drawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heard +Larcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed by +the two girls. He paced the drawing-room floor, with a wrathful frown; +then sat down and meditated. + +"Well, if he ever does come back to New York, I won't do a thing to him!" +was the conclusion of his meditations, after some minutes. + +Some one came down the stairs, and walked back toward the Kenby rooms. +Bagley strode to the drawing-room door, and peered through the hall, in +time to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knocked +at the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed it +after him. + +"That young dude Turl," mused Bagley, with scorn. "But she won't freeze +him out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, compared +to what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own at +a time!--and now this light-weight!--compared with _me_ I--I'd give +thirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get." + +Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, the +characteristics of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill. + +"And did you notice," said that young lady, in conclusion, "how he simply +couldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? Because +Davenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of the +Bagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance of +having their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to see +impecunious Davenports--and Larchers--preferred to them." + +"Thank you," said Larcher. "I didn't know you were so observant. But +it's easy to imagine the reasoning of the money-grinders in such cases. +The satisfaction of money-greed is to them the highest aim in life; so +what can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent of +that aim? They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest of +society, though most people court and flatter them on account of their +money. They never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be a +money-grinder and good company at the same time." + +"Why is it?" asked Florence. + +"Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has to +neglect so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But even +before that, the very nature that made him choose money-getting as the +chief end of man was incapable of the finer qualities. There _are_ +charming rich men, but either they inherited their wealth, or made it in +some high pursuit to which gain was only an incident, or they are +exceptional cases. But of course Bagley isn't even a fair type of the +regular money-grinder--he's a speculator in anything, and a boor compared +with even the average financial operator." + +This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young people +while they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock neared +the appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher found +himself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as she +sat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up a +request to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and had +promptly received the desired answer. + +In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was able +to break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard in +the hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose and +opened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile. + +Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting of +Larcher and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairs +near the fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so far +toward a recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, when +the others had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them and +the piano. Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcher +faced him from the other side of the fireplace. + +The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, with +a remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, with +her eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely: + +"I asked you here to speak of something else--a matter we are all +interested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want to +know--we all want to know--what has become of Murray Davenport." + +Turl's face blenched ever so little, but he made no other sign of being +startled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry; +then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but +finally returned to hers. + +"Why do you ask me?" he said, quietly. "What have I to do with Murray +Davenport?" + +Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically: + +"You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for +one thing." + +"Oh, was I?" + +"Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was +about a meeting you were to have with him." + +Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack. + +"We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we +do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in +New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about +the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use +in your denying that you had some part in his affairs." + +She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with +a thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on: + +"We don't say--yet--whether that part was friendly, +indifferent,--or evil." + +The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift +though quiet answer: + +"It wasn't evil, I give you my word." + +"Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?" said +Larcher, quickly. + +"I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have +been clever--or I have been stupid.--I'm sorry Davenport showed you +my letter." + +"Then, as your part was not evil," pursued Florence, with ill-repressed +eagerness, "you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?" + +"Pardon me, but I do object. I have strong reasons. You must excuse me." + +"We will not excuse you!" cried Florence. "We have the right to +know--the right of friend-ship--the right of love. I insist. I will not +take a refusal." + +Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him, +Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. A +brief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace the +floor, for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape from +the room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to his +passage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind. +He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, at +last, his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spoke +in a tone less than ordinarily conciliating: + +"I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no way +accountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I have +nothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again; +he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance there +was nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. There +is no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as he +desired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear,--and +that no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Let +him rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future." + +To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst of +passionate menace: + +"I _will_ know! I'll resort to anything, everything, to make you speak. +As yet we've kept our evidence to ourselves; but if you compel us, we +shall know what to do with it." + +Turl let a frown of vexation appear. "I admit, that would put me out. +It's a thing I would go far to avoid. Not that I fear the law; but to +make matters public would spoil much. And I wouldn't make them public, +except in self-defence if the very worst threatened me. I don't think +that contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof is +to be feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make me +speak. Be reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what Murray +Davenport himself desired above all things." + +"Who authorized you to tell _me_ what Murray Davenport desired? He would +have desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off with a +quiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force you to +speak. You admit you would go far to avoid the test." + +"That's because I shouldn't like to be involved in a raking over of the +affairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I do +admit. The man is best forgotten." + +"I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold you +answerable to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way +to bring you to account!" + +Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver +to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened: + +"In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know? +If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you. It will +end her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows." + +"She will grow out of that feeling," said Turl, still watching her +compassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain her +composure. + +"No, she won't!" put in Edna Hill, warmly. "You don't know her. I must +say, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse to +divulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she's +been undergoing for months, is too much for me!" + +Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed her +eyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him. + +"If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request," said he, "you +wouldn't make it." + +"It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, is +to me," said Florence, in a broken voice. + +"It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closest +secret. You don't know how earnestly he wished that." + +"Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through _my_ knowledge of +any secret," Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl was +again visibly moved. "But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart, +he would not have had this secret from me. And to think!--he disappeared +the very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now you +would keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learned +too well that fate is pitiless; and I find that men are no less so." + +Turl's face was a study, showing the play of various reflections. Finally +his ideas seemed to be resolved. "Are we likely to be interrupted here?" +he asked, in a tone of surrender. + +"No; I have guarded against that," said Florence, eagerly. + +"Then I'll tell you Davenport's story. But you must be patient, and let +me tell it in my own way, and you must promise--all three--never to +reveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and great +reason for keeping it secret." + +On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken a +moment's preliminary thought, began his account. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +A STRANGE DESIGN + +"Perhaps," said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, "you know already +what was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediately +before his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall on +enterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, either +inseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that his +affairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he played +the merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for the +profit, of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect, +equivalent to the thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunities +in the theatrical market, with people not above the superstitions of +their guild; also it produced in him a discouragement, a +self-depreciation, which kept the quality of his work down to the level +of hopeless hackery. For yielding to this influence; for stooping, in his +necessity, to the service of Bagley, who had wronged him; for failing to +find a way out of the slough of mediocre production, poor pay, and +company inferior to him in mind, he began to detest himself. + +"He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helped +measuring his taste and intellect with those of average people, and he +had valued himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him to +think well of himself. On his trip to Europe he had met--I needn't say +more; but to have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable was +bound to elevate him in his own esteem. This event in his life had roused +his ambition and filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, or +rather had braced him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputed +bad luck. You can imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause of +hope, the reason for striving, was--as he believed--withdrawn from him. +He assumed that this calamity was due to your having learned about the +supposed shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. And +while he did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time found +cause in himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must be +worthless and undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope that +went with you, was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, he +had ever apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fancied +ill-luck, and his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colors +than ever before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded on +them. And so he got into the state I just now described. + +"He was dejected, embittered, wearied; sick of his way of livelihood, +sick of the atmosphere he moved in, sick of his reflections, sick of +himself. Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. His +self-loathing, which steadily grew, would have become a maddening torture +if he hadn't found refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved this +by an outburst of bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood found +anybody at hand for his confidences. But for the most part he lived in a +lethargic indifference, mechanically going through the form of earning +his living. + +"You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. It +may have been partly because he lacked the instinct--or perhaps the +initiative--for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at the +expense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause, +which of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said--or given the +impression--that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worth +having out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for the +not-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reserve +somewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it. + +"That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though its +existence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea which +he had conceived,--he no longer knew when, nor in what mental +circumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave of +things for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth by +association. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden new +attractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grown +to look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and develop +it. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the time +of Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a region +of his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath his +languid, uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he had +adopted as a design of action for himself to realize,--perfecting it to +the smallest incidental detail. + +"This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or less +capable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believe +that a thing is true--except where the physical condition is concerned, +or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct--he can give +himself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from its +really being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves believe +that the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted man is +Orlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we make +ourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We _know_ these +make-believes are not realities, but we _feel_ that they are; we have the +sensations that would be effected by their reality. Now this +self-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how children +content themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift, +or a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A man +will tell a false tale of some exploit or experience of his youth until, +after years, he can't for his life swear whether it really occurred or +not. Many people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories, +and come finally to believe them. Even where the _knowing_ part of the +mind doesn't grant belief, the imagining part--and through it the feeling +part--does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the effect +of a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition--on +one's life, in short--may be much the same as that of actuality. All +depends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe is +supported. + +"Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; not +only that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, as +that man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel and +act, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in time +sufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes, +he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mind +he should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of his +imagination and feeling would in time be so potent that the man he coldly +_knew_ himself to be--the actual Murray Davenport--would be the stranger, +while the man he _felt_ himself to be would be his more intimate self. +Needless to say, this new self would be a very different man from the old +Murray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from the old self, the +old recollections, the old environment, and all the old adverse +circumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time when +you, Larcher, were working with him. + +"He imagined a man such as would be produced by the happiest conditions; +one of those fortunate fellows who seem destined for easy, pleasant paths +all their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all the +cheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenport +believed that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by the +name or suspicion of ill-luck. + +"I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this new +personality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite the +history he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he made +it as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. One +circumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwing +over his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all the +surroundings with which it had been closely intimate,--not cities and +public resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, but +rooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the old +identity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have made +many acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in the +places where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some of +these people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shifting +life, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanent +claim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places which +Davenport had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollections +of, but would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of a +too definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about old +friends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginning +to have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lasting +associations and friendships could be formed, and these could be +cherished as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time a +good number could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on. + +"But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for the +new self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man should +find himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter, +a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefully +cultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough to +avoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far and +still be in hourly risk of running against one of the old Murray +Davenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to the +constant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport by +himself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glass +window, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt at +mental transformation with the reminder of his physical identity. +Even if he could avoid being confronted many times a day by the +reflected face of Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually brought +back to his inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of the +face on the glances of other people,--for you know that different faces +evoke different looks from observers, and the look that one man is +accustomed to meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not precisely +the same as that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to the +point, Murray Davenport saw that to make his change of identity really +successful, to avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, to +make himself another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all the +more so in his own through finding himself so in the world's, he must +transform himself physically--in face and figure--beyond the recognition +of his closest friend--beyond the recognition even of himself. How was it +to be done? + +"Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problem +as if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see. + +"In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished by +the touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort of +fairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real life +there have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dual +identity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts from +one to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor is +such a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenport +wasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if he +had been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, or +ensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise of +imagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in those +cases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change in +facial expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such as +Davenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to work +the mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He must +resort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, the +magic of witches, and the drugs of romance,--he must employ Science and +the physical means it afforded. + +"Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had never +arrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interest +in them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. His +general reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curious +odds and ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employed +by criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition: +not merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removing +beards, changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening or +thinning the face by dietary means,--devices that won't fool a close +acquaintance for half a minute,--not merely these, but the practice of +tampering with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alter +the very hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certain +muscle, the cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over the +wound, makes a very great alteration of outward effect. The result of +this operation, however, is not an improvement in looks, and as +Davenport's object was to fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance, +he could not resort to it without modifications, and, besides that, he +meant to achieve a far more thorough transformation than it would +produce. But the knowledge of this operation was something to start with. +It was partly to combat such devices of criminals, that Bertillon +invented his celebrated system of identification by measurements. A +slight study of that system gave Davenport valuable hints. He was +reminded by Bertillon's own words, of what he already knew, that the skin +of the face--the entire skin of three layers, that is, not merely the +outside covering--may be compared to a curtain, and the underlying +muscles to the cords by which it is drawn aside. The constant drawing of +these cords, you know, produces in time the facial wrinkles, always +perpendicular to the muscles causing them. If you sever a number of these +cords, you alter the entire drape of the curtain. It was for Davenport to +learn what severances would produce, not the disagreeable effect of the +operation known to criminals, but a result altogether pleasing. He was to +discover and perform a whole complex set of operations instead of the +single operation of the criminals; and each operation must be of a +delicacy that would ensure the desired general effect of all. And this +would be but a small part of his task. + +"He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formed +noses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call +'plastic surgery,' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery.' From the 'beauty +shops,' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changing +his nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminating +the hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as to +produce perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came the +hint of cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks,--a detail that fell +in admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimples +would be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. What +are commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made to +serve the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face where +such furrows would aid his plan,--at the ends of his lips, for +instance, where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth could +be imitated by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirth +form in good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free from +wrinkles, perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had taken +refuge in. It was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say in +regard to make-up. + +"But changing the general shape of the face--the general drape of the +curtain--and the form of the prominent features, would not begin to +suffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hair +arrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, the +complexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hair +rather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of the +head and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead was +usually concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, and +having it cut in a new fashion, he could materially change the +appearance of his forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, he +could do as much for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If the +forehead needed still more change, the line of implantation could be +altered by removing hairs with tweezers; and the same painful but +possible means must be used to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. By +removing hairs from the tops of the ends, and from the bottom of the +middle, he would be able to raise the arch of each eyebrow noticeably. +This removal, along with the clearing of hair from the forehead, and +thinning the eyelashes by plucking out, would contribute to another +desirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what are commonly called gray. In +the course of his study of Bertillon, he came upon the reminder that--to +use the Frenchman's own words--'the gray eye of the average person is +generally only a blue one with a more or less yellowish tinge, which +appears gray solely on account of the shadow cast by the eyebrows, etc.' +Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, and the clearing of the +forehead of its hanging locks, must considerably decrease that shadow. +The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes would be helped by +something else, which I shall come to later. The use of the tweezers on +the eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, 'no part of +the face contributes a more important share to the general expression of +the physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow.' The complexion +would be easy to deal with. His way of life--midnight hours, +abstemiousness, languid habits--had produced bloodless cheeks. A summary +dosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a reformation of +diet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, air, proper +food, and rational living would not only preserve but intensify. + +"But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, would +not do. As long as his bodily form, walk, attitude, carriage of the head, +remained the same, so would his general appearance at a distance or when +seen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against the +disillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected in +some distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by some +former acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might be +endangered, if some particularly curious and discerning person should go +in for solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenport +in a man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, and +so forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto he +had leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of the +strongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give him +tightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame, +alter the swing of his arms, and entail--without effort on his part--a +change in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way of +placing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequent +throwing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration, +too: it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequently +further affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticed +the great difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward or +thrown back,--as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accounts +for the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they're +taken of,--a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to get +a stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their faces +slightly averted. + +"You understand, of course, that only his entire _appearance_ would have +to be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be unable to +recognize him, even vaguely as resembling some one they couldn't 'place.' +But there was, of course, no anthropometric record of him in existence, +such as is taken of criminals to ensure their identification by the +Bertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected without +the least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to his +hands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the body +make on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts to +identify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible. +Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and that +rather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity to +the observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borne +out by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decided +that his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degeneration +of the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the new +character he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taught +in most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a little +care and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small he +could soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to go +carefully until habituated to the new style, with which he might defy +even the handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man who +would disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that of +an uneducated person. + +"There would still remain the voice to be made over,--quite as important +a matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict an +identification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkable +resemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail to +notice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-way +knowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music and +elocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll come +to that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operations +which he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightest +beginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete and +every facility offered. That was not till the last night you saw him, +Larcher,--the night before his disappearance. + +"For operations so delicate, meant to be so lasting in their effect, so +important to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity of +a perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not erase +errors, or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub out +misplaced lines and try again, as an actor can in 'making up.' He had +learned a good deal about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contact +with the stage. His plan was to use first the materials employed by +actors, until he should succeed in producing a countenance to his +liking; and then, by surgical means, to make real and permanent the sham +and transient effects of paint-stick and pencil. He would violently +compel nature to register the disguise and maintain it. + +"He was favored in one essential matter--that of a place in which to +perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at +leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would +spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock +himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and +remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would +probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more +under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort, +in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat, +water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited +solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a +living soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. He +couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigations +would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by the +intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed to +you, Larcher,--one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to the +old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for his +design,--that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on the +water-front. + +"He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his +permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his +absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept +away in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--and +you, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you +two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that +access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been +there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it +wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport +could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing +whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need +only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr. +Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that +the shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old +man busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was +now all ready to put his design into execution." + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + +"On the very afternoon," Turl went on, "before the day when Davenport +could have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order to +confide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence, +and, rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport went +and received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot of +money, in bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placed +the next day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather in +passively letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as to +whether he would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that evening +of anything but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on the +morrow. As not an hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessary +for the healing of the operations, he would either have to despatch +Bagley's business very quickly or neglect it altogether. In the latter +case, what about the money in his hands? The sum was nearly equal to +that which Bagley had morally defrauded him of. + +"This coincidence, coming at that moment, seemed like the work of fate. +Bagley was to be absent from town a week, and Murray Davenport was about +to undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. It +really appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poetic +justice; had deliberately planned a restitution; had determined to +befriend the new man as it had afflicted the old. For the new man would +have to begin existence with a very small cash balance, unless he +accepted this donation from chance. If there were any wrong in accepting +it, that wrong would not be the new man's; it would be the bygone Murray +Davenport's; but Murray Davenport was morally entitled to that much--and +more--of Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach of +trust; but Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and common +humanity. Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred times +more than this sum now represented to Bagley. + +"Well, Davenport was pondering this on his way home from Bagley's rooms, +when he met Larcher. Partly a kind feeling toward a friend he was about +to lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting the +question of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made him +invite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrived +to introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteer +on the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. As +for your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and your +eventual inferences if he should disappear without using it for Bagley, +the fact would come out anyhow as soon as Bagley returned to New York. +And whatever you would think, either in condemnation or justification, +would be thought of the old Murray Davenport. It wouldn't matter to the +new man. During that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse of +communicativeness--such a desire for a moment's relief from his +long-maintained secrecy--that he was on the verge of confiding his +project to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; and +you had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations. + +"He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as few +belongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides the +Bagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result of +his collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a few +instruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set of +shaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought the +day before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to their +fate. He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn't +help feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a new +tenant accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act. + +"He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines of +tonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healing +preparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel. +His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed as +for travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward, +whereas a trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put out +of sight. Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put into +wrapping-paper. His second visit was to a department store, where he got +the linen and other articles he would need during his seclusion,--sheets, +towels, handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. He +provided himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear in +immediately after his transformation, until he could be supplied by +regular tailors, haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes, +everything,--particularly shoulder braces; he put those on when he came +to be fitted with the suit and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the old +Davenport's was to emerge with the new man. + +"Well, he left his purchases to be called for. His paper parcel, +containing the instruments, drugs, and so forth, he thought best to +cling to. From the department store he went to some other shops in the +neighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in his +pockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of the +money again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing the +funds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the bills +themselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His next +important call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He had +got up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large part +of the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that he +was buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcels +here made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he went +out, hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and was +driven to the department store. The things he had bought there were put +on the cab seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, and +had his parcels from there stowed inside the cab, which they almost +filled up. But he managed to make room for himself, and ordered the man +to drive to and along South Street until told to stop. It was now quite +dark, and he thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory of +the exact place if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by being +mentioned and looked for. + +"However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, when +Mr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no great +interest in the locality,--it was a cold night, and he was doubtless +thinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying his +parcels into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying the +cabman. As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving his +things up to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the door +locked, and the gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eye +fell on Bagley's money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to use +it as Bagley had ordered. Davenport wondered what he would do with it, +but postponed the problem; he thrust the package of bills out of view, +behind the books on Mr. Bud's shelf, and turned to the business he had +come for. No one had seen him take possession of the room; no eye but +the cabman's had followed him to the hallway below, and the cabman would +probably think he was merely housing his goods there till he should go +aboard some vessel in the morning. + +"A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It was +the healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room was +well enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused the +gas-stove to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep the +coal-stove in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too great +a problem. As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its light +couldn't reach the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield for +the keyhole. For water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to a +bath-room, of which Mr. Bud kept a key hung up in his own apartment. +During his secret residence in the house, Davenport visited the bath-room +only at night, taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had first +been puzzled by the laundry problem, but it proved very simple. His +costume during his time of concealment was limited to pajamas and +slippers. Of handkerchiefs he had provided a large stock. When the towels +and other articles did require laundering, he managed it in a wash-basin. +On the first night, he only unpacked and arranged his things, and slept. +At daylight he sat down before a mirror, and began to design his new +physiognomy with the make-up pencils. By noon he was ready to lay aside +the pencils and substitute instruments of more lasting effect. Don't +fear, Miss Hill, that I'm going to describe his operations in detail. +I'll pass them over entirely, merely saying that after two days of work +he was elated with the results he could already foresee upon the healing +of the cuts. Such pain as there was, he had braced himself to endure. The +worst of it came when he exchanged knives for tweezers, and attacked his +eyebrows. This was really a tedious business, and he was glad to find +that he could produce a sufficient increase of curve without going the +full length of his design. In his necessary intervals of rest, he +practised the new handwriting. He was most regular in his diet, sleep, +and use of medicines. After a few days, he had nothing left to do, as far +as the facial operations were concerned, but attend to their healing. He +then began to wear the shoulder-braces, and took up the matter of voice. + +"But meanwhile, in the midst of his work one day,--his second day of +concealment, it was,--he had a little experience that produced quite as +disturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he came +across the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in the +afternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, as +usual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in and +out. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by a +knock. He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fear +the knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heard +again, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them as +yours, Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days that +they might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned. +Later, in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many little +alarms at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as people +went to and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after he +had begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he made +was low, it might have been audible to a person just outside his door. +But he kept his ear alert, and the voice-practice was shut off at the +slightest intimation of a step on the stairs. + +"The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard many +feet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If it +had been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuous +sort of growl, difficult to place or identify. + +"You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than their +possessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of American +voices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, we +speak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middle +notes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice is +naturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases is +to glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had done +this. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading verse +aloud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in the +slang phrase, 'all there.' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way of +bringing the lower voice into predominance; of making it become the +habitual voice, to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one can +do this in time by studied practice, but the constant watchfulness is +irksome and may lapse at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and for +all, so that the quick unconscious response to the mind's order to speak +would be from the lower voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud's +dictionary, opened it at U, and recited one after another all the words +beginning with that letter as pronounced in 'under.' This he did through +the whole list, again and again, hour after hour, monotonously, in the +lower register of his voice. He went through this practice every day, +with the result that his deeper notes were brought into such activity as +to make them supplant the higher voice entirely. Pronunciation has +something to do with voice effect, and, besides, his complete +transformation required some change in that on its own account. This was +easy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of imitating dialects, +foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier in life he had +naturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, which is +somewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in his +association with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed into +the slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only to +return to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as in +other details of the well-ordered life his new self was to lead. + +"As I said, he was provided with shaving materials. But he couldn't cut +his own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in the +old fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the end +of that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could do +about it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longest +locks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After the +first two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention each +day. His vocal and handwriting exercises weren't to be carried to excess, +and so he had a good deal of time on his hands. Some of this, after his +face was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise, +using chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenic +implements. He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave the +utmost care to their composition from the preserved foods at his +disposal. He slept from nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed no +artificial light. For pure air, he kept a window open all night, being +well wrapped up, but in the daytime he didn't risk leaving open more than +the cracks above and below the sashes, for fear some observant person +might suspect a lodger in the room. Sometimes he read, renewing an +acquaintance which the new man he was beginning to be must naturally have +made, in earlier days, with Scott's novels. He had necessarily designed +that the new man should possess the same literature and general knowledge +as the bygone Davenport had possessed. For already, as soon as the +general effect of the operations began to emerge from bandages and +temporary discoloration, he had begun to consider Davenport as +bygone,--as a man who had come to that place one evening, remained a +brief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving behind him his clothes and +sundry useful property which he, the new man who found himself there, +might use without fear of objection from the former owner. + +"The sense of new identity came with perfect ease at the first bidding. +It was not marred by such evidences of the old fact as still remained. +These were obliterated one by one. At last the healing was complete; +there was nothing to do but remove all traces of anybody's presence in +the room during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of a +barber. The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove, +starting it with the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feeding +it first with Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and other +inflammable things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He made +one large bundle of the shoes, cans, jars, surgical instruments, +everything that couldn't be easily burnt, and wrapped them in a sheet, +along with the dead ashes of the conflagration in the stove. He then made +up Mr. Bud's bed, restored the room to its original appearance in every +respect, and waited for night. As soon as access to the bath-room was +safe, he made his final toilet, as far as that house was concerned, and +put on his new clothes for the first time. About three o'clock in the +morning, when the street was entirely deserted, he lugged his +bundle--containing the unburnable things--down the stairs and across the +street, and dropped it into the river. Even if the things were ever +found, they were such as might come from a vessel, and wouldn't point +either to Murray Davenport or to Mr. Bud's room. + +"He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his new +sensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a market +restaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop--one of those that +open in time for early-rising customers--and had his hair cut in the +desired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought a +supply of linen and so forth, with a trunk and hand-bag, so that he could +'arrive' properly at a hotel. He did arrive at one, in a cab, with bag +and baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, he +called at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, he +recalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind the +books on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, but +in any case it oughtn't to remain where it was; so he went back to Mr. +Bud's room, entering the house unnoticed. + +"He took the money from the cover it was in, and put it in an inside +pocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effects +of this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quite +irresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhile +before going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, was +only increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked very +tempting. To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down on +the bed, with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed. + +"He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, and +the lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on the +floor and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; he +then sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed down +the cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left the +room for the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to the +foot of the stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One of +them happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had already +seen their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked his +stars for the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Bud +and Larcher." + +Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florence +and Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was now +complete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have to +make, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeed +was Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder shared +with him, could not be guessed. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + +The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often +than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no +great stupidity in her remark to Turl: + +"But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that +hallway one night, but it turned out to be you." + +"Yes, it was I," was the quiet answer. "The name of the new man, you see, +was Francis Turl." + +As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a +certain doubt: "But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you +before he--before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the night +before he disappeared--it was signed Francis Turl." + +Turl smiled. "Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's +character. He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character +he had constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun +practical experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some +of that practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could +better mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than +letters between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief +acquaintance, which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray +Davenport's affairs ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This +has already happened in the matter of the money, for example. The name, +too, was selected long before the disappearance. That explains the +letter you saw. I didn't dare tell this earlier in the story,--I feared +to reveal too suddenly what had become of Murray Davenport. It was best +to break it as I have, was it not?" + +He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an +involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something +almost like repulsion. + +"It's so strange," she said, in a hushed voice. "I can't believe it. I +don't know what to think." + +Turl sighed patiently. "You can understand now why I didn't want to tell. +Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,--to +interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to +perfect it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it, +of course. I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll +support the illusion." + +"Of course," replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead +to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind +was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered +aversion in her look. + +"I had meant to leave New York," he went on, watching her with cautious +anxiety, "in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the +friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the +street that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell +into a strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about +Davenport. This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the +disappearance, so I was pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. +Also, I wondered whether he would detect any trace of my long occupancy +of his room. I found I'd forgot to bring out the cover taken from the +bankbills. Suppose that were seen, and you recognized it, what theories +would you form? For the sake of my purpose I ought to have put curiosity +aside, but it was too keen; I resolved to gratify it this one time only. +The hallway was perfectly dark, and all I had to do was to wait there +till you and Mr. Bud should come out. I knew he would accompany you +down-stairs for a good-night drink in the saloon when you left. The +slightest remark would give me some insight into your general views of +the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came down together. I stood +well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. And you can imagine +what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. Do you remember? +Davenport--it couldn't be anybody else--had disappeared just too soon to +learn that 'the young lady'--so Mr. Bud called her--had been true, after +all! And it broke your heart to have nothing to report when you saw her!" + +"I do remember," said Larcher. Florence's lip quivered. + +"I stood there in the darkness, like a man stunned, for several minutes," +Turl proceeded. "There was so much to make out. Perhaps there had been +something going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I--that +Davenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought out +things that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but the +end of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' was +deeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw her +frequently. + +"I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. Had +I--had Davenport--(the distinction between the two was just then more +difficult to preserve)--mistakenly imagined himself deprived of that +which was of more value than anything else in life? had he--I--in +throwing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyond +recovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of my +soul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's last +crudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could I +remain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfully +carried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering the +happiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! I +couldn't give it up. But the great design--should all that skill and +labor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't be +undone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and the +coveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if the +transformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved at +least. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, there +was no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to the +old unlucky name and history!--it was asking too much! + +"Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile the +alternatives--to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the happiness. +Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should remain, and +should play to win the happiness for himself. I would change my plans +somewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do was to +find you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit of +seeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch the +houses where he called. Knowing where he lived, and his favorite resorts, +I had never any difficulty in getting on his track. In that way, I came +to keep an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himself +in with a door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room I +still occupy, and managed very easily to throw myself in your father's +way. You know the rest, and how through you I met Miss Hill and Larcher. +In this room, also, I have had the--experience--of meeting Mr. Bagley." + +"And what of his money?" asked Florence. + +"That has remained a question. It is still undecided. No doubt a third +person would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, the +creditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But the +creditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather than +thought, was sincere enough in considering the case at least debatable. +As for me, you will say, if I am Francis Turl, I am logically a third +person. Even so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems against +nature. As Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly Murray +Davenport's claims, perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing what +my course would ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim to +certain money was in dispute--that a decision might deprive me of it. I +didn't explain, of course, that the decision would be my own. If the +money goes back to Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. I +made up my mind not to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport had +been; to rely entirely on the one which seemed to promise most. I have to +thank you, Larcher, for having caused me to learn what that was, in my +former iden--in the person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old and +new selves will still overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense of +being Francis Turl as much as you might imagine; and the lapses will +necessarily be fewer and fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fall +back on my ability as an artist in black and white. But my work should be +of a different line from that which Murray Davenport had followed--not +only to prevent recognition of the style, but to accord with my new +outlook--with Francis Turl's outlook--on the world. That is why my work +has dealt with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comic +sketches, and shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decided +against keeping the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming in +soon. What I received--what Davenport received for illustrating your +articles, Larcher, though it made him richer than he had often found +himself, had been pretty well used up incidentally to the transformation +and my subsequent emergence to the world. So I resorted to you to +facilitate my introduction to the market. When I met you here one day, I +expressed a wish that I might run across a copy of the Boydell +Shakespeare Gallery. I knew--it was another piece of my inherited +information from Davenport--that you had that book. In that way I drew an +invitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that began resulted as I +desired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful to you from the +bottom of my heart." + +"The pleasure has been mine, I assure you," replied Larcher, with a +smile. + +"And the profit mine," said Turl. "The check for those first three +sketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn't +been alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me--Francis Turl was +born to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagley +money would unlock a good store of the sweets of life." + +He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found no +answer there--nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how to +regard him, how to place him in her heart. + +"But the matter of livelihood, or the question of the money," he resumed, +humbly and patiently, "wasn't what gave me most concern. You will +understand now--Florence"--his voice faltered as he uttered the +name--"why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said what +I did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway that +night: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. What +had caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I dared +not--as Turl--inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but it +wasn't for me--Turl--to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, now was +that you would forget Davenport--that the way would be free for the +newcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old love, I was +both touched and baffled--touched infinitely at your loyalty to Murray +Davenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis Turl. I should +have thought less of you--loved you less--if you had so soon given up the +unfortunate man who had passed; and yet my dearest hopes depended on your +giving him up. I even urged you to forget him; assured you he would never +reappear, and begged you to set your back to the past. Though your +refusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked you for it--thanked you in +behalf of the old self, the old memories which had again become dear to +me. It was a puzzling situation,--my preferred rival was my former self; +I had set the new self to win you from constancy to the old, and my +happiness lay in doing so; and yet for that constancy I loved you more +than ever, and if you had fallen from it, I should have been wounded +while I was made happy. All the time, however, my will held out against +telling you the secret. I feared the illusion must lose something if it +came short of being absolute reality to any one--even you. I'm afraid I +couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any divulgence that +might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate self. It seemed +better to wait till time should become my ally against my rival in your +heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival--the old +Murray Davenport--was installed there; when I saw how much you +suffered--how much you would still suffer--from uncertainty about his +fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out." + +"It _was_ cruel," said Florence. "I have suffered." + +"Forgive me," he replied. "I didn't fully realize--I was too intent on +my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!--it was more than cruel. +I shall not forgive myself for that, at least." + +She made no answer. + +"And now that you know?" he asked, in a low voice, after a moment. + +"It is so strange," she replied, coldly. "I can't tell what I think. You +are not the same. I can see now that you are he--in spite of all your +skill, I can see that." + +He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back, +saying quickly: + +"And yet you are not he." + +"You are right," said Turl. "And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am +Francis Turl--" + +"And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me," she answered. "Oh, I see +now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost--more lost than ever. Your design +has been all too successful." + +"It was _his_ design, remember," pleaded Turl. "And I am the result of +it--the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. Surely +all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, severed +from the unhappy, and made fortunate." + +"But what was it in him that I loved?" she asked, looking at Turl as if +in search of something missing. + +He could only say: "If you reject me, he is stultified. His plan +contemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you so +far bring disaster on his plan." + +She shook her head, and repeated sadly: "You are not the same." + +"But surely the love I have for you--that is the same--the old love +transmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport survives +in me--and I'm willing that he should." + +Again she vainly asked: "What was it in him that I loved--that I still +love when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray Davenport I +knew, but--" + +"But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if I +wished to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myself +is impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, the +return would be mental only, and even mentally it would never be +complete. You say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it you +loved in him? Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, if +you doom me to unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for my +unhappiness." He smiled despondently. + +"I don't know," she said. "It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or even +by thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It's +so strange as yet. We must wait." She rose, rather weakly, and supported +herself with the back of a chair. "When I'm ready for you to call, I'll +send you a message." + +There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, and +Larcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and rather +embarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to the +company of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once the +effect of comparative speechlessness. + +Out in the hall, when the door of the Kenby suite had closed behind them, +Turl said to Larcher: "You've had a good deal of trouble over Murray +Davenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize for +the trouble,--as his representative, you know,--and thank you for the +kindness." + +"Don't mention either," said Larcher, cordially. "I take it from your +tone," said Turl, smiling, "that my story doesn't alter the friendly +relations between us." + +"Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for the +sake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do for +a conception like yours--so original and bold--to come to failure. Are +you going to turn in now?" + +"Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worth +being out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat." + +He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came face +to face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold--a bulky man +with overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was a +look of vengeful triumph. + +"Just the fellow I was lookin' for," said this person to Turl. "Good +evening, Mr. Murray Davenport! How about my bunch of money?" + +The speaker, of course, was Bagley. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + +BAGLEY SHINES OUT + +"I beg pardon," said Turl, coolly, as if he had not heard aright. + +"You needn't try to bluff _me_," said Bagley. "I've been on to your game +for a good while. You can fool some of the people, but you can't fool me. +I'm too old a friend, Murray Davenport." + +"My name is Turl." + +"Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll +just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my +money back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's +left of it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist, +you are. We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like. +We'll see how clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you." + +Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed +perfectly at ease. + +"You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion," he replied. +"Your name, I believe, is Bagley." + +"You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go +through; it's not like your _ill_usion, as you call it--and very ill +you'll be--" + +"How do you know I call it that?" asked Turl, quickly. "I never spoke of +having an illusion, in your presence--or till this evening." + +Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish. + +"You must have been overhearing," added Turl. + +"Well, I don't mind telling you I have been," replied Bagley, with +recovered insolence. + +"It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick +one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole." + +"Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely +I've got the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and +sportsmanlike"--Bagley's eyes gleamed facetiously--"to let you know +before I notify the police. But if you can disappear again before I do +that, it'll be a mighty quick disappearance." + +He started for the hall, to leave the house. + +Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. "You'll have a simple +task proving that I am Murray Davenport." + +"We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation well +enough to convince the authorities." + +"They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous--and +the story is so probable." + +"You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though I +couldn't catch it all. You can make it as probable again." + +"But I sha'n't have to tell it again. As the accused person, I sha'n't +have to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking is +necessary, I shall have a clever lawyer to do it." + +"Well, I can swear to what I heard from your own lips." + +"Through a keyhole? Such a long story? so full of details? Your having +heard it in that manner will add to its credibility, I'm sure." + +"I can swear I recognize you as Murray Davenport." + +"As the accuser, you'll have to support your statement with the testimony +of witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. What +do you suppose they'll swear? His landlady, for instance? Do you think, +Larcher, that Murray Davenport's landlady would swear that I'm he?" + +"I don't think so," said Larcher, smiling. + +"Here's Larcher himself as a witness," said Bagley. + +"I can swear I don't see the slightest resemblance between Mr. Turl and +Murray Davenport," said Larcher. + +"You can swear you _know_ he is Murray Davenport, all the same." + +"And when my lawyer asks him _how_ he knows," said Turl, "he can only +say, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, of +his own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn for +amusement? No." + +"I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of," put +in Larcher, "if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can take +a holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some other +city, if necessary." + +"There are others,--the ladies in there, who heard the story," said +Bagley, lightly. + +"One of them didn't know Murray Davenport," said Turl, "and the other--I +should be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of the +witness-stand on my account. I hardly think you would subject her to it, +Mr. Bagley,--I do you that credit." + +"I don't know about that," said Bagley. "I'll take my chances of showing +you up one way or another, just the same. You _are_ Murray Davenport, +and I know it; that's pretty good material to start with. Your story has +managed to convince _me_, little as I could hear of it; and I'm not +exactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that--" + +"It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of the +traits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that sense +to any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager you +can't tell it so as to convince a lawyer." + +"How much will you wager?" said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spirit +lighting up in him. + +"I merely used the expression," said Turl. "I'm not a betting man." + +"I am," said Bagley. "What'll you bet I can't convince a lawyer?" + +"I'm not a betting man," repeated Turl, "but just for this occasion I +shouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyer +were accessible at this hour." + +He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as a +request to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quite +sure whether he interpreted correctly, Larcher put in: + +"I think there's one to be found not very far from here. I mean Mr. +Barry Tompkins; he passes most of his evenings at a Bohemian resort near +Sixth Avenue. He was slightly acquainted with Murray Davenport, though. +Would that fact militate?" + +"Not at all, as far as I'm concerned," said Turl, taking a bank-bill from +his pocket and handing it to Larcher. + +"I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins," said Bagley. "He'd do all right. But +if he's a friend of Davenport's--" + +"He isn't a friend," corrected Larcher. "He met him once or twice in my +company for a few minutes at a time." + +"But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport's +friend," rejoined Bagley to Larcher. + +"I hadn't thought of that," said Turl. "I only meant I was willing to +undergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you told +the story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be some +other lawyer at the place Larcher speaks of." + +"All right; I'll cover your money quick enough," said Bagley, doing so. +"I guess we'll find a lawyer to suit in that crowd. I know the place +you mean." + +Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. When +he returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. The +snowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; but +the white mass, little trodden in that part of the city since nightfall, +was so thick that the feet sank deep at every step. The labor of walking, +and the cold, kept the party silent till they reached the place where +Larcher had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's first +orders about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door to +enter, the burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast to +the snowy night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway led +them into this scene,--the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talking +people, who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles and +glasses. An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. One +would have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words for +the general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noise +was but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of three +or four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possible +under cover of the general noise. + +Before the three newcomers had finished their survey of the room, +Larcher saw Barry Tompkins signalling, with a raised glass and a grinning +countenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions. + +"Let's go over to him," said Bagley, abruptly. "I see there's room +there." + +Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. The +latter merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeed +leaped suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly not +yet in Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all was +friendly between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why should +Tompkins, supposing he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion, +conceal the fact? + +Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairs +by the time Larcher had threaded a way to him. Larcher, looking around, +saw that Bagley had followed close. He therefore introduced Bagley first; +and then Turl. Tompkins had the same brief, hearty handshake, the same +mirthful grin--as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting were +an occasion for chuckling at it--for both. + +"I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport," remarked Bagley to +Larcher, as soon as all in the party were seated. + +"Certainly," replied Larcher. + +"Then, Mr. Tompkins, you don't seem to live up to your reputation as a +quick-sighted man," said Bagley. + +"I beg pardon?" said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one of +his vanities. + +"Is it possible you don't recognize this gentleman?" asked Bagley, +indicating Turl. "As somebody you've met before, I mean?" + +"Extremely possible," replied Tompkins, with a sudden curtness in his +voice. "I do _not_ recognize this gentleman as anybody I've met before. +But, as I never forget a face, I shall always recognize him in the future +as somebody I've met to-night." Whereat he grinned benignly at Turl, who +acknowledged with a courteous "Thank you." + +"You never forget a face," said Bagley, "and yet you don't remember this +one. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, and +look close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, and +don't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down over +the forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don't +make out your old acquaintance--and my old friend--Murray Davenport." + +Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally--with a +wondering inquiry--at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry. + +"Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious," said he. "He declares I am +the Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks you +ought to be able to identify me as that person." + +"If you gentlemen are working up a joke," replied Tompkins, "I hope I +shall soon begin to see the fun; but if you're not, why then, Mr. Bagley, +I should earnestly advise you to take something for this." + +"Oh, just wait, Mr. Tompkins. You're a well-informed man, I believe. Now +let's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing his +appearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so as +almost to defy recognition?" + +"I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defy +recognition by _me_. So much for your general question. As to this +gentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can only +wonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work." + +Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he said +to Larcher: "I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I was +a bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night." + +"Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduce +you," suggested Turl. + +"You want a lawyer?" said Tompkins. "There are three or four here. Over +there's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, I +suppose,--a well-known criminologist." + +"I should think he'd be the very man for you," said Turl to Bagley. +"Besides being a lawyer, he knows surgery, and he's an authority on the +habits of criminals." + +"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyes +lighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity of +ignorance. + +"I never met him," said Turl. + +"Nor I," said Larcher; "and I don't think Murray Davenport ever did." + +"Then if Mr. Tompkins will introduce Mr. Larcher and me, and come away at +once without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet's +concerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way." + +Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legal +criminologist--a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely gray +hair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression--and, +having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagley +was not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear. + +"Doctor, I've wanted to meet you," he began, "to speak about a remarkable +case that comes right in your line. I'd like to tell you the story, just +as I know it, and get your opinion on it." + +The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness to +hear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he kept +during the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimes +turned penetratingly on Bagley, sometimes dropping idly to the table. + +"There's a young fellow in this town, a friend of mine," Bagley went on, +"of a literary turn of mind, and altogether what you'd call a queer Dick. +He'd got down on his luck, for one reason and another, and was dead sore +on himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took the +most remarkable notion you ever heard of." And Bagley gave what Larcher +had inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the whole +transaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyes +affected the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by they +occasionally sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that those +of Barry Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the careful +heeding of every word, was maintained to the end of the story. + +"And now, sir," said Bagley, triumphantly, "I'd like to ask what you +think of that?" + +The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the last +time his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: "It's +impossible." + +"But I know it to be true!" blurted Bagley. + +"Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way you +describe," said the medico-legal man. "But not such as would insure +against recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciable +length of time." + +"But surely you know what criminals have done to avoid identification?" + +"Better than any other man in New York," said the other, simply, without +any boastfulness. + +"And you know what these facial surgeons do?" + +"Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientific +monograph yet published on the art they profess." + +"And yet you say that what my friend has done is impossible?" + +"What you say he has done is quite impossible. Mr. Tompkins, for +example, whom you cite as having once met your friend and then failed to +recognize him, would recognize him in ten seconds after any +transformation within possibility. If he failed to recognize the man you +take to be your friend transformed, make up your mind the man is +somebody else." + +Bagley drew a deep sigh, curtly thanked the criminologist, and rose, +saying to Larcher: "Well, you better turn over the stakes to your +friend, I guess." + +"You're not going yet, are you?" said Larcher. + +"Yes, sir. I lose this bet; but I'll try my story on the police just the +same. Truth is mighty and will prevail." + +Before Bagley could make his way out, however, Turl, who had been +watching him, managed to get to his side. Larcher, waving a good-night to +Barry Tompkins, followed the two from the room. In the hall, he handed +the stakes to Turl. + +"Oh, yes, you win all right enough," admitted Bagley. "My fun will +come later." + +"I trust you'll see the funny side of it," replied Turl, accompanying him +forth to the snowy street. "You haven't laughed much at the little +foretaste of the incredulity that awaits you." + +"Never you mind. I'll make them believe me, before I'm through." He had +turned toward Sixth Avenue. Turl and Larcher stuck close to him. + +"You'll have them suggesting rest-cures for the mind, and that sort of +thing," said Turl, pleasantly. + +"And the newspapers will be calling you the Great American Identifier," +put in Larcher. + +"There'll be somebody else as the chief identifier," said Bagley, glaring +at Turl. "Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much." + +"Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley." Turl enforced obedience by stepping in +front of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, +while an elevated train rumbled along overhead. "I don't think you +really mean that. I don't think that, as an American, you would really +subject a woman--such a woman--to such an ordeal, to gain so little. +Would you now?" + +"Why shouldn't I?" Despite his defiant look, Bagley had weakened a bit. + +"I can't imagine your doing it. But if you did, my lawyer would have to +make you tell how you had heard this wonderful tale." + +"Through the door. That's easy enough." + +"We could show that the tale couldn't possibly be heard through so thick +a door, except by the most careful attention--at the keyhole. You would +have to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole--at the +keyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, +attempting to answer that question--with the reporters eagerly awaiting +your reply to publish it to the town." + +Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. At +last he growled: + +"If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that money +have you got left?" + +"If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before he +disappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't it +the case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to that +amount from you?" + +Bagley gave a contemptuous grunt; then, suddenly brightening up, he said: +"S'pose Davenport _was_ entitled to it. As you ain't Davenport, why, of +course, you ain't entitled to it. Now what have you got to say?" + +"Merely, that, as you're not Davenport, neither are you entitled to it." + +"But I was only supposin'. I don't admit that Davenport was entitled +to it. Ordinary law's good enough for me. I just wanted to show you +where you stand, you not bein' Davenport, even if he had a right to +that money." + +"Suppose Davenport had given me the money?" + +"Then you'd have to restore it, as it wasn't lawfully his." + +"But you can't prove that I have it, to restore." + +"If I can establish any sort of connection between you and Davenport, I +can cause your affairs to be thoroughly looked into," retorted Bagley. + +"But you can't establish that connection, any more than you can convince +anybody that I'm Murray Davenport." + +Bagley was fiercely silent, taking in a deep breath for the cooling of +his rage. He was a man who saw whole vistas of probability in a moment, +and who was correspondingly quick in making decisions. + +"We're at a deadlock," said he. "You're a clever boy, Dav,--or Turl, I +might as well call you. I know the game's against me, and Turl you shall +be from now on, for all I've ever got to say. I did swear this evening to +make it hot for you, but I'm not as hot myself now as I was at that +moment. I'll give up the idea of causing trouble for you over that money; +but the money itself I must have." + +"Do you need it badly?" asked Turl. + +"_Need_ it!" cried Bagley, scorning the imputation. "Not me! The loss of +it would never touch me. But no man can ever say he's done me out of that +much money, no matter how smart he is. So I'll have that back, if I've +got to spend all the rest of my pile to get it. One way or another, I'll +manage to produce evidence connecting you with Murray Davenport at the +time he disappeared with my cash." + +Turl pondered. Presently he said: "If it were restored to you, +Davenport's moral right to it would still be insisted on. The restoration +would be merely on grounds of expediency." + +"All right," said Bagley. + +"Of course," Turl went on, "Davenport no longer needs it; and certainly +_I_ don't need it." + +"Oh, don't you, on the level?" inquired Bagley, surprised. + +"Certainly not. I can earn a very good income. Fortune smiles on me." + +"I shouldn't mind your holding out a thousand or two of that money when +you pay it over,--say two thousand, as a sort of testimonial of my +regard," said Bagley, good-naturedly. + +"Thank you very much. You mean to be generous; but I couldn't accept +a dollar as a gift, from the man who wouldn't pay Murray Davenport +as a right." + +"Would you accept the two thousand, then, as Murray Davenport's +right,--you being a kind of an heir of his?" + +"I would accept the whole amount in dispute; but under that, not a cent." + +Bagley looked at Turl long and hard; then said, quietly: "I tell you +what I'll do with you. I'll toss up for that money,--the whole amount. If +you win, keep it, and I'll shut up. But if I win, you turn it over and +never let me hear another word about Davenport's right." + +"As I told you before, I'm not a gambling man. And I can't admit that +Davenport's right is open to settlement." + +"Well, at least you'll admit that you and I don't agree about it. You +can't deny there's a difference of opinion between us. If you want to +settle that difference once and for ever, inside of a minute, here's your +chance. It's just cases like this that the dice are good for. There's a +saloon over on that corner. Will you come?" + +"All right," said Turl. And the three strode diagonally across +Sixth Avenue. + +"Gimme a box of dice," said Bagley to the man behind the bar, when they +had entered the brightly lighted place. + +"They're usin' it in the back room," was the reply. + +"Got a pack o' cards?" then asked Bagley. + +The barkeeper handed over a pack which had been reposing in a cigar-box. + +"I'll make it as sudden as you like," said Bagley to Turl. "One cut +apiece, and highest wins. Or would you like something not so quick?" + +"One cut, and the higher wins," said Turl. + +"Shuffle the cards," said Bagley to Larcher, who obeyed. "Help yourself," +said Bagley to Turl. The latter cut, and turned up a ten-spot. Bagley +cut, and showed a six. + +"The money's yours," said Bagley. "And now, gentlemen, what'll you have +to drink?" + +The drinks were ordered, and taken in silence. "There's only one thing +I'd like to ask," said Bagley thereupon. "That keyhole business--it +needn't go any further, I s'pose?" + +"I give you my word," said Turl. Larcher added his, whereupon Bagley +bade the barkeeper telephone for a four-wheeler, and would have taken +them to their homes in it. But they preferred a walk, and left him +waiting for his cab. + +"Well!" exclaimed Larcher, as soon as he was out of the saloon. "I +congratulate you! I feared Bagley would give trouble. But how easily he +came around!" + +"You forget how fortunate I am," said Turl, smiling. "Poor Davenport +could never have brought him around." + +"There's no doubting your luck," said Larcher; "even with cards." + +"Lucky with cards," began Turl, lightly; but broke off all at once, and +looked suddenly dubious as Larcher glanced at him in the electric light. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + +FLORENCE + +The morning brought sunshine and the sound of sleigh-bells. In the +wonderfully clear air of New York, the snow-covered streets dazzled the +eyes. Never did a town look more brilliant, or people feel more blithe, +than on this fine day after the long snow-storm. + +"Isn't it glorious?" Edna Hill was looking out on the shining white +gardens from Florence's parlor window. "Certainly, on a day like this, it +doesn't seem natural for one to cling to the past. It's a day for +beginning over again, if ever there are such days." Her words had +allusion to the subject on which the two girls had talked late into the +night. Edna had waited for Florence to resume the theme in the morning, +but the latter had not done so yet, although breakfast was now over. +Perhaps it was her father's presence that had deterred her. The incident +of the meal had been the arrival of a note from Mr. Bagley to Mr. Kenby, +expressing the former's regret that he should be unavoidably prevented +from keeping the engagement to go sleighing. As Florence had forgotten to +give her father Mr. Bagley's verbal message, this note had brought her in +for a quantity of paternal complaint sufficient for the venting of the +ill-humor due to his having stayed up too late, and taken too much +champagne the night before. But now Mr. Kenby had gone out, wrapped up +and overshod, to try the effect of fresh air on his headache, and of +shop-windows and pretty women on his spirits. Florence, however, had +still held off from the all-important topic, until Edna was driven to +introduce it herself. + +"It's never a day for abandoning what has been dear to one," +replied Florence. + +"But you wouldn't be abandoning him. After all, he really is the +same man." + +"But I can't make myself regard him as the same. And he doesn't regard +himself so." + +"But in that case the other man has vanished. It's precisely as if he +were dead. No, it's even worse, for there isn't as much trace of him as +there would be of a man that had died. What's the use of being faithful +to such an utterly non-existent person? Why, there isn't even a grave, to +put flowers on;--or an unknown mound in a distant country, for the +imagination to cling to. There's just nothing to be constant to." + +"There are memories." + +"Well, they'll remain. Does a widow lose her memories of number one when +she becomes Mrs. Number Two?" + +"She changes the character of them; buries them out of sight; kills them +with neglect. Yes, she is false to them." + +"But your case isn't even like that. In these peculiar circumstances the +old memories will blend with the new.--And, dear me! he is such a nice +man! I don't see how the other could have been nicer. You couldn't find +anybody more congenial in tastes and manners, I'm sure." + +"I can't make you understand, dear. Suppose Tom Larcher went away for a +time, and came back so completely different that you couldn't see the old +Tom Larcher in him at all. And suppose he didn't even consider himself +the same person you had loved. Would you love him then as you do now?" + +Edna was silenced for a moment; but for a moment only. "Well, if he came +back such a charming fellow as Turl, and if he loved me as much as Turl +loves you, I could soon manage to drop the old Tom out of my mind. But of +course, you know, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't forget for a moment +that he really was the old Tom." + +The talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. The servant gave the +name of Mr. Turl. Florence turned crimson, and stood at a loss. + +"You can't truly say you're out, dear," counselled Edna, in an undertone. + +"Show him in," said Florence. + +Turl entered. + +Florence looked and spoke coldly. "I told you I'd send a message when I +wished you to call." + +He was wistful, but resolute. "I know it," he said. "But love doesn't +stand on ceremony; lovers are importunate; they come without +bidding.--Good morning, Miss Hill; you mustn't let me drive you away." + +For Edna had swished across the room, and was making for the hall. + +"I'm going to the drawing-room," she said, airily, "to see the +sleighs go by." + +In another second, the door slammed, and Turl was alone with Florence. He +took a hesitating step toward her. + +"It's useless," she said, raising her hand as a barrier between them. "I +can't think of you as the same. I can't see _him_ in you. I should have +to do that before I could offer you his place. All that I can love now +is the memory of him." + +"Listen," said Turl, without moving. "I have thought it over. For your +sake, I will be the man I was. It's true, I can't restore the old face; +but the old outlook on life, the old habits, the old pensiveness, will +bring back the old expression. I will resume the old name, the old set of +memories, the old sense of personality. I said last night that a +resumption of the old self could be only mental, and incomplete even so. +But when I said that, I had not surrendered. The mental return can be +complete, and must reveal itself more or less on the surface. And the old +love,--surely where the feeling is the same, its outer showing can't be +utterly new and strange." + +He spoke with a more pleading and reverent note than he had yet used +since the revelation. A moist shine came into her eyes. + +"Murray--it _is_ you!" she whispered. + +"Ah!--sweetheart!" His smile of the utmost tenderness seemed more of a +kind with sadness than with pleasure. It was the smile of a man deeply +sensible of sorrow--of Murray Davenport,--not that of one versed in good +fortune alone--not that which a potent imagination had made habitual to +Francis Turl. + +She gave herself to his arms, and for a time neither spoke. It was she +who broke the silence, looking up with tearful but smiling eyes: + +"You shall not abandon your design. It's too marvellous, too successful; +it has been too dear to you for that." + +"It was dear to me when I thought I had lost you. And since then, the +pride of conceiving and accomplishing it, the labor and pain, kept it +dear to me. But now that I am sure of you, I can resign it without a +murmur. From the moment when I decided to sacrifice it, it has been +nothing to me, provided I could only regain you." + +"But the old failure, the old ill luck, the old unrewarded drudgery,--no, +you sha'n't go back to them. You shall be true to the illusion--we shall +be true to it--I will help you in it, strengthen you in it! I needed only +to see the old Murray Davenport appear in you one moment. Hereafter you +shall be Francis Turl, the happy and fortunate! But you and I will have +our secret--before the world you shall be Francis Turl--but to me you +shall be Murray Davenport, too--Murray Davenport hidden away in Francis +Turl. To me alone, for the sake of the old memories. It will be another +tie between us, this secret, something that is solely ours, deep in our +hearts, as the knowledge of your old self would always have been deep in +yours if you hadn't told me. Think how much better it is that I share +this knowledge with you; now nothing of your mind is concealed from me, +and we together shall have our smile at the world's expense." + +"For being so kind to Francis Turl, the fortunate, after its cold +treatment of Murray Davenport, the unlucky," said Turl, smiling. "It +shall be as you say, sweetheart. There can be no doubt about my good +fortune. It puts even the old proverb out. With me it is lucky in love as +well as at cards." + +"What do you mean, dear?" + +"The Bagley money--" + +"Ah, that money. Listen, dear. Now that I have some right to speak, you +must return that money. I don't dispute your moral claim to it--such +things are for you to settle. But the danger of keeping it--" + +"There's no longer any danger. The money is mine, of Bagley's own free +will and consent. I encountered him last night. He is in my secret now, +but it's safe with him. We cut cards for the money, and I won. I hate +gambling, but the situation was exceptional. He hoped that, once the +matter was settled by the cards, he should never hear a word about it +again. As he hadn't heard a word of it from me--Davenport--for years, +this meant that his own conscience had been troubling him about it all +along. That's why he was ready at last to put the question to a toss-up; +but first he established the fact that he wouldn't be 'done' out of the +money by anybody. I tell you all this, dear, in justice to the man; and +so, exit Bagley. As I said, my secret--_our_ secret--is safe with him. So +it is, of course, with Miss Hill and Larcher. Nobody else knows it, +though others besides you three may have suspected that I had something +to do with the disappearance." + +"Only Mr. Bud." + +"Larcher can explain away Mr. Bud's suspicions. Larcher has been a good +friend. I can never be grateful enough--" + +A knock at the door cut his speech short, and the servant announced +Larcher himself. It had been arranged that he should call for Edna's +orders. That young lady had just intercepted him in the hall, to prevent +his breaking in upon what might be occurring between Turl and Miss Kenby. +But Florence, holding the door open, called out to Edna and Larcher to +come in. Something in her voice and look conveyed news to them both, and +they came swiftly. Edna kissed Florence half a dozen times, while Larcher +was shaking hands with Turl; then waltzed across to the piano, and for a +moment drowned the outside noises--the jingle of sleigh-bells, and the +shouts of children snowballing in the sunshine--with the still more +joyous notes of a celebrated march by Mendelssohn. + +THE END. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery of Murray Davenport, by +Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + +***** This file should be named 9185.txt or 9185.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/8/9185/ + +Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Mystery of Murray Davenport + A Story of New York at the Present Day + +Author: Robert Neilson Stephens + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9185] +This file was first posted on September 12, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + + + + +Text file produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + </h1> + <h2> + <i>A Story of New York at the Present Day</i> + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Robert Neilson Stephens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + 1903 + </h3> + <h5> + Works of Robert Neilson Stephens <br /> <br /> An Enemy to the King <br /> + <br /> The Continental Dragoon <br /> <br /> The Road to Paris <br /> <br /> A + Gentleman Player <br /> <br /> Philip Winwood <br /> <br /> Captain Ravenshaw + <br /> <br /> The Mystery of Murray Davenport + </h5> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I — MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE + RAIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II — ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III — A READY-MONEY MAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV — AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V — A LODGING BY THE RIVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI — THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII — MYSTERY BEGINS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII — MR. LARCHER INQUIRES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX — MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI — FLORENCE DECLARES HER + ALLEGIANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII — LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT + TOGETHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII — MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO + THE WALL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV — A STRANGE DESIGN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV — TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI — AFTER THE DISCLOSURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII — BAGLEY SHINES OUT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII — FLORENCE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I — MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN + </h2> + <p> + The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was + August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than + they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the + basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and + dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the + reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw + were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down + their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry + in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy + chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called + him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited + though home was to a second-story “bed sitting-room” in a house of + “furnished rooms to let” on a crosstown street traversing the part of New + York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium + appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon sat + good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, and + made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and a + negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram. + </p> + <p> + “Who the deuce—?” began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he + opened the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous + surprise. “Can I call?” he said, aloud. “Well, rather!” He let his book + drop forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The + telegram read merely: + </p> + <p> + “In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA.” + </p> + <p> + The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has + already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young + man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no + sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with + impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying + feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after due + announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was kept + waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end of + that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. + </p> + <p> + She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned—though for + indoors—like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in + a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and she + marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair arranged in + loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless skin was of a + brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's conceit—which, + by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility in the presence + of his admired—but it was a small and superficial thing compared + with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon her with a + serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made it much less + noticeable. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is a pleasure!” he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet her. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Tom!” she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. “You + needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of course, + but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We have at + least an hour to ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at + this time of year. When I got your telegram—” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you <i>were</i> surprised. To think of being in New York in + August!—and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a + hot wave. I haven't any shopping to do—any real shopping, that is, + though I invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, + with a cab. But I came just to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true.” + The young man spoke sincerely. + </p> + <p> + “It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down and + be comfortable,—at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's + some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't order + anything from the hotel—Auntie would see it in the bill. But if + you'd prefer a cup of tea—and I could manage some toast.” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing—with you to share + them. How thoughtful of you!” + </p> + <p> + She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small table. + He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly across at + his hostess. + </p> + <p> + “There's something I want you to do for me,” she answered, sitting + composedly back in her chair, in an attitude as graceful as comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing would make me happier.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” replied Larcher, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I + should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or less—that + is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, besides that, + he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do with theatres.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of him. But,” said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, + “there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, + of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?—going + about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be easy, + making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, am I to do that?” Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting + along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or + the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he + fares.” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man,” said Larcher, + somewhat poutingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man,” + she said, with lofty coolness. “But there are reasons why I must find out + about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you hesitate, + and hem and haw—” She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “You might tell me the reasons, dear,” he said, humbly. + </p> + <p> + “I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this information + got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get it, and not ask + any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts to—prying + into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather intrusive, private + detective sort of business.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you don't know the reason—the object in view. Somebody's + happiness depends on it,—perhaps more than one person's; I may tell + you that much.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose happiness?” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't <i>my</i> happiness, + you may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in + doing this, you'll be serving <i>me</i>, and really I don't see why you + should be inquisitive beyond that.” + </p> + <p> + “You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you + ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to + think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and + question—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this + particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon + my word, you don't flatter me!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be angry, dear. If you're really <i>sure</i> it's all right—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>If</i> I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had + asked somebody else! It isn't too late—” + </p> + <p> + Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve you + more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can + handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say; + writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has something + to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start with?” + </p> + <p> + “No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly + good-looking. He usually lives in rooms—you know what I mean—and + takes his meals at restaurants.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There <i>might</i> + possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't + like to be looking up the wrong man.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means. But + I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course <i>I</i> never + saw him.” + </p> + <p> + “There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a + writer and an artist and connected with theatres,” said Larcher. “And it + isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a + thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidences + do occur.” + </p> + <p> + “He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember,” added the young + lady. + </p> + <p> + “He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want this + report?” + </p> + <p> + “As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his + circumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and + when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to + Easthampton to-morrow, you know.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up his + umbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue and a + car. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additional + minutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last to + consideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangeness + thereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate news + about a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on getting + that news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher could only + give it up, and think upon means for the early accomplishment of his part + in the matter. He had decided to begin immediately, for his first + inquiries would be made of men who kept late hours, and with whose + midnight haunts he was acquainted. + </p> + <p> + He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below Fourteenth + Street. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement, where + he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an atmosphere of + tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap wine, and the noisy + talk of a numerous company sitting—for the most part—at long + tables whereon were the traces of a <i>table d'hôte</i> dinner. Coffee and + claret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and glasses, but + also on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but youth + preponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of saying it. + The ladies were, as to the majority, unattractive in appearance, nasal in + voice, and unabashed in manner. The assemblage was, in short, a specimen + of self-styled, self-conscious Bohemia; a far-off, much-adulterated + imitation of the sort of thing that some of the young men with halos of + hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen in Paris in their days of + art study. Larcher made his way through the crowd in the front room to + that in the back, acknowledging many salutations. The last of these came + from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose round, humorous face was + made additionally benevolent by spectacles, and whose forward bend of the + shoulders might be the consequence of studious pursuits, or of much + leaning over café-tables, or of both. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Barry Tompkins!” said Larcher. “I've been looking for you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their meeting + were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut manner: + </p> + <p> + “You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius.” Whereat he looked + around and chuckled afresh. + </p> + <p> + Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low: + </p> + <p> + “You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man named Murray + Davenport?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe there is such a man—an illustrator. Is that the one you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. Where can I find him?” + </p> + <p> + “I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of his + work—in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence, + by the way.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Have you looked in the directory?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are some + things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting acquainted + with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So the trouble is + to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead up to a pretty + close acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “No trouble in that,” said Tompkins, decidedly. “Look here. He's an + illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives, + call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. That + will begin an acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “And terminate it, too, don't you think? Would any self-respecting + illustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certainty of + his work ever appearing?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, the next time you have anything accepted for publication, get + to the editor as fast as you can, and recommend this Davenport to do the + illustrations.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider it + presumptuous if <i>I</i> did it. Suppose it happened to be one of those + editors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in the + manuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport as + illustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editor + to make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even if + Davenport refused the job,—which he wouldn't,—you'd have an + opportunity to pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms of + mind and manner.” + </p> + <p> + “Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose he turned + out to be a bad illustrator?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't have + remembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in my + room to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend him + intelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of yours + in hand just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” said Larcher, brightening, “I got a notice of acceptance + to-day from the <i>Avenue Magazine</i>, of a thing about the rivers of New + York City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet for + illustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'll + think I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now and + tackle the old magazines in my room, to see what my praises of Mr. + Davenport shall rest on. As we go, we'll look the gentleman up in the + directory at the drug-store—unless you'd prefer to tarry here at the + banquet of wit and beauty.” Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved a hand + over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and conceit it + largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances regularly to + inhabit. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather for + the pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins led the + way up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign old + woman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that she, who was + on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent in the shape of + her customers, might know of Murray Davenport; or, indeed, as he had + whispered to Larcher, that the illustrator might be one of the crowd in + the restaurant at that very moment. But the proprietress knew no such + person, a fact which seemed to rate him very low in her estimation and + somewhat high in Mr. Tompkins's. The two young men thereupon hastened to + board a car going up Sixth Avenue. Being set down near Greeley Square, + they went into a drug-store and opened the directory. + </p> + <p> + “Here's a Murray Davenport, all right enough,” said Tompkins, “but he's a + playwright.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably the same,” replied Larcher, remembering that his man had + something to do with theatres. “He's a gentleman of many professions, + let's see the address.” + </p> + <p> + It was a number and street in the same part of the town with Larcher's + abode, but east of Madison Avenue, while his own was west of Fifth. But + now his way was to the residence of Barry Tompkins, which proved to be a + shabby room on the fifth floor of an old building on Broadway; a room + serving as Mr. Tompkins's sleeping-chamber by night, and his law office by + day. For Mr. Tompkins, though he sought pleasure and forage under the + banners of literature and journalism, owned to no regular service but that + of the law. How it paid him might be inferred from the oldness of his + clothes and the ricketiness of his office. There was a card saying “Back + in ten minutes” on the door which he opened to admit Larcher and himself. + And his friends were wont to assert that he kept the card “working + overtime,” himself, preferring to lay down the law to companionable + persons in neighboring cafés rather than to possible clients in his + office. When Tompkins had lighted the gas, Larcher saw a cracked low + ceiling, a threadbare carpet of no discoverable hue, an old desk crowded + with documents and volumes, some shelves of books at one side, and the + other three sides simply walled with books and magazines in irregular + piles, except where stood a bed-couch beneath a lot of prints which served + to conceal much of the faded wall-paper. + </p> + <p> + Tompkins bravely went for the magazines, saying, “You begin with that + pile, and I'll take this. The names of the illustrators are always in the + table of contents; it's simply a matter of glancing down that.” + </p> + <p> + After half an hour's silent work, Tompkins exclaimed, “Here we are!” and + took a magazine to the desk, at which both young men sat down. “'A Heart + in Peril,'” he quoted; “'A Story by James Willis Archway. Illustrated by + Murray Davenport. Page 38.'” He turned over the leaves, and disclosed some + rather striking pictures in half-tone, signed “M.D.” Two men and two women + figured in the different illustrations. + </p> + <p> + “This isn't bad work,” said Tompkins. “I can recommend 'M.D.' with a clear + conscience. His women are beautiful in a really high way,—but + they've got a heartless look. There's an odd sort of distinction in his + men's faces, too.” + </p> + <p> + “A kind of scornful discontent,” ventured Larcher. “Perhaps the story + requires it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps; but the thing I mean seems to be under the expressions intended. + I should say it was unconscious, a part of the artist's conception of the + masculine face in general before it's individualized. I'll bet the chap + that drew these illustrations isn't precisely the man in the street, even + among artists. He must have a queer outlook on life. I congratulate you on + your coming friend!” At which Mr. Tompkins, chuckling, lighted a pipe for + himself. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher sat looking dubious. If Murray Davenport was an unusual sort + of man, the more wonder that a girl like Edna Hill should so strangely + busy herself about him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II — ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE + </h2> + <p> + Two days later, toward the close of a sunny afternoon, Mr. Thomas Larcher + was admitted by a lazy negro to an old brown-stone-front house half-way + between Madison and Fourth Avenues, and directed to the third story back, + whither he was left to find his way unaccompanied. Running up the dark + stairs swiftly, with his thoughts in advance of his body, he suddenly + checked himself, uncertain as to which floor he had attained. At a hazard, + he knocked on the door at the back of the dim, narrow passage he was in. + He heard slow steps upon the carpet, the door opened, and a man slightly + taller, thinner, and older than himself peered out. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, I may have mistaken the floor,” said Larcher. “I'm looking for + Mr. Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “'Myself and misery know the man,'” replied the other, with quiet + indifference, in a gloomy but not unpleasing voice, and stepped back to + allow his visitor's entrance. + </p> + <p> + A little disconcerted at being received with a quotation, and one of such + import,—the more so as it came from the speaker's lips so naturally + and with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on a + stranger,—Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper, + the upholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in one + corner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the table + which stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk, were + all of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The same was + to be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black garment + of the square-cut “sack” or “lounge” shape. Books filled the mantel, the + flat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table, which held + also a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript paper, and the + paraphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the walls, and standing + about on top of books and elsewhere, were water-colors, drawings in + half-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many unfinished, besides a few + photographs of celebrated paintings and statues. But long before he had + sought more than the most general impression of these contents of the + room, Larcher had bent all his observation upon their possessor. + </p> + <p> + The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by these + and kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose distinguished + by a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty of form was in + the distinctness of its lines. The complexion was colorless but clear, the + face being all smooth shaven. The slightly haggard eyes were gray, rather + of a plain and honest than a brilliant character, save for a tiny light + that burned far in their depths. The forehead was ample and smooth, as far + as could be seen, for rather longish brown hair hung over it, with a + negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an odd painwearied + dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an unquenchable humor. + </p> + <p> + “This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself,” said Larcher, handing + it. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Rogers?” inquired Murray Davenport. + </p> + <p> + “Editor of the <i>Avenue Magazine</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without + diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself took + a chair before the table. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher,” he said, conventionally; then, with a + change to informality, “I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers, or + any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any + offered me before.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but I've seen some of your work,” contradicted Larcher. “The + illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'” + </p> + <p> + “That wasn't offered me; I begged for it,” said Davenport, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were + recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this + stuff of mine,” and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from + under his coat. + </p> + <p> + “It's so unprecedented,” resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective + way of speaking. “I can scarcely help thinking there must be some + mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril' + story?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to <i>me</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out new + illustrators they hear of.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer to + <i>me</i>—an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, + like a gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called + good luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen + to me before; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in + spite of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case.” This + was said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling. + </p> + <p> + Larcher smiled. “Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse to do + the pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” returned Davenport, indolently. “I won't refuse. I'll accept the + commission with pleasure—a certain amount of pleasure, that is. + There was a time when I should have danced a break-down for joy, probably, + at this opportunity. But a piece of good luck, strange as it is to me, + doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'll receive it + politely. In as much as I have plenty of time for this work, and as Mr. + Rogers seems to wish me to do it, I should be churlish if I declined. The + money too, is an object—I won't conceal that fact. To think of a + chance to earn a little money, coming my way without the slightest effort + on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'm still tempted to + think this is all a dream.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher laughed. “Well, as to effort,” said he, “I don't think I should be + here now with that accepted manuscript for you to illustrate, if I hadn't + taken a good deal of pains to press my work on the attention of editors.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't mean to say that your prosperity, and other men's, is due to + having good things thrust upon you in this way. But if you do owe all to + your own work, at least your work does bring a fair amount of reward, your + efforts are in a fair measure successful. But not so with me. The greatest + fortune I could ever have asked would have been that my pains should bring + their reasonable price, as other men's have done. Therefore, this extreme + case of good luck, small as it is, is the more to be wondered at. The best + a man has a right to ask is freedom from what people call habitual bad + luck. That's an immunity I've never had. My labors have been always banned—except + when the work has masqueraded as some other man's. In that case they have + been blessed. It will seem strange to you, Mr. Larcher, but whatever I've + done in my own name has met with wretched pay and no recognition, while + work of mine, no better, when passed off as another man's, has won golden + rewards—for him—in money and reputation.” + </p> + <p> + “It does seem strange,” admitted Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “What can account for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what a 'Jonah' is, in the speech of the vulgar?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, people have got me tagged with that name. I bring ill luck to + enterprises I'm concerned in, they say. That's a fatal reputation, Mr. + Larcher. It wasn't deserved in the beginning, but now that I have it, see + how the reputation itself is the cause of the apparent ill luck. Take this + thing, for instance.” He held up a sheet of music paper, whereon he had + evidently been writing before Larcher's arrival. “A song, supposed to be + sentimental. As the idea is somewhat novel, the words happy, and the tune + rather quaint, I shall probably get a publisher for it, who will offer me + the lowest royalty. What then? Its fame and sale—or whether it shall + have any—will depend entirely on what advertising it gets from being + sung by professional singers. I have taken the precaution to submit the + idea and the air to a favorite of the music halls, and he has promised to + sing it. Now, if he sang it on the most auspicious occasion, making it the + second or third song of his turn, having it announced with a flourish on + the programme, and putting his best voice and style into it, it would have + a chance of popularity. Other singers would want it, it would be whistled + around, and thousands of copies sold. But will he do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see why he shouldn't,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but he knows why. He remembers I am a Jonah. What comes from me + carries ill luck. He'll sing the song, yes, but he won't hazard any + auspicious occasion on it. He'll use it as a means of stopping encores + when he's tired of them; he'll sing it hurriedly and mechanically; he'll + make nothing of it on the programme; he'll hide the name of the author, + for fear by the association of the names some of my Jonahship might extend + to him. So, you see, bad luck <i>will</i> attend my song; so, you see, the + name of bad luck brings bad luck. Not that there is really such a thing as + luck. Everything that occurs has a cause, an infinite line of causes. But + a man's success or failure is due partly to causes outside of his control, + often outside of his ken. As, for instance, a sudden change of weather may + defeat a clever general, and thrust victory upon his incompetent + adversary. Now when these outside causes are adverse, and prevail, we say + a man has bad luck. When they favor, and prevail, he has good luck. It was + a rapid succession of failures, due partly to folly and carelessness of my + own, I admit, but partly to a run of adverse conjunctures far outside my + sphere of influence, that got me my unlucky name in the circles where I + hunt a living. And now you are warned, Mr. Larcher. Do you think you are + safe in having my work associated with yours, as Mr. Rogers proposes? It + isn't too late to draw back.” + </p> + <p> + Whether the man still spoke seriously, Larcher could not exactly tell. + Certainly the man's eyes were fixed on Larcher's face in a manner that + made Larcher color as one detected. But his weakness had been for an + instant only, and he rallied laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Many thanks, but I'm not superstitious, Mr. Davenport. Anyhow, my article + has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish the amount I'm to + receive for it.” + </p> + <p> + “But consider the risk to your future career,” pursued Davenport, with a + faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll take the chances,” said Larcher, glad to treat the subject as a + joke. “I don't suppose the author of 'A Heart in Peril,' for instance, has + experienced hard luck as a result of your illustrating his story.” + </p> + <p> + “As a matter of fact,” replied Davenport, with a look of melancholy humor, + “the last I heard of him, he had drunk himself into the hospital. But I + believe he had begun to do that before I crossed his path. Well, I thank + you for your hardihood, Mr. Larcher. As for the <i>Avenue Magazine</i>, it + can afford a little bad luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us hope that the good luck of the magazine will spread to you, as a + result of your contact with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they are right; + Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You must know, Mr. + Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figure in the + world,—a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint of injustice. + Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better than that. I + never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes up apropos; but + people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers about it, and find a + moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amused at it, and + benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. For it's been a + part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I should often work for + his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he to fall back on; he + always has some little matter I can be useful in. He poses then as my + constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. And so he is, in + fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built on the profits of + the game he played at my expense. I mention it to you, Mr. Larcher, to + forestall any other account, if you should happen to speak of me where my + name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that the wrong is an + imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way to deserve the name of + a man with a grievance.” + </p> + <p> + His composed, indifferent manner was true to his words. He spoke, indeed, + as one to whom things mattered little, yet who, being originally of a + social and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the first + intelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to make + the most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the man's + acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject ever + comes up in my presence,” said Larcher. “I can certainly testify to the + cool, unimpassioned manner in which you speak of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I find little in life that's worth getting warm or impassioned about,” + said Davenport, something half wearily, half contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Have you lost interest in the world to that extent?” + </p> + <p> + “In my present environment.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you can easily change that. Get into livelier surroundings.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport shook his head. “My immediate environment would still be the + same; my memories, my body; 'this machine,' as Hamlet says; my old, + tiresome, unsuccessful self.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you got about more among mankind,—not that I know what your + habits are at present, but I should imagine—” Larcher hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You perceive I have the musty look of a solitary,” said Davenport. + “That's true, of late. But as to getting about, 'man delights not me'—to + fall back on Hamlet again—at least not from my present point of + view.” + </p> + <p> + “'Nor woman neither'?” quoted Larcher, interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “'No, nor woman neither,'” said Davenport slowly, a coldness coming upon + his face. “I don't know what your experience may have been. We have only + our own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing from + women. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and are + unscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is to be + worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love, with + a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment they are bored + with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injured if the man + complains. We take the beauty of their faces, the softness of their eyes, + for the outward signs of tenderness and fidelity; and for those supposed + qualities, and others which their looks seem to express, we love them. But + they have not those qualities; they don't even know what it is that we + love them for; they think it is for the outward beauty, and that that is + enough. They don't even know what it is that we, misled by that outward + softness, imagine is beyond; and when we are disappointed to find it isn't + there, they wonder at us and blame us for inconstancy. The beautiful woman + who could be what she looks—who could really contain what her beauty + seems the token of—whose soul, in short, could come up to the + promise of her face,—there would be a creature! You'll think I've + had bad luck in love, too, Mr. Larcher.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Larcher was thinking, for the instant, about Edna Hill, and wondering +how near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women. For +himself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never seemed +the outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered conventionally: +“Well, one <i>would</i> suppose so from your remarks. Of course, women like +to be amused, I know. Perhaps we expect too much from them. + + 'Oh, woman in our hours of ease, + Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, + And variable as the shade + By the light quivering aspen made.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines.” Mr. Larcher sighed at +certain memories of Miss Hill's variableness. “But then, you know,— + + 'When pain and anguish wring the brow, + A ministering angel them.'” + </pre> + <p> + “I can't speak in regard to pain and anguish,” said Davenport. “I've + experienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect on women. + But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on an undeserving, + but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, after a time, + she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck that clung to him. What + would she do then?” + </p> + <p> + “Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evil + influence,” replied Larcher, laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she would + take flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evil + influence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she would + doubtless live happy ever after.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and the faintest + cloud of bitterness showed for a moment on his face. + </p> + <p> + “And the man, perhaps, would 'bury himself in his books,'” said Larcher, + looking around the room; he made show to treat the subject gaily, lest he + might betray his inquisitive purpose. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takes up + a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupations here. I + have amused myself a little in science, too,—you see the cabinet + over there. I studied medicine once, and know a little about surgery, but + I wasn't fitted—or didn't care—to follow that profession in a + money-making way.” + </p> + <p> + “You are exceedingly versatile.” + </p> + <p> + “Little my versatility has profited me. Which reminds me of business. When + are these illustrations to be ready, Mr. Larcher? And how many are wanted? + I'm afraid I've been wasting your time.” + </p> + <p> + In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design of + better acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist to + certain riverside localities described in the text. Business details + settled, Larcher observed that it was about dinnertime, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Have you any engagement for dining?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Davenport, with a faint smile at the notion. + </p> + <p> + “Then you must dine with me. I hate to eat alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I should be pleased. That is to say—it depends on where + you dine.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to any + particular one.” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer to dine as Addison preferred,—on one or two good things + well cooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course <i>table d'hôte</i> + menu is really too wearisome—even to a man who is used to + weariness.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I know a place—Giffen's chop-house—that will just suit + you. As a friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get + an unsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug of + delicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He says + that, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher and + better than most kings; and the whole thing comes to forty-five cents.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the place, and your friend is quite right.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport took up a soft felt hat and a plain stick with a curved handle. + When the young men emerged from the gloomy hallway to the street, which in + that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were already + heralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deteriorating + respectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadway + and the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner. + </p> + <p> + “What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!” remarked + Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest: + </p> + <p> + 'The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight tide—And + slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride.' + </p> + <p> + “Poe praised those lines,” he added. “But it was a different Broadway that + Willis wrote them about.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Larcher, “but in spite of the skyscrapers and the + incongruities, I love the old street. Don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I used to,” said Davenport, with a listlessness that silenced Larcher, + who fell into conjecture of its cause. Was it the effect of many failures? + Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin had been played + by the woman to whose fickleness the man had briefly alluded? And, + finally, had the story behind it anything to do with Edna Hill's reasons + for seeking information? + </p> + <p> + Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to the + chosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a level with + the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just about to + enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, overbearing + voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, as both young men + turned around. A tall, broad man, with a coarse, red face; a man with + hard, glaring eyes and a heavy black mustache; a man who had intruded into + a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a large diamond in his tie; a + man who swung his arms and used plenty of the surrounding space in + walking, as if greedy of it,—this man came across the street, and, + with an air of proprietorship, claimed Murray Davenport's attention. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III — A READY-MONEY MAN + </h2> + <p> + “I want you,” bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rustic + washerwoman summoning her offspring to a task. “I've got a little matter + for you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talk + it over.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm engaged to dine with this gentleman,” said Davenport, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's all right,” said the newcomer. “This gentleman can come, + too.” + </p> + <p> + “We prefer to dine here,” said Davenport, with firmness. “We have our own + reasons. I can meet you later.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're + determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and + dine.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then + introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a + brief condescending glance and a rough “How are you,” Mr. Bagley led the + way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and + Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. + </p> + <p> + Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the + state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from the + narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment + adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from + another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out + his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in + various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of + walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the + company's hearing capacity. + </p> + <p> + As soon as dinner had been ordered,—a matter much complicated by Mr. + Bagley's calling for things which the house didn't serve, and then wanting + to know why it didn't,—he plunged at once into the details of some + business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulking behind an + evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By the time the chops + and potatoes had been brought, the business had been communicated, and + Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. He suddenly took notice of + Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?” quoth he, looking with benign + patronage from one young man to the other. + </p> + <p> + “I've known Mr. Davenport a—short while,” said Larcher, with all the + iciness of injured conceit. + </p> + <p> + “Same business?” queried Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreign + language. + </p> + <p> + “Are you in the same business he's in?” said Bagley, in a louder voice. + </p> + <p> + “I—write,” said Larcher, coldly. + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked him over, and, with evident approval of his clothes, + remarked: “You seem to've made a better thing of it than Dav has.” + </p> + <p> + “I make a living,” said Larcher, curtly, with a glance at Davenport, who + showed no feeling whatever. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess that's about all Dav does,” said Bagley, in a jocular + manner. “How is it, Dav, old man? But you never had any business sense.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't return the compliment,” said Davenport, quietly. + </p> + <p> + Bagley uttered a mirthful “Yah!” and looked very well contented with + himself. “I've always managed to get along,” he admitted. “And a good + thing for you I have, Dav. Where'ud you be to-day if you hadn't had me for + your good angel whenever you struck hard luck?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't the remotest idea,” said Davenport, as if vastly bored. + </p> + <p> + “Neither have I,” quoth Bagley, and filled his mouth with mutton and + potato. When he had got these sufficiently disposed of to permit further + speech, he added: “No, sir, you literary fellows think yourselves very + fine people, but I don't see many of you getting to be millionaires by + your work.” + </p> + <p> + “There are other ambitions in life,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bagley emitted a grunt of laughter. “Sour grapes! Sour grapes, young + fellow! I know what I'm talking about. I've been a literary man myself.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher arrested his fork half-way between his plate and his mouth, in + order to look his amazement. A curious twitch of the lips was the only + manifestation of Davenport, except that he took a long sip of ale. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody would ever think it,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; I've been a literary man; a playwright, that is. Dramatic + author, my friend Dav here would call it, I s'pose. But I made it pay.” + </p> + <p> + “I must confess I don't recognize the name of Bagley as being attached to + any play I ever heard of,” said Larcher. “And yet I've paid a good deal of + attention to the theatre.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because I never wrote but one play, and the money I made out of + that—twenty thousand dollars it was—I put into the business of + managing other people's plays. It didn't take me long to double it, did + it, Dav? Mr. Davenport here knows all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I ought to,” replied Davenport, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's right, you ought to. We were chums in those days, Mr.—I + forget what your name is. We were both in hard luck then, me and Dav. But + I knew what to do if I ever got hold of a bit of capital. So I wrote that + play, and made a good arrangement with the actor that produced it, and got + hold of twenty thousand. And that was the foundation of <i>my</i> fortune. + Oh, yes, Dav remembers. We had hall rooms in the same house in East + Fourteenth Street. We used to lend each other cuffs and collars. A man + never forgets those days.” + </p> + <p> + With Davenport's talk of the afternoon fresh in mind, Larcher had promptly + identified this big-talking vulgarian. Hot from several affronts, which + were equally galling, whether ignorant or intended, he could conceive of + nothing more sweet than to take the fellow down. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't wonder,” said he, “if Mr. Davenport had more particular + reasons to remember that play.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport looked up from his plate, but merely with slight surprise, not + with disapproval. Bagley himself stared hard at Larcher, then glanced at + Davenport, and finally blurted out a laugh, and said: + </p> + <p> + “So Dav has been giving you his fairy tale? I thought he'd dropped it as a + played-out chestnut. God knows how the delusion ever started in his head. + That's a question for the psychologists—or the doctors, maybe. But + he used to imagine—I give him credit for really imagining it—he + used to imagine he had written that play. I s'pose that's what he's been + telling you. But I thought he'd got over the hallucination; or got tired + telling about it, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + But, in the circumstances, no nice consideration of probabilities was + necessary to make Larcher the warm partisan of Davenport. He answered, + with as fine a derision as he could summon: + </p> + <p> + “Any unbiased judge, with you two gentlemen before him, if he had to + decide which had written that play, wouldn't take long to agree with Mr. + Davenport's hallucination, as you call it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bagley gazed at Larcher for a few moments in silence, as if not + knowing exactly what to make of him, or what manner to use toward him. He + seemed at last to decide against a wrathful attitude, and replied: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're a very unbiased judge, and a very superior person all + round. But nobody's asking for your opinion, and I guess it wouldn't count + for much if they did. The public has long ago made up its mind about Mr. + Davenport's little delusion.” + </p> + <p> + “As one of 'the public,' perhaps I have a right to dispute that,” retorted + Larcher. “Men don't have such delusions.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't they? That's as much as you know about the eccentricities of + human nature,—and yet you presume to call yourself a writer. I guess + you don't know the full circumstances of this case. Davenport himself + admits that he was very ill at the time I disposed of the rights of that + play. We were in each other's confidence then, and I had read the play to + him, and talked it over with him, and he had taken a very keen interest in + it, as any chum would. And then this illness came on, just when the + marketing of the piece was on the cards. He was out of his head a good + deal during his illness, and I s'pose that's how he got the notion he was + the author. As it was, I gave him five hundred dollars as a present, to + celebrate the acceptance of the piece. And I gave him that at once, too—half + the amount of the money paid on acceptance, it was; for anything I knew + then, it might have been half of all I should ever get for the play, + because nobody could predict how it would pan out. Well, I've never borne + him an ounce of malice for his delusion. Maybe at this very moment he + still honestly thinks himself the author of that play; but I've always + stood by him, and always will. Many's the piece of work I've put in his + hands; and I will say he's never failed me on his side, either. Old + Reliable Dav, that's what I call him; Old Reliable Dav, and I'd trust him + with every dollar I've got in the world.” He finished with a clap of good + fellowship on Davenport's shoulder, and then fell upon the remainder of + his chop and potato with a concentration of interest that put an end to + the dispute. + </p> + <p> + As for Davenport, he had continued eating in silence, with an + expressionless face, as if the matter were one that concerned a stranger. + Larcher, observing him, saw that he had indeed put that matter behind him, + as one to which there was nothing but weariness to be gained in returning. + The rest of the meal passed without event. Mr. Bagley made short work of + his food, and left the two others with their coffee, departing in as + self-satisfied a mood as he had arrived in, and without any trace of the + little passage of words with Larcher. + </p> + <p> + A breath of relief escaped Davenport, and he said, with a faint smile: + </p> + <p> + “There was a time when I had my say about the play. We've had scenes, I + can tell you. But Bagley is a man who can brazen out any assertion; he's a + man impossible to outface. Even when he and I are alone together, he plays + the same part; won't admit that I wrote the piece; and pretends to think I + suffer under a delusion. I <i>was</i> ill at the time he disposed of my + play; but I had written it long before the time of my illness.” + </p> + <p> + “How did he manage to pass it off as his?” + </p> + <p> + “We were friends then, as he says, or at least comrades. We met through + being inmates of the same lodging-house. I rather took to him at first. I + thought he was a breezy, cordial fellow; mistook his loudness for + frankness, and found something droll and pleasing in his nasal drawl. That + brass-horn voice!—ye gods, how I grew to shudder at it afterward! + But I liked his company over a glass of beer; he was convivial, and told + amusing stories of the people in the country town he came from, and of his + struggles in trying to get a start in business. I was struggling as hard + in my different way—a very different way, for he was an utter savage + as far as art and letters were concerned. But we exchanged accounts of our + daily efforts and disappointments, and knew all about each other's + affairs,—at least he knew all about mine. And one of mine was the + play which I wrote during the first months of our acquaintance. I read it + to him, and he seemed impressed by it, or as much of it as he could + understand. I had some idea of sending it to an actor who was then in need + of a new piece, through the failure of one he had just produced. My play + seemed rather suitable to him, and I told Bagley I thought of submitting + it as soon as I could get it typewritten. But before I could do that, I + was on my back with pneumonia, utterly helpless, and not thinking of + anything in the world except how to draw my breath. + </p> + <p> + “The first thing I did begin to worry about, when I was on the way to + recovery, was my debts, and particularly my debt to the landlady. She was + a good woman, and wouldn't let me be moved to a hospital, but took care of + me herself through all my illness. She furnished my food during that time, + and paid for my medicines; and, furthermore, I owed her for several weeks' + previous rent. So I bemoaned my indebtedness, and the hopelessness of ever + getting out of it, a thousand times, day and night, till it became an old + song in the ears of Bagley. One day he came in with his face full of news, + and told me he had got some money from the sale of a farm, in which he had + inherited a ninth interest. He said he intended to risk his portion in the + theatrical business—he had had some experience as an advance agent—and + offered to buy my play outright for five hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was like an oar held out to a drowning man. I had never before + had as much money at the same time. It was enough to pay all my debts, and + keep me on my feet for awhile to come. Of course I knew that if my play + were a fair success, the author's percentage would be many times five + hundred dollars. But it might never be accepted,—no play of mine had + been, and I had hawked two or three around among the managers,—and + in that case I should get nothing at all. As for Bagley, his risk in + producing a play by an unknown man was great. His chances of loss seemed + to me about nine in ten. I took it that his offer was out of friendship. I + grasped at the immediate certainty, and the play became the property of + Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I consoled myself with the reflection that, if the play made a real + success, I should gain some prestige as an author, and find an easier + hearing for future work. I was reading a newspaper one morning when the + name of my play caught my eye. You can imagine how eagerly I started to + read the item about it, and what my feelings were when I saw that it was + immediately to be produced by the very actor to whom I had talked of + sending it, and that the author was George A. Bagley. I thought there must + be some mistake, and fell upon Bagley for an explanation as soon as he + came home. He laughed, as men of his kind do when they think they have + played some clever business trick; said he had decided to rent the play to + the actor instead of taking it on the road himself; and declared that as + it was his sole property, he could represent it as the work of anybody he + chose. I raised a great stew about the matter; wrote to the newspapers, + and rushed to see the actor. He may have thought I was a lunatic from my + excitement; however, he showed me the manuscript Bagley had given him. It + was typewritten, but the address of the typewriter copyist was on the + cover. I hastened to the lady, and inquired about the manuscript from + which she had made the copy. I showed her some of my penmanship, but she + assured me the manuscript was in another hand. I ran home, and demanded + the original manuscript from Bagley. 'Oh, certainly,' he said, and fished + out a manuscript in his own writing. He had copied even my interlineations + and erasures, to give his manuscript the look of an original draft. This + was the copy from which the typewriter had worked. My own handwritten copy + he had destroyed. I have sometimes thought that when the idea first + occurred to him of submitting my play to the actor, he had meant to deal + fairly with me, and to profit only by an agent's commission. But he may + have inquired about the earnings of plays, and learned how much money a + successful one brings; and the discovery may have tempted him to the + fraud. Or his design may have been complete from the first. It is easy to + understand his desire to become the sole owner of the play. Why he wanted + to figure as the author is not so clear. It may have been mere vanity; it + may have been—more probably was—a desire to keep to himself + even the author's prestige, to serve him in future transactions of the + same sort. In any case, he had created evidence of his authorship, and + destroyed all existing proof of mine. He had made good terms,—a + percentage on a sliding scale; one thousand dollars down on account. It + was out of that thousand that he paid me the five hundred. The play was a + great money-winner; Bagley's earnings from it were more than twenty + thousand dollars in two seasons. That is the sum I should have had if I + had submitted the play to the same actor, as I had intended to do. I made + a stir in the newspapers for awhile; told my tale to managers and actors + and reporters; started to take it to the courts, but had to give up for + lack of funds; in short, got myself the name, as I told you today, of a + man with a grievance. People smiled tolerantly at my story; it got to be + one of the jokes of the Rialto. Bagley soon hit on the policy of claiming + the authorship to my face, and pretending to treat my assertion + charitably, as the result of a delusion conceived in illness. You heard + him tonight. But it no longer disturbs me.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he ever written any plays of his own? Or had any more produced over + his name?” asked Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “No. He put the greater part of his profits into theatrical management. He + multiplied his investment. Then he 'branched out;' tried Wall Street and + the race-tracks; went into real estate. He speculates now in many things. + I don't know how rich he is. He isn't openly in theatrical management any + more, but he still has large interests there; he is what they call an + 'angel.'” + </p> + <p> + “He spoke of being your good angel.” + </p> + <p> + “He has been the reverse, perhaps. It's true, many a time when I've been + at the last pinch, he has come to my rescue, employing me in some affair + incidental to his manifold operations. Unless you have been hungry, and + without a market for your work; unless you have walked the streets + penniless, and been generally 'despised and rejected of men,' you, + perhaps, can't understand how I could accept anything at his hands. But I + could, and sometimes eagerly. As soon as possible after our break, he + assumed the benevolent attitude toward me. I resisted it with proper scorn + for a time. But hard lines came; 'my poverty but not my will' consented. + In course of time, there ceased to be anything strange in the situation. I + got used to his service, and his pay, yet without ever compounding for the + trick he played me. He trusts me thoroughly—he knows men. This + association with him, though it has saved me from desperate straits, is + loathsome to me, of course. It has contributed as much as anything to my + self-hate. If I had resolutely declined it, I might have found other + resources at the last extremity. My life might have taken a different + course. That is why I say he has been, perhaps, the reverse of a good + angel to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must have written other plays,” pursued Larcher. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Yes; and have even had three of them produced. Two had moderate success; +but one of those I sold on low terms, in my eagerness to have it accepted +and establish a name. On the other, I couldn't collect my royalties. The +third was a failure. But none of these, or of any I have written, was up +to the level of the play that Bagley dealt with. I admit that. It was my +one work of first-class merit. I think my poor powers were affected by my +experience with that play; but certainly for some reason I + + '... never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture.' +</pre> + <p> + I should have been a different man if I had received the honor and the + profits of that first accepted play of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think that, as Bagley is so rich, he would quietly hand you over + twenty thousand dollars, at least, for the sake of his conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “Men of Bagley's sort have no conscience where money is concerned. I used + to wonder just what share of his fortune was rightly mine, if one knew how + to estimate. It was my twenty thousand dollars he invested; what + percentage of the gains would belong to me, giving him his full due for + labor and skill? And then the credit of the authorship,—which he + flatly robbed me of,—what would be its value? But that is all matter + for mere speculation. As to the twenty thousand alone, there can be no + doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet he said tonight he would trust you with every dollar he had in + the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he would.” Davenport smiled. “He knows that <i>I</i> know the + difference between a moral right and a legal right. He knows the + difficulties in the way of any attempt at self-restitution on my part,—and + the unpleasant consequences. Oh, yes, he would trust me with large sums; + has done so, in fact. I have handled plenty of his cash. He is what they + call a 'ready-money man;' does a good deal of business with bank-notes of + high denomination,—it enables him to seize opportunities and make + swift transactions. He should interest you, if you have an eye for + character.” + </p> + <p> + Upon which remark, Davenport raised his cup, as if to finish the coffee + and the subject at the same time. Larcher sat silently wondering what + other dramas were comprised in the history of his singular companion, + besides that wherein Bagley was concerned, and that in which the fickle + woman had borne a part. He found himself interested, on his own account, + in this haggard-eyed, world-wearied, yet not unattractive man, as well as + for Miss Hill. When Davenport spoke again, it was in regard to the + artistic business which now formed a tie between himself and Larcher. + </p> + <p> + This business was in due time performed. It entailed as much association + with Davenport as Larcher could wish for his purpose. He learnt little + more of the man than he had learned on the first day of their + acquaintance, but that in itself was considerable. Of it he wrote a full + report to Miss Hill; and in the next few weeks he added some trifling + discoveries. In October that young woman and her aunt returned to town, + and to possession of a flat immediately south of Central Park. Often as + Larcher called there, he could not draw from Edna the cause of her + interest in Davenport. But his own interest sufficed to keep him the + regular associate of that gentleman; he planned further magazine work for + himself to write and Davenport to illustrate, and their collaboration took + them together to various parts of the city. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV — AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD + </h2> + <p> + The lower part of Fifth Avenue, the part between Madison and Washington + Squares, the part which alone was “the Fifth Avenue” whereof Thackeray + wrote in the far-off days when it was the abode of fashion,—the + far-off days when fashion itself had not become old-fashioned and got + improved into Smart Society,—this haunted half-mile or more still + retains many fine old residences of brown stone and of red brick, which + are spruce and well-kept. One such, on the west side of the street, of red + brick, with a high stoop of brown stone, is a boarding-house, and in it is + an apartment to which, on a certain clear, cold afternoon in October, the + reader's presence in the spirit is respectfully invited. + </p> + <p> + The hallway of the house is prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits of + hallways, in order to lead to a secluded parlor at the rear, apparently + used by its occupants as a private sitting and dining room. At the left + side of this room, after one enters, are folding doors opening from what + is evidently somebody's bed-chamber. At the same side, further on, is a + large window, the only window in the room. As the ceiling is so high, and + the wall-paper so dark, the place is rather dim of light at all times, + even on this sunny autumn afternoon when the world outside is so full of + wintry brightness. + </p> + <p> + The view of the world outside afforded by the window—which looks + southward—is of part of a Gothic church in profile, and the backs of + houses, all framing an expanse of gardens. It is a peaceful view, and this + back parlor itself, being such a very back parlor, receives the city's + noises dulled and softened. One seems very far, here, from the clatter and + bang, the rush and strenuousness, really so near at hand. The dimness is + restful; it is relieved, near the window, by a splash of sunlight; and, at + the rear of the room, by a coal fire in the grate. The furniture is old + and heavy, consisting largely of chairs of black wood in red velvet. Half + lying back in one of these is a fretful-looking, fine-featured man of late + middle age, with flowing gray hair and flowing gray mustache. His eyes are + closed, but perhaps he is not asleep. There is a piano near a corner, + opposite the window, and out of the splash of sunshine, but its rosewood + surface reflects here and there the firelight. And at the piano, playing a + soft accompaniment, sits a tall, slender young woman, with a beautiful but + troubled face, who sings in a low voice one of Tosti's love-songs. + </p> + <p> + Her figure is still girlish, but her face is womanly; a classic face, not + like the man's in expression, but faintly resembling it in form, though + her features, clearly outlined, have not the smallness of his. Her eyes + are large and deep blue. There is enough rich color of lip, and fainter + color of cheek, to relieve the whiteness of her complexion. The trouble on + her face is of some permanence; it is not petty like that of the man's, + but is at one with the nobility of her countenance. It seems to find rest + in the tender sadness of the song, which, having finished, she softly + begins again: + </p> + <p> + “'I think of what thou art to me, I think of what thou canst not be'”— + </p> + <p> + As the man gives signs of animation, such as yawning, and moving in his + chair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed by the + song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And such expression!—unconscious + expression, too. What a pity—what a shame—that your gift + should be utterly wasted!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't wasted if my singing pleases you, father,” says the girl, + patiently. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself,” replies the man, + peevishly. “I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide our + light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the world + pays for them, too. Think of the money—think of how we might live! + Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!” + </p> + <p> + She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers + as one who has as often made the same answer: + </p> + <p> + “I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage, + and the choirs are all full.” + </p> + <p> + “You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic + opera—” + </p> + <p> + The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: “And + you know well enough my determination about that. The one week's + experience I had—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nonsense!” interrupted the man. “All managers are not like that + fellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic opera + stage.” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If I + absolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put to that + necessity.” + </p> + <p> + “Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?” + </p> + <p> + “We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us our + present allowance—” + </p> + <p> + “Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom I brought + up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father to the full + extent of his ability!” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, it's a far greater allowance than most sons or brothers + make.” + </p> + <p> + “Because other sons are ungrateful, and blind to their duty, it doesn't + follow that Dick ought to be. Thank Heaven, I brought him up better than + that. I'm only sorry that his sister can't see things in the same light as + he does. After all the trouble of raising my children, and the hopes I've + built on them—” + </p> + <p> + “But you know perfectly well,” she protests, softly, “that Dick makes us + such a liberal allowance in order that I needn't go out and earn money. He + has often said that. Even when you praise him for his dutifulness to you, + he says it's not that, but his love for me. And because it is the free + gift of his love, I'm willing to accept it.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so, I suppose so,” says the man, in a tone of resignation to + injury. “It's very little that I'm considered, after all. You were always + a pair, always insensible of the pains I've taken over you. You always + seemed to regard it as a matter of course that I should feed you, and + clothe you, and educate you.” + </p> + <p> + The girl sighs, and begins faintly to touch the keys of the piano again. + The man sighs, too, and continues, with a heightened note of personal + grievance: + </p> + <p> + “If any man's hopes ever came to shipwreck, mine have. Just look back over + my life. Look at the professional career I gave up when I married your + mother, in order to be with her more than I otherwise could have been. + Look how poorly we lived, she and I, on the little income she brought me. + And then the burden of you children! And what some men would have felt a + burden, as you grew up, I made a source of hopes. I had endowed you both + with good looks and talent; Dick with business ability, and you with a + gift for music. In order to cultivate these advantages, which you had + inherited from me, I refrained from going into any business when your + mother died. I was satisfied to share the small allowance her father made + you two children. I never complained. I said to myself, 'I will invest my + time in bringing up my children.' I thought it would turn out the most + profitable investment in the world,—I gave you children that much + credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I should begin to + realize on the investment!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you,” says the girl. “He began + to earn money as soon as he was nineteen, and he has never—” + </p> + <p> + “Time enough, too,” the man breaks in. “It was a very fortunate thing I + had fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, when + your grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if I + hadn't prepared Dick to step in and make his living?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Our</i> living,” says the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Our living, of course. It would be very strange if I weren't to reap a + bare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a living out + of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualities for + success?” The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuable + qualities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. “Dick hasn't + done any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what <i>he</i> has + done, is so much more than nothing at all, that—” He stops as if it + were useless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact + that this conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with + displeasure. + </p> + <p> + After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: “Well, if I haven't + earned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to please + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our trip + to Europe?” + </p> + <p> + “The young man who did us so many kindnesses, and was of so much use to + you, on our trip to Europe,” she corrects. + </p> + <p> + “He thought I was rich, my dear, and that you were an heiress. He was a + nobody, an adventurer, probably. If things had gone any further between + you and him, your future might have been ruined. It was only another + example of my solicitude for you; another instance that deserves your + thanks, but elicits your ingratitude. If you are fastidious about a + musical career, at least you have still a possibility of a good marriage. + It was my duty to prevent that possibility from being cut off.” + </p> + <p> + She turns upon him a look of high reproach. + </p> + <p> + “And that was the only motive, then,” she cries, “for your tears and your + illness, and the scenes that wrung from me the promise to break with him?” + </p> + <p> + “It was motive enough, wasn't it?” he replies, defensively, a little + frightened at her sudden manner of revolt. “My thoughtfulness for your + future—my duty as a father—my love for my child—” + </p> + <p> + “You pretended it was your jealous love for me, your feeling of desertion, + your loneliness. I might have known better! You played on my pity, on my + love for you, on my sense of duty as a daughter left to fill my mother's + place. When you cried over being abandoned, when you looked so forlorn, my + heart melted. And that night when you said you were dying, when you kept + calling for me—'Flo, where is little Flo'—although I was there + leaning over you, I couldn't endure to grieve you, and I gave my promise. + And it was only that mercenary motive, after all!—to save me for a + profitable marriage!” She gazes at her father with an expression so new to + him on her face, that he moves about in his chair, and coughs before + answering: + </p> + <p> + “You will appreciate my action some day. And besides, your promise to drop + the man wasn't so much to give. You admitted, yourself, he hadn't written + to you. He had afforded you good cause, by his neglect.” + </p> + <p> + “He was very busy at that time. I always thought there was something + strange about his sudden failure to write—something that could have + been explained, if my promise to you hadn't kept me from inquiring.” + </p> + <p> + The father coughs again, at this, and turns his gaze upon the fire, which + he contemplates deeply, to the exclusion of all other objects. The girl, + after regarding him for a moment, sighs profoundly; placing her elbows on + the keyboard, she leans forward and buries her face in her hands. + </p> + <p> + This picture, not disturbed by further speech, abides for several ticks of + the French clock on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it is broken by a knock at + the door. Florence sits upright, and dries her eyes. A negro man servant + with a discreet manner enters and announces two visitors. “Show them in at + once,” says Florence, quickly, as if to forestall any possible objection + from her father. The negro withdraws, and presently, with a rapid swish of + skirts, in marches a very spick and span young lady, her diminutive but + exceedingly trim figure dressed like an animated fashion-plate. She is + Miss Edna Hill, and she comes brisk and dashing, with cheeks afire from + the cold, bringing into the dull, dreamy room the life and freshness of + the wintry day without. Behind her appears a stranger, whose name Florence + scarcely heeded when it was announced, and who enters with the solemn, + hesitant air of one hitherto unknown to the people of the house. He is a + young man clothed to be the fit companion of Miss Hill, and he waits + self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciously greets Florence as her + dearest, and while she bestows a touch of her gloved fingers and a “How + d'ye do, Mr. Kenby,” on the father. She then introduces the young man as + Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, there appears a surprised + admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty. + </p> + <p> + Miss Hill monopolizes Florence, however, and Larcher is left to wander to + the fire, and take a pose there, and discuss the weather with Mr. Kenby, + who does not seem to find the subject, or Larcher himself, at all + interesting, a fact which the young man is not slow in divining. Strained + relations immediately ensue between the two gentlemen. + </p> + <p> + As soon as the young ladies are over the preliminary burst of compliments + and news, Edna says: + </p> + <p> + “I'm lucky to find you at home, but really you oughtn't to be moping in a + dark place like this, such a fine afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Father can't go out because of his rheumatism, and I stay to keep him + company,” replies Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me, Mr. Kenby,” says Edna, looking at the gentleman rather + skeptically, as if she knew him of old and suspected a habit of + exaggerating his ailments, “can't you pass the time reading or something? + Florence <i>must</i> go out every day; she'll ruin her looks if she + doesn't,—her health, too. I should think you could manage to + entertain yourself alone an hour or two.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't that,” explains Florence; “he often wants little things done, + and it's painful for him to move about. In a house like this, the servants + aren't always available, except for routine duties.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll tell you what,” proposes Edna, blithely; “you get on your + things, dear, and we'll run around and have tea with Aunt Clara at + Purcell's. Mr. Larcher and I were to meet her there, but you come with me, + and Mr. Larcher will stay and look after your father. He'll be very glad + to, I know.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher is too much taken by surprise to be able to say how very glad + he will be. Mr. Kenby, with Miss Hill's sharp glance upon him, seems to + feel that he would cut a poor figure by opposing. So Florence is rushed by + her friend's impetuosity into coat and hat, and carried off, Miss Hill + promising to return with her for Mr. Larcher “in an hour or two.” Before + Mr. Larcher has had time to collect his scattered faculties, he is alone + with the pettish-looking old man to whom he has felt himself an object of + perfect indifference. He glares, with a defiant sense of his own worth, at + the old man, until the old man takes notice of his existence. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's kind of you to stay, Mr.—ahem. But they really needn't + have troubled you. I can get along well enough myself, when it's + absolutely necessary. Of course, my daughter will be easier in mind to + have some one here.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad to be of service—to so charming a young woman,” says + Larcher, very distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “A charming girl, yes. I'm very proud of my daughter. She's my constant + thought. Children are a great care, a great responsibility.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they are,” asserts Larcher, jumping at the chance to show this + uninterested old person that wise young men may sometimes be entertained + unawares. “It's a sign of progress that parents are learning on which side + the responsibility lies. It used to be universally accepted that the + obligation was on the part of the children. Now every writer on the + subject starts on the basis that the obligation is on the side of the + parent. It's hard to see how the world could have been so idiotic + formerly. As if the child, summoned here in ignorance by the parents for + their own happiness, owed them anything!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby stares at the young man for a time, and then says, icily: + </p> + <p> + “I don't quite follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it's very clear,” says Larcher, interested now for his argument. + “You spoke of your sense of responsibility toward your child.” + </p> + <p> + (“The deuce I did!” thinks Mr. Kenby.) + </p> + <p> + “Well, that sense is most natural in you, and shows an enlightened mind. + For how can parents feel other than deeply responsible toward the being + they have called into existence? How can they help seeing their obligation + to make existence for that being as good and happy as it's in their power + to make it? Who dare say that there is a limit to their obligation toward + that being?” + </p> + <p> + “And how about that being's obligations in return?” Mr. Kenby demands, + rather loftily. + </p> + <p> + “That being's obligations go forward to the beings it in turn summons to + life. The child, becoming in time a parent, assumes a parent's debt. The + obligation passes on from generation to generation, moving always to the + future, never back to the past.” + </p> + <p> + “Somewhat original theories!” sniffs the old man. “I suppose, then, a + parent in his old age has no right to look for support to his children?” + </p> + <p> + “It is the duty of people, before they presume to become parents, to + provide against the likelihood of ever being a burden to their children. + In accepting from their children, they rob their children's children. But + the world isn't sufficiently advanced yet to make people so far-seeing and + provident, and many parents do have to look to their children for support. + In such cases, the child ought to provide for the parent, but out of love + or humanity, not because of any purely logical claim. You see the + difference, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby gives a shrug, and grunts ironically. + </p> + <p> + “The old-fashioned idea still persists among the multitude,” Larcher goes + on, “and many parents abuse it in practice. There are people who look upon + their children mainly as instruments sent from Heaven for them to live by. + From the time their children begin to show signs of intelligence, they lay + plans and build hopes of future gain upon them. It makes my blood boil, + sometimes, to see mothers trying to get their pretty daughters on the + stage, or at a typewriter, in order to live at ease themselves. And + fathers, too, by George! Well, I don't think there's a more despicable + type of humanity in this world than the able-bodied father who brings his + children up with the idea of making use of them!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Larcher has worked himself into a genuine and very hearty indignation. + Before he can entirely calm down, he is put to some wonder by seeing his + auditor rise, in spite of rheumatism, and walk to the door at the side of + the room. “I think I'll lie down awhile,” says Mr. Kenby, curtly, and + disappears, closing the door behind him. Mr. Larcher, after standing like + a statue for some time by the fire, ensconces himself in a great armchair + before it, and gazes into it until, gradually stolen upon by a sense of + restful comfort in the darkening room, he falls asleep. + </p> + <p> + He is awakened by the gay laugh of Edna Hill, as she and Florence enter + the room. He is on his feet in time to keep his slumbers a secret, and + explains that Mr. Kenby has gone for a nap. When the gas is lit, he sees + that Florence, too, is bright-faced from the outer air, that her eye has a + fresher sparkle, and that she is more beautiful than before. As it is + getting late, and Edna's Aunt Clara is to be picked up in a shop in + Twenty-third Street where the girls have left her, Larcher is borne off + before he can sufficiently contemplate Miss Kenby's beauty. Florence is no + sooner alone than Mr. Kenby comes out of the little chamber. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you feel better for your nap, father.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't sleep any, thank you,” says Mr. Kenby. “What an odious young man + that was! He has the most horrible principles. I think he must be an + anarchist, or something of that sort. Did you enjoy your tea?” + </p> + <p> + The odious young man, walking briskly up the lighted avenue, past piano + shops and publishing houses, praises Miss Kenby's beauty to Edna Hill, who + echoes the praise without jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “She's perfectly lovely,” Edna asserts, “and then, think of it, she has + had a romance, too; but I mustn't tell that.” + </p> + <p> + “It's strange you never mentioned her to me before, being such good + friends with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they've only just got settled back in town,” answers Edna, evasively. + “What do you think of the old gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “He seems a rather queer sort. Do you know him very well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well enough. He's one of those people whose dream in life is to make + money out of their children.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Then I <i>did</i> put my foot in it!” Larcher tells of the brief + conversation he had with Mr. Kenby. It makes Edna laugh heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Good for him!” she cries. “It's a shame, his treatment of Florence. Her + brother out West supports them, and is very glad to do so on her account. + Yet the covetous old man thinks she ought to be earning money, too. She's + quite too fond of him—she even gave up a nice young man she was in + love with, for her father's sake. But listen. I don't want you to mention + these people's names to anybody—not to <i>anybody</i>, mind! + Promise.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. But why?” + </p> + <p> + “I won't tell you,” she says, decidedly; and, when he looks at her in mute + protest, she laughs merrily at his helplessness. So they go on up the + avenue. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V — A LODGING BY THE RIVER + </h2> + <p> + The day after his introduction to the Kenbys, Larcher went with Murray + Davenport on one of those expeditions incidental to their collaboration as + writer and illustrator. Larcher had observed an increase of the strange + indifference which had appeared through all the artist's loquacity at + their first interview. This loquacity was sometimes repeated, but more + often Davenport's way was of silence. His apathy, or it might have been + abstraction, usually wore the outer look of dreaminess. + </p> + <p> + “Your friend seems to go about in a trance,” Barry Tompkins said of him + one day, after a chance meeting in which Larcher had made the two + acquainted. + </p> + <p> + This was a near enough description of the man as he accompanied Larcher to + a part of the riverfront not far from the Brooklyn Bridge, on the + afternoon at which we have arrived. The two were walking along a squalid + street lined on one side with old brick houses containing junk-shops, + shipping offices, liquor saloons, sailors' hotels, and all the various + establishments that sea-folk use. On the other side were the wharves, with + a throng of vessels moored, and glimpses of craft on the broad river. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are,” said Larcher, who as he walked had been referring to a + pocket map of the city. The two men came to a stop, and Davenport took + from a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century, + representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this with the + scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport then + looked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon on the + ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottles in + the window. + </p> + <p> + “If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows up + there,” said Davenport, glancing at the first story over the saloon. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we go in and see what can be done,” suggested Larcher. + </p> + <p> + They found the saloon a small, homely place, with only one attendant + behind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing some + sort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third old + fellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seated by + himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly all + head-lines. + </p> + <p> + Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who lived + overhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect, + gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, and + finally vouchsafed the single word: + </p> + <p> + “Roomers.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see the person that has the front room up one flight,” + began Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “All right; that won't cost you nothing. There he sets.” And the barkeeper + pointed to the rural-looking old man with the newspaper, at the same time + calling out, sportively: “Hey, Mr. Bud, here's a couple o' gents wants to + look at you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud, who was tall, spare, and bent, about sixty, and the possessor of + a pleasant knobby face half surrounded by a gray beard that stretched from + ear to ear beneath his lower jaw, dropped his paper and scrutinized the + young men benevolently. They went over to him, and Larcher explained their + intrusion with as good a grace as possible. + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly, certainly,” the old man chirped with alacrity. “Glad to + have yuh. I'll be proud to do anything in the cause of literature. Come + right up.” And he rose and led the way to the street door. + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Mr. Bud,” said the jocular barkeeper. “Don't let them sell you + no gold bricks or nothin'. I never see them before, so you can't hold me + if you lose your money.” + </p> + <p> + “You keep your mouth shut, Mick,” answered the old man, “and send me up a + bottle o' whisky and a siphon o' seltzer as soon as your side partner + comes in. This way, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + He conducted them out to the sidewalk, and then in through another door, + and up a narrow stairway, to a room with two windows overlooking the + river. It was a room of moderate size, provided with old furniture, a + faded carpet, mended curtains, and lithographs of the sort given away with + Sunday newspapers. It had, in its shabbiness, that curious effect of + cosiness and comfort which these shabby old rooms somehow possess, and + luxurious rooms somehow lack. A narrow bed in a corner was covered with an + old-fashioned patchwork quilt. There was a cylindrical stove, but not in + use, as the weather had changed since the day before; and beside the + stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partly full of coal. + While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud was offering chairs, + Davenport made directly for the window and looked out with an interest + limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so. + </p> + <p> + “This is my city residence,” said the host, dropping into a chair. “It + ain't every hard-worked countryman, these times, that's able to keep up a + city residence.” As this was evidently one of Mr. Bud's favorite jests, + Larcher politically smiled. Mr. Bud soon showed that he had other favorite + jests. “Yuh see, I make my livin' up the State, but every now and then I + feel like comin' to the city for rest and quiet, and so I keep this place + the year round.” + </p> + <p> + “You come to New York for rest and quiet?” exclaimed Larcher, still kindly + feigning amusement. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Why not? As fur as rest goes, I just loaf around and watch other + people work. That's what I call rest with a sauce to it. And as fur as + quiet goes, I get used to the noises. Any sound that don't concern me, + don't annoy me. I go about unknown, with nobody carin' what my business + is, or where I'm bound fur. Now in the country everybody wants to know + where from, and where to, and what fur. The only place to be reely alone + is where thur's so many people that one man don't count for anything. And + talk about noise!—What's all the clatter and bang amount to, if it's + got nothin' to do with your own movements? Now at my home where the noise + consists of half a dozen women's voices askin' me about this, and wantin' + that, and callin' me to account for t'other,—that's the kind o' + noise that jars a man. Yuh see, I got a wife and four daughters. They're + very good women—very good women, the whole bunch—but I do find + it restful and refreshin' to take the train to New York about once a + month, and loaf around a week or so without anybody takin' notice, and no + questions ast.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does your family say to that?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothin', now. They used to say considerable when I first fell into the + habit. I hev some poultry customers here in the city, and I make out I got + to come to look after business. That story don't go fur with the fam'ly; + but they hev their way about everything else, so they got to gimme my way + about this.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport turned around from the window, and spoke for the first time + since entering: + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't occupy this room more than half the time?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, I close it up, and thank the Lord there ain't nothin' in it + worth stealin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in that case,” Davenport went on, “if I began some sketches here, and + you left town before they were done, I should have to go somewhere else to + finish them.” + </p> + <p> + It was a remark that made Larcher wonder a little, at the moment, knowing + the artist's usual methods of work. But Mr. Bud, ignorant of such matters, + replied without question: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know. That might be fixed all right, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “I see you have a library,” said Davenport, abruptly, walking over to a + row of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His sudden + interest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise in + Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the old man, with pride and affection, “them books is my + chief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again and + again, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or three that's + pretty rough travellin'. But the others!—well, I've tried a good + many authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks of + novels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the people + in 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind would blow + 'em away. But look at the <i>body</i> to Scott's people! They're all the + way round, and clear through, his characters are.—Of course, I'm no + literary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion.” Mr. Bud's + manner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from its bold + enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + “Your small opinion is quite right,” said Davenport. “There's no doubt + about the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters.” He took one + of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked on with + brightened eyes. “Andrew Fairservice—there's a character. 'Gude e'en—gude + e'en t' ye'—how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's a wild + slip, that'—there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servant + in a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to the + hilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border as + fast as he can.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie Nicol + Jarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him.” The old man + grinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding another + to praise, his favorite author. + </p> + <p> + “Interesting old illustrations these are,” said Davenport, taking up + another volume. “Dryburgh Abbey—that's how it looks on a gray day. I + was lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” exclaimed Mr. Bud. “You been to Dryburgh Abbey?—to Scott's + grave?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, which + was about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who had + been to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from New + York. + </p> + <p> + “You don't say! Well, to think of it! I <i>am</i> happy to meet you. By + George, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybe + you've seen Abbotsford?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and the + house in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud's excitement was great. “Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, and + High Street—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and the + Castle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousands + of Americans go there every year. Why don't you run over next summer?” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “That's all too fur away from home fur me. The + women are afraid o' the water, and they'd never let me go alone. I kind o' + just drifted into this New York business, but if I undertook to go across + the ocean, that <i>would</i> be the last straw. And I'm afraid I couldn't + get on to the manners and customs over there. They say everything's + different from here. To tell the truth, I'm timid where I don't know the + ways. If I was like you—I shouldn't wonder if you'd been to some of + the other places where things happen in his novels?” + </p> + <p> + With a smile, Davenport began to enumerate and describe. The old man sat + enraptured. The whisky and seltzer came up, and the host saw that the + glasses were filled and refilled, but he kept Davenport to the same + subject. Larcher felt himself quite out of the talk, but found + compensation in the whisky and in watching the old man's greedy enjoyment + of Davenport's every word. The afternoon waned, and all opportunity of + making the intended sketches passed for that day. Mr. Bud was for lighting + up, or inviting the young men to dinner, but they found pretexts for + tearing themselves away. They did not go, however, until Davenport had + arranged to come the next day and perform his neglected task. Mr. Bud + accompanied them out, and stood on the corner looking after them until + they were out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “You've made a hit with the agriculturist,” said Larcher, as they took + their way through a narrow street of old warehouses toward the region of + skyscrapers and lower Broadway. + </p> + <p> + “Scott is evidently his hobby,” replied Davenport, with a careless smile, + “and I liked to please him in it.” + </p> + <p> + He lapsed into that reticence which, as it was his manner during most of + the time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the more + remarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came on + in Larcher's presence. + </p> + <p> + It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner in + Madison Avenue, and he thus found himself not far from Davenport's abode. + Going thither upon an impulse, he beheld the artist seated at the table, + leaning forward over a confusion of old books, some of them open. He + looked pallid in the light of the reading lamp at his elbow, and his eyes + seemed withdrawn deep into their hollows. He welcomed his visitor with + conventional politeness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“How's this?” began Larcher. “Do I find you pondering, + + '... weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore?'” + </pre> + <p> + “No; merely rambling over familiar fields.” Davenport held out the topmost + book. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Shakespeare,” laughed Larcher. “The Sonnets. Hello, you've marked + part of this.” + </p> + <p> + “Little need to mark anything so famous. But it comes closer to me than to + most men, I fancy.” And he recited slowly, without looking down at the + page: + </p> + <p> + 'When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my + outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look + upon myself, and curse my fate,'— + </p> + <p> + He stopped, whereupon Larcher, not to be behind, and also without having + recourse to the page, went on: + </p> + <p> + 'Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him + with friends possest, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,'— + </p> + <p> + “But I think that hits all men,” said Larcher, interrupting himself. + “Everybody has wished himself in somebody else's shoes, now and again, + don't you believe?” + </p> + <p> + “I have certainly wished myself out of my own shoes,” replied Davenport, + almost with vehemence. “I have hated myself and my failures, God knows! I + have wished hard enough that I were not I. But I haven't wished I were any + other person now existing. I wouldn't change selves with this particular + man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throw off the burden + of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my life and conduct, and + take up the burden of some other man's—though I should be the gainer + even by that, in a thousand cases I could name.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't exactly mean changing with somebody else,” said Larcher. “We + all prefer to remain ourselves, with our own tastes, I suppose. But we + often wish our lot was like somebody else's.” + </p> + <p> + Davenport shook his head. “I don't prefer to remain myself, any more than + to be some man whom I know or have heard of. I am tired of myself; weary + and sick of Murray Davenport. To be a new man, of my own imagining—that + would be something;—to begin afresh, with an unencumbered + personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning and find that I was + not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I know of, but a + different self, formed according to ideals of my own. There <i>would</i> + be a liberation!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Larcher, “if a man can't change to another self, he can at + least change his place and his way of life.” + </p> + <p> + “But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the new place. + And even change of scene and habits is next to impossible without money.” + </p> + <p> + “I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enough + for me just now,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Davenport's only reply was a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you had the money, and could live as you liked, where would <i>you</i> + go?” demanded Larcher, slightly nettled. + </p> + <p> + “I would live a varied life. Probably it would have four phases, generally + speaking, of unequal duration and no fixed order. For one phase, the chief + scene would be a small secluded country-house in an old walled garden. + There would be the home of my books, and the centre of my walks over moors + and hills. From this, I would transport myself, when the mood came, to the + intellectual society of some large city—that of London would be most + to my choice. Mind you, I say the <i>intellectual</i> society; a far + different thing from the Society that spells itself with a capital S.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not of New York? There's intellectual society here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; a trifle fussy and self-conscious, though. I should prefer a society + more reposeful. From this, again, I would go to the life of the streets + and byways of the city. And then, for the fourth phase, to the direct + contemplation of art—music, architecture, sculpture, painting;—to + haunting the great galleries, especially of Italy, studying and copying + the old masters. I have no desire to originate. I should be satisfied, in + the arts, rather to receive than to give; to be audience and spectator; to + contemplate and admire.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hope you may have your wish yet,” was all that Larcher could say. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>should</i> like to have just one whack at life before I finish,” + replied Davenport, gazing thoughtfully into the shadow beyond the + lamplight. “Just one taste of comparative happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you ever had even one?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I had, for a brief season, but I was deceived.” (Larcher + remembered the talk of an inconstant woman.) “No, I have never been + anything like happy. My father was a cold man who chilled all around him. + He died when I was a boy, and left my mother and me to poverty. My mother + loved me well enough; she taught me music, encouraged my studies, and + persuaded a distant relation to send me to the College of Medicine and + Surgery; but her life was darkened by grief, and the darkness fell over + me, too. When she died, my relation dropped me, and I undertook to make a + living in New York. There was first the struggle for existence, then the + sickening affair of that play; afterward, misfortune enough to fill a + dozen biographies, the fatal reputation of ill luck, the brief dream of + consolation in the love of woman, the awakening,—and the rest of + it.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, to the + book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which they had + already been quoting: + </p> + <p> + 'Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising—Haply I think on + thee; and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From + sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate; For thy sweet love—' + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +He broke off, and closed the book. “'For thy sweet love,'” he repeated. +“You see even this unhappy poet had his solace. I used to read those +lines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a silly +song, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course,—a little +poem of Frank L. Stanton's.” He went to the piano, and sang softly, in a +light baritone: + + 'Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong, + For God gives grief with the gift of song, + And poverty, too; but your love is more—' +</pre> + <p> + Again he stopped short, and with a derisive laugh. “What an ass I was! As + if any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never be disheartened,” said Larcher. “Your time is to come; you'll + have your 'whack at life' yet.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or two of + the dreams of youth—the dreams an unhappy lad consoled himself + with.” + </p> + <p> + “What were they?” inquired Larcher. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“What were they not, that is fine and pleasant? I had my share of diverse +ambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, in +Longfellow: + + <i>'For a boy's will is the wind's will, + And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'”</i> +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI — THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP + </h2> + <p> + A month passed. All the work in which Larcher had enlisted Davenport's + cooperation was done. Larcher would have projected more, but the artist + could not be pinned down to any definite engagement. He was non-committal, + with the evasiveness of apathy. He seemed not to care any longer about + anything. More than ever he appeared to go about in a dream. Larcher might + have suspected some drug-taking habit, but for having observed the man so + constantly, at such different hours, and often with so little warning, as + to be convinced to the contrary. + </p> + <p> + One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and the beauty + of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a sense of + life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met his + friend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his inner + contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as a man + could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped, + however, when Larcher did. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” the latter asked. + </p> + <p> + “Home,” was the reply; thus amended the next instant: “To my room, that + is.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll walk with you, if you don't mind. I feel like stretching my legs.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to have you,” said Davenport, indifferently. They turned from + Broadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of which + rose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larcher + called the artist's attention to it. Davenport replied by quoting, + mechanically: + </p> + <p> + “'With how slow steps, O moon, thou clim'st the sky, How silently, and + with how wan a face!'” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad to see you out on so fine a night,” pursued Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I came out on business,” said the other. “I got a request by telegraph + from the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurry + call' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, to + look after a few matters in his absence.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust you'll find them interesting,” said Larcher, comparing his own + failure with Bagley's success in obtaining Davenport's services. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the slightest,” replied Davenport. + </p> + <p> + “Then remunerative, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Not sufficiently to attract <i>me</i>,” said the other. + </p> + <p> + “Then, if you'll pardon the remark, I really can't understand—” + </p> + <p> + “Mere force of habit,” replied Davenport, listlessly. “When he summons, I + attend. When he entrusts, I accept. I've done it so long, and so often, I + can't break myself of the habit. That is, of course, I could if I chose, + but it would require an effort, and efforts aren't worth while at this + stage.” + </p> + <p> + With little more talk, they arrived at the artist's house. + </p> + <p> + “If you talk of moonlight,” said Davenport, in a manner of some + kindliness, “you should see its effect on the back yards, from my windows. + You know how half-hearted the few trees look in the daytime; but I don't + think you've seen that view on a moonlight night. The yards, taken as a + whole, have some semblance to a real garden. Will you come up?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher assented readily. A minute later, while his host was seeking + matches, he looked down from the dark chamber, and saw that the + transformation wrought in the rectangular space of back yards had not been + exaggerated. The shrubbery by the fences might have sheltered fairies. The + boughs of the trees, now leafless, gently stirred. Even the plain + house-backs were clad in beauty. + </p> + <p> + When Larcher turned from the window, Davenport lighted the gas, but not + his lamp; then drew from an inside pocket, and tossed on the table, + something which Larcher took to be a stenographer's note-book, narrow, + thick, and with stiff brown covers. Its unbound end was confined by a thin + rubber band. Davenport opened a drawer of the table, and essayed to sweep + the book thereinto by a careless push. The book went too far, struck the + arm of a chair, flew open at the breaking of the overstretched rubber, + fell on its side by the chair leg, and disclosed a pile of bank-notes. + These, tightly flattened, were the sole contents of the covers. As + Larcher's startled eyes rested upon them, he saw that the topmost bill was + for five hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + Davenport exhibited a momentary vexation, then picked up the bills, and + laid them on the table in full view. + </p> + <p> + “Bagley's money,” said he, sitting down before the table. “I'm to place it + for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carrying out + personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business to the + reliable Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of so + much money,” said Larcher, who had taken a chair near his friend. + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose there's another man in New York to-night with so much + ready money on his person,” said Davenport, smiling. “These are large + bills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walking + about with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket.” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were—” Larcher + checked himself. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Davenport, unmoved. “Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that + morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to + very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could + make it go far—exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a + congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am + I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat it + as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?” + </p> + <p> + He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them + in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying + there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this + up, and handed it to Larcher, saying: + </p> + <p> + “You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you + make of this man's character?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise, + round hand: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR DAVENPORT:—I will meet you at the place and time you + suggest. We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our + different ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, + still less. Yours truly, + </p> + <h3> + “FRANCIS TURL.” + </h3> + <p> + “Francis Turl,” repeated Larcher. “I never heard the name before.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose you never have,” replied Davenport, dryly. “But what + character would you infer from his penmanship?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,—I don't know.” Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. “An + educated person, I should think; even scholarly, perhaps. Fastidious, + steady, exact, reserved,—that's about all.” + </p> + <p> + “Not very much,” said Davenport, taking back the sheet. “You merely + describe the handwriting itself. Your characterization, as far as it goes, + would fit men who write very differently from this. It fits me, for + instance, and yet look at my angular scrawl.” He held up a specimen of his + own irregular hand, beside the elegant penmanship of the note, and Larcher + had to admit himself a humbug as a graphologist. + </p> + <p> + “But,” he demanded, “did my description happen to fit that particular man—Francis + Turl?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, more or less,” said Davenport, evasively, as if not inclined to give + any information about that person. This apparent disinclination increased + Larcher's hidden curiosity as to who Francis Turl might be, and why + Davenport had never mentioned him before, and what might be between the + two for settlement. + </p> + <p> + Davenport put Turl's writing back into the drawer, but continued to regard + his own. “'A vile cramped hand,'” he quoted. “I hate it, as I have grown + to hate everything that partakes of me, or proceeds from me. Sometimes I + fancy that my abominable handwriting had as much to do with alienating a + certain fair inconstant as the news of my reputed unluckiness. Both coming + to her at once, the combined effect was too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?—Did you break that news to her by letter?” + </p> + <p> + “That seems strange to you, perhaps. But you see, at first it didn't occur + to me that I should have to break it to her at all. We met abroad; we were + tourists whose paths happened to cross. Over there I almost forgot about + the bad luck. It wasn't till both of us were back in New York, that I felt + I should have to tell her, lest she might hear it first from somebody + else. But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough to make me put the + revelation off from day to day. The more I put it off, the more difficult + it seemed—you know how the smallest matter, even the writing of an + overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So this little ordeal got + magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't brace myself to go + through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in his affairs, and he + kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I got free, I was surprised + to find she had left town. I hadn't the least idea where she'd gone; till + one day I received a letter from her. She wrote as if she thought I had + known where she was; she reproached me with negligence, but was friendly + nevertheless. I replied at once, clearing myself of the charge; and in + that same letter I unburdened my soul of the bad luck secret. It was + easier to write it than speak it.” + </p> + <p> + “And what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I never heard from her again.” + </p> + <p> + “But your letter may have miscarried,—something of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. + She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. + But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a + one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history + of Murray Davenport.—She was a fine young woman, as the world + judges; she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You + remember his library—made up entirely of Scott?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of + living did.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the + country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in + the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short + spell,' as he calls it.” + </p> + <p> + “You still keep in touch with him?” asked Larcher, in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable—allowing me the use of his room + to sketch in.” + </p> + <p> + “Even during his absence?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. + He's proud of them.” + </p> + <p> + Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on + the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This + stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent for + a moment; then rose, with the words: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit + garden. When shall I see you again?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't + find me here.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I shall + have them day after to-morrow. Let's see—I'm engaged for that day. + How will the next day suit you?” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Come the next day if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch + together.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please.” + </p> + <p> + “One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!” + </p> + <p> + “Good night!” + </p> + <p> + At the door, Larcher turned for a moment in passing out, and saw Davenport + standing by the table, looking after him. What was the inscrutable + expression—half amusement, half friendliness and self-accusing + regret—which faintly relieved for a moment the indifference of the + man's face? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII — MYSTERY BEGINS + </h2> + <p> + The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dull + person in not having yet put this and that together and associated the + love-affair of Murray Davenport with the “romance” of Miss Florence Kenby. + One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, and her + inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair of + connecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probably judge + otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought to Larcher's + notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation, as she + necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fully in + possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were the + circumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up his life, + as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's “romance” had + been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had given up a lover to + please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandoned him because he was + unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such a woman, and so of a + different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. To be sure, he knew now + that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but so had most young women. In + short, the small connecting facts had no such significance in his mind, + where they were not grouped away from other facts, as they must have in + these pages, where their very presence together implies inter-relation. + </p> + <p> + In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightly upon + the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessed that + those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But a certain + manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point in spite of + all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenport ascribed + the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's present opinion of + her. “He was thrown over by some woman whose name he never mentions; since + then he has steered clear of the sex,” was what Larcher replied to Edna a + hundred times, in a hundred different sets of phrases; and it was all he + replied on the subject. + </p> + <p> + So matters stood until two days after the interview related in the + previous chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said that for + the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointed the third + day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement for the second day + was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at a riding-school. Upon + arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mild protection of her + easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in the arrangement. To this + he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well as beautiful; and Larcher + was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Edna that he could play the + cavalier to one pretty girl as well as to another. He did not, however, + manage to disturb her serenity at all during the afternoon. The three + returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of the utmost readiness for + afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. To make things pleasanter, + Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking a nap. The three young + people had the drawing-room, with its bright coal fire, to themselves. + </p> + <p> + Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid who + placed the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have been + transported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat was her + black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so clean her + slender hands. + </p> + <p> + “What a sweet place you have, Edna,” remarked Florence Kenby, looking + around. + </p> + <p> + “So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make it + sweeter, for good, you've only got to move in.” + </p> + <p> + Florence laughed, but with something very like a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “What, are you willing to take boarders?” said Larcher. “If that's the + case, put me down as the first applicant.” + </p> + <p> + “Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, and + no gentlemen need apply. Two lumps, Flo dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please.—If only your restrictions didn't keep out poor father—” + </p> + <p> + “If only your poor father would consider your happiness instead of his own + selfish plans.” + </p> + <p> + “Edna, dear! You mustn't.” + </p> + <p> + “Why mustn't I?” replied Edna, pouring tea. “Truth's truth. He's your + father, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us would + do more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and have + better health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, why + doesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know the + reason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his own projects. + You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he read your father + like a book the first time he ever met him.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly looked + very wise and penetrative. + </p> + <p> + “I should think your father himself would be happier,” said he, “if he + lived less privately and had more of men's society.” + </p> + <p> + “He's often in poor health,” replied Florence. + </p> + <p> + “In that case, there are plenty of places, half hotel, half sanatorium, + where the life is as luxurious as can be.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't think of deserting him. Even if he—weren't altogether + unselfish about me, there would always be my promise.” + </p> + <p> + “What does that matter—such a promise?” inquired Edna, between sips + of tea. + </p> + <p> + “You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear,” said + Florence, smiling. “But you know as well as I, that a promise is sacred.” + </p> + <p> + “Not all promises. Are they, Tommy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not all,” replied Larcher. “It's like this: When you make a bad + promise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, you + perpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break the + promise.” + </p> + <p> + “Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, and + your promise did inaugurate a wrong—a wrong against yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, it's allowable to wrong oneself,” said Florence. + </p> + <p> + “But not one's friends—one's true, disinterested friends. And as for + that other promise of yours—that <i>fearful</i> promise!—you + can't deny you wronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a choice between him and my father,” replied Florence, in a low + voice, and turning very red. + </p> + <p> + “Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?” cried Edna, her eyes and + tone showing that the subject was a heating one. “Which was likely to + suffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers <i>don't</i> + die in those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics <i>must</i> + have been put on for effect. Oh, don't tell me!—it makes me wild to + think of it! Your father would have been all right in a week; whereas the + other man's whole life is darkened.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say that, dear,” pleaded Florence, gently. “Men soon get over such + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so awfully soon;—not sincere men. Their views of life are + changed, for all time. And <i>this</i> man seems to grow more and more + melancholy, if what Tom says is true.” + </p> + <p> + “What I say?” exclaimed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + The two girls looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness! I <i>have</i> given it away!” cried Edna. + </p> + <p> + “More and more melancholy?” repeated Larcher. “Why, that must be Murray + Davenport. Was he the—? Then you must be the—! But surely <i>you</i> + wouldn't have given him up on account of the bad luck nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “Bad luck nonsense?” echoed Edna, while Miss Kenby looked bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “The silly idea of some foolish people, that he carried bad luck with + him,” Larcher explained, addressing Florence. “He sent you a letter about + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I never got any such letter from him,” said Florence, in wonderment. + </p> + <p> + “Then you didn't know? And that had nothing to do with your giving him + up?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that—But the letter you + speak of—when was it? I never had a letter from him after I left + town. He didn't even answer when I told him we were going.” + </p> + <p> + “Because he never heard you were going. He got a letter after you had + gone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There must have + been some strange defect in your mail arrangements.” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarried + between us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains to + clear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time—” She + stopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering. + </p> + <p> + “Speaking of your father,” said Larcher, “you must have got a subsequent + letter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receipt came + back with your father's signature.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I never got that, either,” said Florence, before the inference struck + her. When it did, she gazed from one to the other with a helpless, wounded + look, and blushed as if the shame were her own. + </p> + <p> + Edna Hill's eyes blazed with indignation, then softened in pity for her + friend. She turned to Larcher in a very calling-to-account manner. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you tell me all this before?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't think it was necessary. And besides, he never told me about the + letters till the night before last.” + </p> + <p> + “And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed him + over because of some ridiculous notion about bad luck?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, more or less,—and the general fickleness of the sex.” + </p> + <p> + “General fick—! And you, having seen Florence, let him go on + thinking so?” + </p> + <p> + “But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only told me + it was for her you wanted news of him—” + </p> + <p> + “Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had some + news of <i>her</i>. He ought to know she wasn't actuated by any such + paltry, childish motive.” + </p> + <p> + “By George, I agree with you!” cried Larcher, with a sudden energy. “If + you could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, Miss Kenby! + I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due to that; he had + causes enough before. But it needed only that to take away all + consolation, to stagger his faith, to kill his interest in life.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it made him so bitter?” asked Florence, sadly. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't call the effect bitterness. He has too lofty a mind for + strong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to the last + stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch to making + his life a wearisome drudgery, without motive or hope.” + </p> + <p> + Florence sighed deeply. + </p> + <p> + “To think that he could believe such a thing of Florence,” put in Edna. + “I'm sure <i>I</i> couldn't. Could you, Tom?” + </p> + <p> + “When a man's in love, he doesn't see things in their true proportions,” + said Larcher, authoritatively. “He exaggerates both the favors and the + rebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If he + thinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by his sufferings. + As they are so great, he thinks the woman's cruelty correspondingly great. + Nobody will believe such good things of a woman as the man who loves her; + but nobody will believe such bad things if matters go wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear, Tommy! What a lot you know about it!” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Hill's momentary sarcasm went unheeded. “So I really think, Miss + Kenby, if you'll pardon me,” Larcher continued, “that Murray Davenport + ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even if matters never go + any further, he ought to know that you still—h'm—feel an + interest in him—still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about your + solicitude—how it was the cause of my looking him up—I can see + through all that now—” + </p> + <p> + “I can never thank you enough—and Edna,” said Florence, in a + tremulous voice. + </p> + <p> + “No thanks are due me,” replied Larcher, emphatically. “I value his + acquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew your real + motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never to see you + again, the knowledge would have an immense effect on his life. I'm sure it + would. It would restore his faith in you, in woman, in humanity. It would + console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweet to him. It would + change the color of his view of life; give him hope and strength; make a + new man of him.” + </p> + <p> + Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. “I should be so glad,” she + said, gently, “if—if only—you see, I promised not to hold any + sort of communication with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that promise!” cried Edna. “Just think how it was obtained. And think + about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't release you, + I wonder what!” + </p> + <p> + Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder. + </p> + <p> + “Moreover,” said Larcher, “you won't be holding communication. The matter + has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky + forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him + to-morrow, anyhow—it looks as though it had all been ordained. I + really don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby.” + </p> + <p> + Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and + a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared. + </p> + <p> + “You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather + have than to see him made happy.” + </p> + <p> + “If you'd like to see it with your own eyes,” said Larcher, “let me send + him to you for the news.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came + to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of + meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys + to anybody. “Well,” said he, “in that case, Murray Davenport shall be made + happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it,” cried + Edna. “Flo, you <i>must</i> be here for the news, if I have to go in a + hansom and kidnap you.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I can come voluntarily,” said Florence, smiling through her + tears. + </p> + <p> + “And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any + silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea + get cold. I must have another cup.” And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot + water. + </p> + <p> + The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and laughter; + the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous cause of + love and truth against the old, old foes—mercenary design, false + appearance, and mistaken duty. + </p> + <p> + Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time + previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out + his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the + disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his + friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the + appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. + Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's + lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day. + </p> + <p> + “I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room,” he said to the negro boy at + the door. + </p> + <p> + “All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,” + replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand. + </p> + <p> + Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. “When did that + telegram come?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Last evening.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he + hasn't been in?” + </p> + <p> + Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming of + somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper, with + tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly look. + Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?” she asked, quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that engagement?” + </p> + <p> + “On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?—What's the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport hasn't + been home for two days!” + </p> + <p> + “Two days! Why, that's rather strange!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either told + me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about saving + me trouble or anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + “And this time he said nothing about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the + morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry + any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel wrapped + in brown paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now—If he + doesn't soon turn up—What do you think about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of mysterious + disappearance—that's what I think!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII — MR. LARCHER INQUIRES + </h2> + <p> + Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher + spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now.” + </p> + <p> + The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street. But + no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he left a note for me on the table,” said Larcher. “I have the + freedom of his room, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Go up and see, then. I'll go with you.” + </p> + <p> + The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a + person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. None + of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or + covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing + addressed to Larcher or anybody else. + </p> + <p> + “It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon,” remarked the + landlady. + </p> + <p> + “It certainly does.” Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. + He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession + at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on + leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but something + checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a way that + seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly wished to keep + it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Larcher, “he might have met with an accident.” + </p> + <p> + “I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's + nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked + down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd + meant to stay away so long?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he met + me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in advance.” + </p> + <p> + “But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some + time.” + </p> + <p> + “No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little + money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me + for another month.' He knew I gener'ly—had use for money whenever it + happened along. He was a kind-hearted—I mean he <i>is</i> a + kind-hearted man. Hear me speakin' of him as if—What's that?” + </p> + <p> + It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned + to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came + almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the flight + above. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up,” said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected + whisper. + </p> + <p> + The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the + hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance + became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill + and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of the + landlady. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?” said she, + still in a lowered voice. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general + alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I believe. + There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened without + sufficient cause.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send + out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make + a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better + wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he + hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment, + though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a + fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons + for this, how we shall all feel.” + </p> + <p> + “He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only + friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good + many single men are,—that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days + at a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it. + But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow, till + you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll + give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then, if + he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance he + might be. I've only just now thought of it.” + </p> + <p> + The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had + spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might + have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance—a + bare chance—of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that + place or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of + him than Mrs. Haze had. + </p> + <p> + That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the + very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled + Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything in + connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and the + solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say to the + girls when he met them at tea? + </p> + <p> + At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went down-stairs, + and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised to return about + four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an elevated car, and + out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to imagine his friend had + by that time arrived home. This feeling remained with him all the way + down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the house on the + water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at Mr. Bud's + door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in the + ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the + thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked. + </p> + <p> + “Evidently nobody at home,” said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs + again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had + seen on his first visit to the place. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I might find a friend of mine here,” he said, after ordering a + drink. “Perhaps you remember—we were here together five or six weeks + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember all right enough,” said the bar-keeper. “He ain't here now.” + </p> + <p> + “He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old + man Bud.” + </p> + <p> + “What day was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see, I guess it was—naw, it was Monday, because it was the + day before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud + did.” + </p> + <p> + It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. “And so + you haven't seen my friend since Monday?” he asked, insistently. + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said.” + </p> + <p> + “And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I said.” + </p> + <p> + “When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “You can search <i>me,</i>” was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing + all knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions. + </p> + <p> + Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling + that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he + was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. + It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The + telegram was still on the hat-stand. + </p> + <p> + “Any news?” asked the landlady, appearing from the rear. + </p> + <p> + “No. I was hoping you might have some.” + </p> + <p> + After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his + engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat. + </p> + <p> + “Here he is!” cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high + spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in + great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet + unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “Well? Well? Well?” said Edna. “How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your + good news, and then we'll tell you ours.” Florence only watched his face, + but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's + noise. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the fact is,” began Larcher, embarrassed, “I can't tell you any + good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me to-day, + and I haven't been able to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “Not able to see him?” Edna exclaimed, hotly. “Why didn't you go and find + him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with men—always + afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an unreliable, + helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!” + </p> + <p> + Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied: + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've + spent the afternoon doing that.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman would have managed to find out where he was,” retorted Edna. + </p> + <p> + “His landlady's a woman,” rejoined Larcher, doggedly, “and she hasn't + managed to find out.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she been trying to?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—no,” stammered Larcher, repenting. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she has!” said Edna, with a changed manner. “But what for? Why is + she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom—I can tell by your + looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?” + </p> + <p> + A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier + or pleasanter. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away + from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his + landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all.” + </p> + <p> + “And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?” + persisted Edna. + </p> + <p> + “No. I suppose it slipped his mind.” + </p> + <p> + “And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?” + </p> + <p> + “Not when I saw her last—about half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Well!” ejaculated Edna. “That <i>is</i> a mysterious disappearance!” + </p> + <p> + The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental + observation in the moment's silence that followed,—a silence broken + by a low cry from Florence Kenby. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if anything has happened to him!” + </p> + <p> + The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which + Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time + he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed + by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport, + undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to + raise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men + often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's + quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom says.” + </p> + <p> + “As I say!” exclaimed Larcher. “<i>I</i> don't say it's bad at all. It's + your own imagination, Edna,—your sudden and sensational imagination. + There's no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says—” + </p> + <p> + “But I must make sure,” interrupted Florence. “If anything <i>is</i> + wrong, we're losing time. He must be sought for—the police must be + notified.” + </p> + <p> + “His landlady—a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze—spoke + of that, and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to + wait awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got + noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of things—as + of course he will—why, how foolish we should all feel!” + </p> + <p> + “What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how he + would hate that sort of publicity.” + </p> + <p> + “That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if + you knew my anxiety!” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters + at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go + around to the—to other places where people inquire in such cases.” + </p> + <p> + “And you'll let me know immediately—as soon as you find out + anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?” + </p> + <p> + “Stay here to-night, Florence,” put in Edna. “It will be all right, <i>now</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher.” + </p> + <p> + Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little. + </p> + <p> + “She's had an understanding with her father,” said Edna, having noted his + look. “She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Florence, “I—I had a talk with him—I spoke to him + about those letters, and he finally—explained the matter. We settled + many things. He released me from the promise we were talking about + yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! That's excellent news!” + </p> + <p> + “It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a + disappointment,” bemoaned Edna. + </p> + <p> + “It's news that will change the world for Davenport,” replied Larcher. “I + <i>must</i> find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he + wouldn't be long missing.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be too cruel if any harm befell him”—Florence's voice + quivered as she spoke—“at this time, of all times. It would be the + crowning misfortune.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see how Heaven could allow it,” said Florence, earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he's simply <i>got</i> to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can + go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you on + the way?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would + stop at a telegraph-office—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “There's a call-box down-stairs. + I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While + they waited for that, she asked, cautiously: + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before + Florence?” + </p> + <p> + A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again he + felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and + should be treated by him—for the present, at least—as + non-existent. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied. “I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So + far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves, + probably, for having been at all worked up over it.—She's a lovely + girl, isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself.” + </p> + <p> + “She's proof against your charms,” said Edna, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm + brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern if + <i>I</i> were missing?” + </p> + <p> + “I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in + suspense. You're a dear boy! <i>Au revoir!</i>” + </p> + <p> + With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish + motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This + time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home; yet + it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The same + deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was mirrored in + the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no news. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in + which, the choice being “optional,” sundry of the lodgers took their rooms + “with board.” Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of “helping + out” the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself disguised + as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and threw on her + things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There she told all + that was necessary, to an official at a desk,—a big, comfortable man + with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman, after briefly + questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible notes, and setting + a subordinate to looking through the latest entries in a large record, + dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was proper to be done <i>would</i> + be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with him, as if he doubted, not + only that Murray Davenport was missing, but that any such person as Murray + Davenport existed to <i>be</i> missing; as if he merely indulged his + visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as if in any case the matter + was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate reported that nothing in + the record for the past two days showed any such man, or the body of any + such man, to have come under the all-seeing eye of the police. + Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an investigation should + be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that no dead body had been + found, and repeated that all proper steps would be taken. With this grain + of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned to her bread pudding, + for which her boarders were by that time waiting. + </p> + <p> + When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed + to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any + considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently + allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. “Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think so,” + she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so short, and + might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not yet warrant + the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished to keep + private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be made from + that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at the + inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard his + friend from that. + </p> + <p> + Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he + required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine at + her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat at one + of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking together + are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in the world. He + soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely given his order + when in sauntered Barry Tompkins. + </p> + <p> + “Stop right here,” cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and + pulling him into a seat. “You are commandeered.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner first, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Do you give me <i>carte blanche</i> with the bill of fare? May + I roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?” + </p> + <p> + “None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals, + station-houses, morgue, <i>et cetera</i>. There's a man missing. You've + made those rounds before.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and + again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to him + in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have + search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's + the latest victim of the strenuous life?” + </p> + <p> + “Murray Davenport!” + </p> + <p> + “What! is he occurring again?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two + made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing + inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have ever + made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the experience, + and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure from a recital + of it. The long distances from point to point, the rebuffs from petty + officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless information from fools clad + in a little brief authority, the mingled hope and dread of coming upon the + object of the search at the next place, the recurring feeling that the + whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose chase and that the missing person + is now safe at home, are a few features of the disheartening business. The + labors of Larcher and Tompkins elicited nothing; lightened though they + were by the impecunious lawyer's tact, knowledge, and good humor, they + left the young men dispirited and dead tired. Larcher had nothing to + telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of her passing a sleepless night, waiting + for news, the dupe and victim of every sound that might herald a + messenger. He slept ill himself, the short time he had left for sleep. In + the morning he made a swift breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. + Davenport's room was still untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram + still lay unclaimed in the hall below. + </p> + <p> + Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night, + for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the + morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an + indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was + the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her + lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair, during + the ensuing days,—for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or heard + of the missing one,—but of these Larcher was not often a witness. + Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an + unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time + between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was + subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek, + cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He + volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of Davenport's + disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His diminution spoke + volumes for the unexpected force of personality Florence must have shown + in that unrelated interview about the letters, in which she had got back + her promise. + </p> + <p> + The burden of action during those ensuing days fell on Larcher. Besides + regular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house, + and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to every place + he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person he had ever + known Davenport to be acquainted with. Only, for a time Mr. Bagley had to + be excepted, he not having yet returned from Chicago. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that the big man at police headquarters had really caused the + proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house and searched + the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most of the + newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that Murray Davenport, “a + song-writer,” was missing from his lodging-house. Larcher hoped that this, + if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoy him, would certainly + bring word from him. But the man remained as silent as unseen. Was there, + indeed, what the newspapers call “foul play”? And was Larcher called upon + yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? The knowledge of that would + give the case an importance in the eyes of the police, but would it, even + if the worst had happened, do any good to Davenport? Larcher thought not; + and held his tongue. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance,—or, as + Larcher preferred to call it, non-appearance,—that gentleman, having + just sat down in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first + page of an evening paper—one of the yellow brand—which he had + bought a minute before. All at once he was struck in the face, + metaphorically speaking, by a particular set of headlines. He held his + breath, and read the following opening paragraph: + </p> + <p> + “The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phase + on the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has not + been seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house,—East——th + Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a large amount of + cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposes the previous + night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when he called this + morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the money should have been + handed over, he found that not a cent of it had been disposed of according + to orders. Davenport had for some years frequently acted as a secretary or + agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousands of dollars for the latter + in such a manner as to gain the highest confidence.” + </p> + <p> + There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times over + on the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girls were + sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Edna sprang to + her feet, and Florence's lips parted. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” cried Edna. “You've got news! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Not any news of <i>his</i> whereabouts.” + </p> + <p> + “What of, then? It's in that paper.” + </p> + <p> + She seized the yellow journal, and threw her glance from headline to + headline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate of + utterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer. + </p> + <p> + “Well! What do you think of <i>that</i>?” she said, and stopped to take + breath. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is true?” asked Florence. + </p> + <p> + “There is some reason to believe it is!” replied Larcher, awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + Florence rose, in great excitement. “Then this affair <i>must</i> be + cleared up!” she cried. “For don't you see? He may have been robbed—waylaid + for the money—made away with! God knows what else can have happened! + The newspaper hints that he ran away with the money. I'll never believe + that. It must be cleared up—I tell you it <i>must</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Edna tried to soothe the agitated girl, and looked sorrowfully at Larcher, + who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve the mystery. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX — MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY + </h2> + <p> + A month passed, and it was not cleared up. Larcher became hopeless of ever + having sight or word of Murray Davenport again. For himself, he missed the + man; for the man, assuming a tragic fate behind the mystery, he had pity; + but his sorrow was keenest for Miss Kenby. No description, nothing but + experience, can inform the reader what was her torment of mind: to be so + impatient of suspense as to cry out as she had done, and yet perforce to + wait hour after hour, day after day, week after week, in the same + unrelieved anxiety,—this prolonged torture is not to be told in + words. She schooled herself against further outcries, but the evidence of + her suffering was no less in her settled look of baffled expectancy, her + fits of mute abstraction, the start of her eyes at any sound of bell or + knock. She clutched back hope as it was slipping away, and would not + surrender uncertainty for its less harrowing follower, despair. She had + resumed, as the probability of immediate news decreased, her former way of + existence, living with her father at the house in lower Fifth Avenue, + where Miss Hill saw her every day except when she went to see Miss Hill, + who denied herself the Horse Show, the football games, and the opera for + the sake of her friend. Larcher called on the Kenbys twice or thrice a + week, sometimes with Edna, sometimes alone. + </p> + <p> + There was one possibility which Larcher never mentioned to Miss Kenby in + discussing the case. He feared it might fit too well her own secret + thought. That was the possibility of suicide. What could be more + consistent with Davenport's outspoken distaste for life, as he found it, + or with his listless endurance of it, than a voluntary departure from it? + He had never talked suicide, but this, in his state of mind, was rather an + argument in favor of his having acted it. No threatened men live longer, + as a class, than those who have themselves as threateners. It was true, + Larcher had seen in Davenport's copy of Keats, this passage marked: + </p> + <p> + “... for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.” + </p> + <p> + But an unhappy man might endorse that saying without a thought of possible + self-destruction. So, for Davenport's very silence on that way of escape + from his tasteless life, Larcher thought he might have taken it. + </p> + <p> + He confided this thought to no less a person than Bagley, some weeks after + the return of that capitalist from Chicago. Two or three times, meeting by + chance, they had briefly discussed the disappearance, each being more than + willing to obtain whatever light the other might be able to throw on the + case. Finally Bagley, to whom Larcher had given his address, had sent for + him to call at the former's rooms on a certain evening. These rooms proved + to be a luxurious set of bachelor apartments in one of the new tall + buildings just off Broadway. Hard wood, stamped leather, costly rugs, + carved furniture, the richest upholstery, the art of the old world and the + inventiveness of the new, had made this a handsome abode at any time, and + a particularly inviting one on a cold December night. Larcher, therefore, + was not sorry he had responded to the summons. He found Bagley sharing + cigars and brandy with another man, a squat, burly, middle-aged stranger, + with a dyed mustache and the dress and general appearance of a retired + hotel-porter, cheap restaurant proprietor, theatre doorkeeper, or some + such useful but not interesting member of society. This person, for a + time, fulfilled the promise of his looks, of being uninteresting. On being + introduced to Larcher as Mr. Lafferty, he uttered a quick “Howdy,” with a + jerk of the head, and lapsed into a mute regard of tobacco smoke and + brandy bottle, which he maintained while Bagley and Larcher went more + fully into the Davenport case than they had before gone together. Larcher + felt that he was being sounded, but he saw no reason to withhold anything + except what related to Miss Kenby. It was now that he mentioned possible + suicide. + </p> + <p> + “Suicide? Not much,” said Bagley. “A man <i>would</i> be a chump to turn + on the gas with all that money about him. No, sir; it wasn't suicide. We + know that much.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>know</i> it?” exclaimed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we know it. A man don't make the preparations he did, when he's got + suicide on his mind. I guess we might as well put Mr. Larcher on, + Lafferty, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Jess' you say,” replied Mr. Lafferty, briefly. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” continued Bagley to Larcher, “I sent for you, so's I could pump + you in front of Lafferty here. I'm satisfied you've told all you know, and + though that's absolutely nothing at all—ain't that so, Lafferty?” + </p> + <p> + “Yep,—nothin' 'tall.” + </p> + <p> + “Though it's nothing at all, a fair exchange is no robbery, and I'm + willing for you to know as much as I do. The knowledge won't do you any + good—it hasn't done me any good—but it'll give you an insight + into your friend Davenport. Then you and his other friends, if he's got + any, won't roast me because I claim that he flew the coop and not that + somebody did him for the money. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; then we'll open your eyes. I guess you don't happen to know + who Mr. Lafferty here is, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he's a central office detective.” (Mr. Lafferty bore Larcher's look + of increased interest with becoming modesty.) “He's been on this case ever + since I came back from Chicago, and by a piece of dumb luck, he got next + to Davenport's trail for part of the day he was last seen. He'll tell you + how far he traced him. It's up to you now, Lafferty. Speak out.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lafferty, pretending to take as a good joke the attribution of his + discoveries to “dumb luck,” promptly discoursed in a somewhat thick but + rapid voice. + </p> + <p> + “On the Wednesday morning he was las' seen, he left the house about nine + o'clock, with a package wrapt in brown paper. I lose sight of'm f'r a + couple 'f hours, but I pick'm up again a little before twelve. He's still + got the same package. He goes into a certain department store, and buys a + suit o' clothes in the clothin' department; shirts, socks, an' + underclothes in the gents' furnishin' department; a pair o' shoes in the + shoe department, an' s'mother things in other departments. These he has + all done up in wrappin'-paper, pays fur 'em, and leaves 'em to be called + fur later. He then goes an' has his lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does he have his lunch?” asked Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind where he has his lunch,” said Mr. Lafferty, annoyed. “That's + got no bearin' on the case. After he has his lunch, he goes to a certain + big grocer's and provision dealer's, an' buys a lot o' canned meats and + various provisions,—I can give you a complete list if you want it.” + </p> + <p> + This last offer, accompanied by a movement of a hand to an inner pocket, + was addressed to Bagley, who declined with the words, “That's all right. + I've seen it before.” + </p> + <p> + “He has these things all done up in heavy paper, so's to make a dozen'r so + big packages. Then he pays fur 'em, an' leaves 'em to be called fur. It's + late in the afternoon by this time, and comin' on dark. Understand, he's + still got the 'riginal brown paper package with him. The next thing he + does is, he hires a cab, and has himself druv around to the department + store he was at before. He gets the things he bought there, an' puts 'em + on the cab, an' has himself druv on to the grocer's an' provision + dealer's, an' gets the packages he bought there, an' has them put <i>in</i> + the cab. The cab's so full o' his parcels now, he's only got just room fur + himself on the back seat. An' then he has the hackman drive to a place + away down-town.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lafferty paused for a moment to wet his throat with brandy and water. + Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shown in + withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reserving + something to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that the + man he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. + </p> + <p> + “By the description, of course,” replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust at + Larcher's inferiority of intelligence. “D'yuh s'pose I'd foller a man's + trail as fur as that, if everything didn't tally—face, eyes, nose, + height, build, clo'es, hat, brown paper parcel, everything?” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's simply marvellous,” said Larcher, with genuine astonishment, + “how you managed to get on his track, and to follow it from place to + place.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's my business to know how to do them things,” replied Mr. + Lafferty, deprecatingly. + </p> + <p> + “Your business!” said Bagley. “Dumb luck, I tell you. Can't you see how it + was?” He had turned to Larcher. “The cabman read of Davenport's + disappearance, and putting together the day, and the description in the + papers, and the queer load of parcels, goes and tells the police. Lafferty + is put on the case, pumps the cabman dry, then goes to the stores where + the cab stopped to collect the goods, and finds out the rest. Only, when + he comes to tell the story, he tells the facts not in their order as he + found them out, but in their order as they occurred.” + </p> + <p> + “You know all about it, Mr. Bagley,” said Lafferty, taking refuge in + jocular irony. “You'd ought 'a' worked up the case yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “You left Davenport being driven down-town,” Larcher reminded the + detective. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, an' that about lets me out. The cabman druv 'im to somewhere on + South Street, by the wharves. It was dark by that time, and the driver + didn't notice the exact spot—he just druv along the street till the + man told him to stop, that was his orders,—an' then the man got out, + took out his parcels, an' carried them across the sidewalk into a dark + hallway. Then he paid the cabman, an' the cabman druv off. The last the + cabman seen of 'im, he was goin' into the hallway where his goods were, + an' that's the last any one seen of 'im in New York, as fur as known. + Prob'ly you've got enough imagination to give a guess what became of him + after that.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven't,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Jes' think it over. You can put two and two together, can't you? A new + outfit o' clo'es, first of all. Then a stock o' provisions. To make it + easier, I'll tell yuh this much: they was the kind o' provisions people + take on yachts, an' he even admitted to the salesman they was for that + purpose. And then South Street—the wharves; does that mean ships? + Does the whole business mean a voyage? But a man don't have to stock up + extry food if he's goin' by any regular steamer line, does he? What fur, + then? And what kind o' ships lays off South Street? Sailin' ships; them + that goes to South America, an' Asia, and the South Seas, and God knows + where all. Now do you think you can guess?” + </p> + <p> + “But why would he put his things in a hallway?” queried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “To wait fur the boat that was to take 'em out to the vessel late at + night. Why did he wait fur dark to be druv down there? You bet, he was + makin' his flittin' as silent as possible. He'd prob'ly squared it with a + skipper to take 'im aboard on the dead quiet. That's why there ain't much + use our knowin' what vessels sailed about that time. I <i>do</i> know, but + much good we'll get out o' that. What port he gets off at, who'll ever + tell? It'll be sure to be in a country where we ain't got no extradition + treaty. And when this particular captain shows up again at this port, + innocent enough <i>he'll</i> be; <i>he</i> never took no passenger aboard + in the night, an' put 'im off somewheres below the 'quator. I guess Mr. + Bagley can about consider his twenty thousand to the bad, unless his young + friend takes a notion to return to his native land before he's got it all + spent.” + </p> + <p> + “And that's your belief?” said Larcher to Bagley, “—that he went to + some other country with the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Absconded,” replied the ready-money man. “Yes; there's nothing else to + believe. At first I thought you might have some notion where he was; + that's what made me send for you. But I see he left you out of his + confidence. So I thought you might as well know his real character. + Lafferty's going to give the result of his investigation to the newspaper + men, anyhow. The only satisfaction I can get is to show the fellow up.” + </p> + <p> + When Larcher left the presence of Bagley, he carried away no definite + conclusion except that Bagley was an even more detestable animal than he + had before supposed. If the man whom Lafferty had traced was really + Davenport, then indeed the theory of suicide was shaken. There remained + the possibility of murder or flight. The purchases indeed seemed to + indicate flight, especially when viewed in association with South Street. + South Street? Why, that was Mr. Bud's street. And a hallway? Mr. Bud's + room was approached through a hallway. Mr. Bud had left town the day + before that Wednesday; but if Davenport had made frequent visits there for + sketching, was it not certain that he had had access to the room in Mr. + Bud's absence? Larcher had knocked at that room two days after the + Wednesday, and had got no answer, but this was no evidence that Davenport + might not have made some use of the room in the meanwhile. If he had made + use of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to his + subsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley's + apartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quarters + before saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one. + </p> + <p> + He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soon as + he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairs + from the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no more + answer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair to + the saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?” inquired Larcher, having observed the + usual preliminaries to interrogation. + </p> + <p> + “Not to my knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + “When was he here last?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for a long time. 'Most two months, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “But I was here five or six weeks ago, and he'd been gone only three days + then.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know more about it than I do; so don't ast me.” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't been here since I was?” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn't.” + </p> + <p> + “And my friend who was here with me the first time—has he been here + since?” + </p> + <p> + “Not while I've been.” + </p> + <p> + “When is Mr. Bud likely to be here again?” + </p> + <p> + “Give it up. I ain't his private secretary.” + </p> + <p> + Just as Larcher was turning away, the street door opened, and in walked a + man with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Bud + himself. + </p> + <p> + “I was just looking for you,” cried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “That so?” replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. “I just got + into town. It's blame cold out.” He set his hand-bag on the bar, saying to + the bartender, “Keep my gripsack back there awhile, Mick, will yuh? I got + to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plate o' soup on + that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Two plates o' + soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, set down, sir. + Make yourself at home.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and the old + man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what's become of my friend Davenport?” he asked, in a low + tone. + </p> + <p> + “No. Hope he's well and all right. What makes you ask like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you read of his disappearance?” + </p> + <p> + “Disappearance? The devil! Not a word! I been too busy to read the papers. + When was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Several weeks ago.” Larcher recited the main facts, and finished thus: + “So if there isn't a mistake, he was last seen going into your hallway. + Did he have a key to your room?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, so's he could draw pictures while I was away. My hallway? Let's go + and see.” + </p> + <p> + In some excitement, without waiting for partiallars, the farmer rose and + led the way out. It was already quite dark. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't expect to find him in your room,” said Larcher, at his heels. + “But he may have left some trace there.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud turned into the hallway, of which the door was never locked till + late at night. The hallway was not lighted, save as far as the rays of a + street-lamp went across the threshold. Plunging into the darkness with + haste, closely followed by Larcher, the old man suddenly brushed against + some one coming from the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse <i>me</i>” said Mr. Bud. “I didn't see anybody. It's all-fired + dark in here.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> dark,” replied the stranger, and passed out to the street. + Larcher, at the words of the other two, had stepped back into a corner to + make way. Mr. Bud turned to look at the stranger; and the stranger, just + outside the doorway, turned to look at Mr. Bud. Then both went their + different directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Must be a new lodger,” said Mr. Bud. “He was comin' from these stairs + when I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't truly say you saw him even then,” replied Larcher, guiding + himself by the stair wall. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. A + good-lookin' young chap, to be roomin' on these premises.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't see his face,” replied Larcher, stumbling. + </p> + <p> + “Look out fur yur feet. Here we are at the top.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud groped to his door, and fumblingly unlocked it. Once inside his + room, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners. + </p> + <p> + “Everything same as ever,” said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centre of + the room. “Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I left it—” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, what's this?” exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollow + metallic object on the floor and knocked his head against a ropey, rubbery + something in the air. + </p> + <p> + “That's a gas-heater—Mr. Davenport made me a present of it. It's + convenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas it burned + when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that.” + </p> + <p> + The ropey, rubbery something was the tube connecting the heater with the + gas-fixture. + </p> + <p> + “I move we light 'er up, and make the place comfortable; then we can talk + this matter over,” continued Mr. Bud. “Shet the door, an' siddown.” + </p> + <p> + Seated in the waves of warmth from the gas-stove, the two went into the + details of the case. + </p> + <p> + Larcher not withholding the theory of Mr. Lafferty, and even touching + briefly on Davenport's misunderstanding as to Florence Kenby. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Mr. Bud, thoughtfully, “if he reely went into a hallway in + these parts, it would prob'ly be the hallway he was acquainted with. But + he wouldn't stay in the hallway. He'd prob'ly come to this room. An' he'd + no doubt bring his parcels here. But one thing's certain: if he did that, + he took 'em all away again. He might 'a' left somethin' in the closet, or + under the bed, or somewheres.” + </p> + <p> + A search was made of the places named, as well as of drawers and + wash-stand, but Mr. Bud found no additions to his property. He even looked + in the coal-box,—and stooped and fished something out, which he held + up to the light. “Hello, I don't reco'nize this!” + </p> + <p> + Larcher uttered an exclamation. “He <i>has</i> been here! That's the + note-book cover the money was in. He had it the night before he was last + seen. I could swear to it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all dirty with coal-dust,” cautioned Mr. Bud, as Larcher seized it + for closer examination. + </p> + <p> + “It proves he's been here, at least. We've got him traced further than the + detective, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “But not so very fur, at that. What if he was here? Mind, I ain't a-sayin' + one thing ur another,—but if he <i>was</i> contemplatin' a voyage, + an' had fixed to be took aboard late at night, what better place to wait + fur the ship's boat than just this here?” + </p> + <p> + “But the money must have been handled here—taken out of this cover, + and the cover thrown away. Suppose somebody <i>had</i> seen him display + that money during the day; <i>had</i> shadowed him here, followed him to + this room, taken him by surprise?” + </p> + <p> + “No signs of a struggle, fur as I c'n see.” + </p> + <p> + “But a single blow with a black-jack, from behind, would do the business.” + </p> + <p> + “An' what about the—remains?” + </p> + <p> + “The river is just across the street. This would occur at night, + remember.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud shook his head. “An' the load o' parcels—what 'ud become o' + them?” + </p> + <p> + “The criminal might convey them away, too, at his leisure during the + night. They would be worth something.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently to test the resourcefulness of the young man's imagination, Mr. + Bud continued, “But why should the criminal go to the trouble o' removin' + the body from here?” + </p> + <p> + “To delay its discovery, or create an impression of suicide if it were + found,” ventured Larcher, rather lamely. “The criminal would naturally + suppose that a chambermaid visited the room every day.” + </p> + <p> + “The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don't + stand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take any + chances f'r the sake o' the parcels. No; your the'ry's got as much agin' + it, as the detective's has fur it. It's built on nothin' but random + guesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with the + money,—you say the other fellow'd done him out o' that much, anyhow. + I'd rather that than somebody else got away with him.” + </p> + <p> + “So would I—in the circumstances,” confessed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud proposed that they should go down to the saloon and “tackle the + soup.” Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. As + they rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from the + coal-dust on the covers. + </p> + <p> + “There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there,” said Mr. + Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by the light of + matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, wherein were an + ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and other products + of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding the aid of + light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, “one 'ud almost + imagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think of the + young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' just in + time to miss the news! That beats me!” + </p> + <p> + “And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?” said Larcher. “It + breaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's really an + angel of a girl.” + </p> + <p> + They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the stranger he + had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves in the + saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to the bartender: + </p> + <p> + “I see there's a new roomer, Mick?” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” asked Mick. + </p> + <p> + “In the house here. Somewheres up-stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is, he's a new one on me,” said Mick, decidedly. + </p> + <p> + “What? <i>Ain't</i> there a new roomer come in since I was here last?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, there ain't there.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's funny,” said Mr. Bud, looking to Larcher for comment. But + Larcher had no thought just then for any subject but Davenport, and to + that he kept the farmer's attention during the rest of their talk. When + the talk was finished, simultaneously with the soup, it had been agreed + that Mr. Bud should “nose around” thereabouts for any confirmation of + Lafferty's theory, or any trace of Davenport, and should send for Larcher + if any such turned up. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be in town a week ur two,” said the old man, at parting. “I been + kep' so long up-country this time, 'count o' the turkey trade—Thanksgivin' + and Chris'mas, y'know. I do considerable in poultry.” + </p> + <p> + But some days passed, and Larcher heard nothing from Mr. Bud. A few of the + newspapers published Detective Lafferty's unearthings, before Larcher had + time to prepare Miss Kenby for them. She hailed them with gladness as + pointing to a likelihood that Davenport was alive; but she ignored all + implications of probable guilt on his part. That the amount of Bagley's + loss through Davenport was no more than Bagley's rightful debt to + Davenport, Larcher had already taken it on himself delicately to inform + her. She had not seemed to think that fact, or any fact, necessary to her + lover's justification. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X — A NEW ACQUAINTANCE + </h2> + <p> + Meanwhile Larcher was treated to an odd experience. One afternoon, as he + turned into the house of flats in which Edna Hill lived, he chanced to + look back toward Sixth Avenue. He noticed a pleasant-looking, smooth-faced + young man, very erect in carriage and trim in appearance, coming along + from that thoroughfare. He recalled now that he had observed this same + young man, who was a stranger to him, standing at the corner of his own + street as he left his lodgings that morning; and again sauntering along + behind him as he took the car to come up-town. Doubtless, thought he, the + young man had caught the next car, and, by a coincidence, got off at the + same street. He passed in, and the matter dropped from his mind. + </p> + <p> + But the next day, as he was coming out of the restaurant where he usually + lunched, his look met that of the same neat, braced-up young man, who was + standing in the vestibule of a theatre across the way. “It seems I am + haunted by this gentleman,” mused Larcher, and scrutinized him rather + intently. Even across the street, Larcher was impressed anew with the + young man's engagingness of expression, which owed much to a whimsical, + amiable look about the mouth. + </p> + <p> + Two hours later, having turned aside on Broadway to greet an acquaintance, + his roving eye fell again on the spruce young man, this time in the act of + stepping into a saloon which Larcher had just passed. “By George, this <i>is</i> + strange!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked his acquaintance. + </p> + <p> + “That's the fifth time I've seen the same man in two days. He's just gone + into that saloon.” + </p> + <p> + “You're being shadowed by the police,” said the other, jokingly. “What + crime have you committed?” + </p> + <p> + The next afternoon, as Larcher stood on the stoop of the house in lower + Fifth Avenue, and glanced idly around while waiting for an answer to his + ring, he beheld the young man coming down the other side of the avenue. + “Now this is too much,” said Larcher to himself, glaring across at the + stranger, but instantly feeling rebuked by the innocent good humor that + lurked about the stranger's mouth. As the young man came directly + opposite, without having apparently noticed Larcher, the latter's + attention was called away by the coming of the servant in response to the + bell. He entered the house, and, as he awaited the announcement of his + name to Miss Kenby, he asked himself whether this haunting of his + footsteps might indeed be an intended act. “Do they think I may be in + communication with Davenport? and <i>are</i> they having me shadowed? That + would be interesting.” But this strange young man looked too intelligent, + too refined, too superior in every way, for the trade of a shadowing + detective. Besides, a “shadow” would not, as a rule, appear on three + successive days in precisely the same clothes and hat. + </p> + <p> + And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he see + gazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same side of + the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to the + probability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight to + the young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man's + reflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casual + manner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed his + contemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the young + man's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face, disarmed + resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an interest in the + show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way, leaving the young + man before the window. Larcher presently looked back; the young man was + still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he was not taking + further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end of Larcher's odd + experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself followed. + </p> + <p> + The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not + been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door. + Florence rose and opened it. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Miss Kenby,” said a very masculine, almost husky voice + in the hall; “these are the cigars I was speaking of to your father. May I + leave them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Turl,” called out Miss Kenby's father himself + from the fireside. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, no; I won't intrude.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must; I want to see you,” Mr. Kenby insisted, fussily getting to + his feet. + </p> + <p> + Larcher asked himself where he had heard the name of Turl. Before his + memory could answer, the person addressed by that name entered the room in + a politely hesitating manner, bowed, and stood waiting for father and + daughter to be seated. He was none other than the smooth-faced, + pleasant-looking young man with the trim appearance and erect attitude. + Larcher sat open-eyed and dumb. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby was for not only throwing his attention entirely around the + newcomer, but for snubbing Larcher utterly forthwith; seeing which, + Florence took upon herself the office of introducing the two young men. + Mr. Turl, in resting his eyes on Larcher, showed no consciousness of + having encountered him before. They were blue eyes, clear and soft, and + with something kind and well-wishing in their look. Larcher found the + whole face, now that it was animated with a sense of his existence, + pleasanter than ever. He found himself attracted by it; and all the more + for that did he wonder at the young man's appearance in the house of his + acquaintances, after those numerous appearances in his wake in the street. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kenby now took exclusive possession of Mr. Turl, and while those two + were discussing the qualities of the cigars, Larcher had an opportunity of + asking Florence, quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Who is your visitor? Have you known him long?” + </p> + <p> + “Only three or four days. He is a new guest in the house. Father met him + in the public drawing-room, and has taken a liking to him.” + </p> + <p> + “He seems likeable. I was wondering where I'd heard the name. It's not a + common name.” + </p> + <p> + No, it was not common. Florence had seen it in a novel or somewhere, but + had never before met anybody possessing it. She agreed that he seemed + likeable,—agreed, that is to say, as far as she thought of him at + all, for what was he, or any casual acquaintance, to a woman in her state + of mind? + </p> + <p> + Larcher regarded him with interest. The full, clear brow, from which the + hair was tightly brushed, denoted intellectual qualities, but the rest of + the face—straight-bridged nose, dimpled cheeks, and quizzical mouth—meant + urbanity. The warm healthy tinge of his complexion, evenly spread from + brow to chin, from ear-tip to ear-tip, was that of a social rather than + bookish or thoughtful person. He soon showed his civility by adroitly + contriving to include Florence and Larcher in his conversation with Mr. + Kenby. Talk ran along easily for half an hour upon the shop windows during + the Christmas season, the new calendars, the picture exhibitions, the “art + gift-books,” and such topics, on all of which Mr. Turl spoke with + liveliness and taste. (“Fancy my supposing this man a detective,” mused + Larcher.) + </p> + <p> + “I've been looking about in the art shops and the old book stores,” said + Mr. Turl, “for a copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, as it was + called. You know, of course,—engravings from the Boydell collection + of Shakespearean paintings. It was convenient to have them in a volume. + I'm sorry it has disappeared from the shops. I'd like very much to have + another look through it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can easily have that,” said Larcher, who had impatiently awaited a + chance to speak. “I happen to possess the book.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed? I envy you. I haven't seen a copy of it in years.” + </p> + <p> + “You're very welcome to see mine. I wouldn't part with it permanently, of + course, but if you don't object to borrowing—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I wouldn't deprive you of it, even for a short time. The value of + owning such a thing is to have it always by; one mayn't touch it for + months, but, when the mood comes for it, there it is. I never permit + anybody to lend me such things.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you deprive me of the pleasure of lending it, will you take the + trouble of coming to see it?” Larcher handed him his card. + </p> + <p> + “You're very kind,” replied Turl, glancing at the address. “If you're sure + it won't be putting you to trouble. At what time shall I be least in your + way?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be in to-morrow afternoon,—but perhaps you're not free till + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can choose my hours; I have nothing to do to-morrow afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + (“Evidently a gentleman of leisure,” thought Larcher.) + </p> + <p> + So it was settled that he should call about three o'clock, an appointment + which Mr. Kenby, whose opinion of Larcher had not changed since their + first meeting, viewed with decided lack of interest. + </p> + <p> + When Larcher left, a few minutes later, he was so far under the spell of + the newcomer's amiability that he felt as if their acquaintance were + considerably older than three-quarters of an hour. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, he kept ransacking his memory for the circumstances in which + he had before heard the name of Turl. To be sure, this Turl might not be + the Turl whose name he had heard; but the fact that he <i>had</i> heard + the name, and the coincidences in his observation of the man himself, made + the question perpetually insistent. He sought out Barry Tompkins, and + asked, “Did you ever mention to me a man named Turl?” + </p> + <p> + “Never in a state of consciousness,” was Tompkins's reply; and an equally + negative answer came from everybody else to whom Larcher put the query + that day. + </p> + <p> + He thought of friend after friend until it came Murray Davenport's turn in + his mental review. He had a momentary feeling that the search was warm + here; but the feeling succumbed to the consideration that Davenport had + never much to say about acquaintances. Davenport seemed to have put + friendship behind him, unless that which existed between him and Larcher + could be called friendship; his talk was not often of any individual + person. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” thought Larcher, “when Mr. Turl comes to see me, I shall find, out + whether there's anybody we both know. If there is, I shall learn more of + Mr. Turl. Then light may be thrown on his haunting my steps for three + days, and subsequently turning up in the rooms of people I visit.” + </p> + <p> + The arrival of Mr. Turl, at the appointed hour the next afternoon, + instantly put to rout all doubts of his being other than he seemed. In the + man's agreeable presence, Larcher felt that to imagine the coincidences + anything <i>but</i> coincidences was absurd. + </p> + <p> + The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, which lay + on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher had never + observed. + </p> + <p> + “You talk like an artist,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I have dabbled a little,” was the reply. “I believe I can draw, when put + to it.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to be put to it occasionally, then.” + </p> + <p> + “I have sometimes thought of putting myself to it. Illustrating, I mean, + as a profession. One never knows when one may have to go to work for a + living. If one has a start when that time comes, so much the better.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I might be of some service to you. I know a few editors.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. You mean you would ask them to give me work to + illustrate?” + </p> + <p> + “If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be done first, + and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some success with me + that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and the combination + took its chances. We did very well. My friend was Murray Davenport, who + disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I read something in the papers,” replied Turl. “He went to South + America or somewhere, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery,” said Larcher, + making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known Davenport, it + could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. “Hasn't Mr. Kenby or his + daughter ever spoken of it to you?” added Larcher, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “No. Why should they?” asked the other, turning over a page of the volume. + </p> + <p> + “They knew him. Miss Kenby is very unhappy over his disappearance.” + </p> + <p> + Did a curious look come over Mr. Turl's face for an instant, as he + carefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it passed. + </p> + <p> + “I've noticed she has seemed depressed, or abstracted,” he replied. “It's + a pity. She's very beautiful and womanly. She loved this man, do you + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on his + part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That + aggravates her unhappiness.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it will in this case—if it doesn't turn it to joy by + bringing Davenport back.” + </p> + <p> + Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When the + visitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at the fire, + resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsome easy-chairs—new + specimens of an old style—in which Larcher indulged himself. + </p> + <p> + “A pleasant place you have here,” said the guest, while Larcher was + bringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty as + sideboard. + </p> + <p> + “It ought to be,” replied Larcher. “Some fellows in this town only sleep + in their rooms, but I work in mine.” + </p> + <p> + “And entertain,” said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things + were placed on a little round table at his elbow. “Here's variety of + choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a + sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out of + conceit with my own.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you live in a good house,” said Larcher, helping himself in turn. + </p> + <p> + “Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fashionable + boarding-house.' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!” He smiled. “But my + own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present I come + under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom has + supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding geniuses; + but I prefer comfort to romance.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you happen to go to that house?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw its advertisement in the 'boarders wanted' column. I liked the + neighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not much + of the old Knickerbocker atmosphere left. It's my first experience as a + 'boarder' in New York. I think, on the whole, I prefer to be a 'roomer' + and 'eat out.' I have been a 'paying guest' in London, but fared better + there as a mere 'lodger.'” + </p> + <p> + “You're not English, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood and political + principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to the resources of any + one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but of course before the era + of sky-scrapers, multitudinous noises, and perpetual building operations.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought there was something of an English accent in your speech now and + then.” + </p> + <p> + “Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took us to + England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to a + private school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greek at + all, that I boast of. Do you know Folkestone? The wind on the cliffs, the + pine-trees down their slopes, the vessels in the channel, the faint coast + of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to one of the + universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after,—the only + sorrows I've ever had,—and I decided, on my own, to cut the + university career, and jump into the study of pictorial art. Since then, + I've always done as I liked.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't seem to have made any great mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I've never gone hunting trouble. Unlike most people who are doomed to + uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure.” + </p> + <p> + “Then your life has been uneventful since you jumped into the study of + art?” + </p> + <p> + “Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first in a + London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe and the + United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I've never + had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone—I + spent the principal because I had other expectations. And now this other + little fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may be + deprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shall + have to earn my mutton chops like many a better man.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to take the prospect very cheerfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I shall be fortunate. Good fortune is my destiny. Things come my way. + My wants are few. I make friends easily. I have to make them easily, or I + shouldn't make any, changing my place so often. A new place, new friends. + Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form new friendships that + chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones. I must confess I find + new friends the more interesting, the more suited to my new wants. Old + friends so often disappoint on revisitation. You change, they don't; or + they change, you don't; or they change, and you change, but not in the + same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brown of yesterday were + eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones of to-day and the Brown of + to-day are different men, through different experiences, and don't + harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?” + </p> + <p> + As he sipped his wine and ate his sandwich, gazing contentedly into the + fire the while, Mr. Turl looked the living justification of his + philosophy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI — FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE + </h2> + <p> + During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys, + living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable + that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She + declared him “nice,” and was not above trying to make Larcher a little + jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was + not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the + slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded, or + spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it. The + newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image + filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out—if his + feelings indeed concerned themselves with her—when those feelings + should take hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to + warn him. + </p> + <p> + If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's + heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With + Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his + thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of + inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. + That good woman had his address “in case anything turned up.” She had + rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed + by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed + by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of + his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all. + </p> + <p> + It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his + writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was + surprised by two callers,—Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara. + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is jolly!” he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face. + </p> + <p> + “It's not half bad,” said Edna, applying the expression to the room. “I + don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs before + the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the stairs, had + already deposited her rather plump figure in the other. + </p> + <p> + “But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see,” he replied, with a + gesture toward the table. + </p> + <p> + “Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?” asked Edna. + “Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, auntie?” + </p> + <p> + “Charming,” said Aunt Clara, still panting. “You must miss an elevator in + the house, Mr. Larcher.” + </p> + <p> + “If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there + was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the + lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up.” + </p> + <p> + “We're keeping you from your work, Tommy,” said Edna, with sudden + seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea made + for you? Or will you take some wine?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks; we've just had tea.” + </p> + <p> + “I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb,” suggested + Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a chair for + himself. + </p> + <p> + “I just came in to tell you what I've discovered,” said Edna. “Mr. Turl is + in love with Florence Kenby!” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” asked Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it, too—I + can see that.” + </p> + <p> + “And what does she appear to think about it?” + </p> + <p> + “What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of course + it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't know that + yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoid him as + much as possible, and not hurt his feelings. It's a pity.” + </p> + <p> + “What is?” + </p> + <p> + “That she isn't open to—new impressions,—you know what I mean. + He's an awfully nice young man, so tall and straight,—they would + look so well together.” + </p> + <p> + “Edna, you amaze me!” said Larcher. “How can you want her to be + inconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty to + Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he was + alive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things out + between them. I'd set my heart on accomplishing that.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you like to play the goddess from the machine,” observed Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “She's prematurely given to match-making,” said Aunt Clara, now restored + to her placidity. + </p> + <p> + “Be good, auntie, or I'll make a match between you and Mr. Kenby,” + threatened Edna. “Well, now that the best we can hope for about Davenport + is that he went away with another man's money—” + </p> + <p> + “But I've told you the other man morally owed him that much money.” + </p> + <p> + “That won't make it any safer for him to come back to New York. And you + know what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got an + awfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chance + is there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one of + those impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place where + he'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if she + isn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried to + forget the absent.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're right,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “So I came in to say that I'm going to do all I quietly can to distract + her thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I see any + way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. And what + I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints or allusions—to + Davenport, you understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm + neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him—and + yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl, + much as I like him.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his + plan of going to work?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of + black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no + trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep + Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken + her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive + with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?” + </p> + <p> + “I jump at the chance—if there's room.” + </p> + <p> + “There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr. + Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither do I, but for the sake of your society—” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way to + the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to cheer + up Florence.” + </p> + <p> + This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's + pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave + himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and + listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna + was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and + then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have eyes + for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating afternoon. + In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more than the + usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in handsome wraps + and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was adroit enough not to + prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and melancholy. She had just + ordered the coachman to drive home, when the rear of the carriage suddenly + sank a little and a wheel ground against the side. Edna screamed, and the + driver stopped the horses. People came running up from the walks, and the + words “broken axle” went round. + </p> + <p> + “We shall have to get out,” said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly + helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a nuisance!” cried Edna. “We can't go home in this carriage, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “No, miss,” said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park + policeman, and was examining the break. “But you'll be able to pick up a + cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so.” + </p> + <p> + “What a bore!” said Edna, vexatiously. + </p> + <p> + Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble + was. From one of them—an automobile—a large, well-dressed man + strode over and greeted Larcher with the words: + </p> + <p> + “How are you? Had an accident?” + </p> + <p> + It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, “Broken axle.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, “I suppose we'd + better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab.” + </p> + <p> + “You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party,” said + Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party. + </p> + <p> + As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher + with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He + did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls + exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward a + man who owned an automobile and had an air of money. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry you've had this break-down,” said Bagley, addressing the party + collectively. “Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're not + likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Edna Hill, chillily. “We can't think of putting you + out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you won't put <i>me</i> out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. + My car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when + mine's here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your + homes without any trouble.” + </p> + <p> + During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr. + Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went + back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him. + </p> + <p> + “Your kindness is most opportune, sir,” said Mr. Kenby, mustering + cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. “I'm not at + my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the + cold, I don't know what would happen.” + </p> + <p> + He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the girls + to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for Larcher to + do but follow the girls. + </p> + <p> + Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he + turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His + glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with + Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and + Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was reached, + as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her flat; but + Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by automobile than wait + and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to the escort of Larcher, and + remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger. + </p> + <p> + “That was <i>the</i> Mr. Bagley, was it?” asked Florence, as the three + young people turned into the house. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Larcher. “I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But + Edna's look was so imperative.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know who he was, then,” put in Edna. + </p> + <p> + “But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his + money,” said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and + the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,—men + like that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, + coarse-looking creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust not,” said Larcher; “but he's one of the pushful sort. He doesn't + know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man anywhere. I'm + sorry he turned up at that moment.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” said Florence, and added, explanatorily, “you know how ready my + father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider.” + </p> + <p> + That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days later, + when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great red roses + in a vase on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what beauties!” cried Edna. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bagley sent them,” replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless, + perplexed air. “Father invited him to call.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! Why didn't you send them back?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And + then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send + flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to + treat flowers badly. <i>They</i> can't help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?” + </p> + <p> + “I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father + says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can + understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other + countries.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners,” said + Edna. “But what would you expect of men who consider money-making the + greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be afflicted + with any more visits from Mr. Bagley.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he + did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first sent + him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from the + introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his verbal + self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying: + </p> + <p> + “Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned + out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with + the other man they see much of,—I mean Turl, not you. The more she + loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good + qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to tolerate + Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after all, to try + for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way, he'll be at + his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because Turl makes no + secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing for Turl is to + have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so heartily? + We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance, after + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right by + just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!” + </p> + <p> + “So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best + fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what? What do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing,—only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and + that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more + appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the + immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that Turl + was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young man's own + story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory that Bagley, if + he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence of a rival. As + Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl eventually met in + the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna Hill's last recorded + talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words were wasted between + them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the younger man as of no + consequence, because lacking the signs of a money-grabber; and the younger + man, having shown a moment's curiosity, dropped Bagley as beneath interest + for possessing those signs. Bagley tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the + advantage of later arrival and of perfect control of temper. Bagley took + his departure, therefore, with the dry voice and set face of one who has + difficulty in holding his wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. + Kenby made a pretext to accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the + design of leaving him in a better humor. In magnifying his newly + discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby committed the blunder of taking too little + account of Turl; and thus Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence. + </p> + <p> + The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the fire + was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take second + place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking absently + out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear profile of + the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her face, with a + softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking of the clock on + the mantel grew very loud. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner. + </p> + <p> + “You must not be unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew her + heart. + </p> + <p> + “I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're + doing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean that I seem grave,” she replied, with a faint smile, “it's + only my way. I've always been a serious person.” + </p> + <p> + “But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of + brooding anxiety.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” she asked, wonderingly. + </p> + <p> + “I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have + heard the cause mentioned.” There was an odd expression for a moment on + his face, an odd wavering in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to be, + when the cause belongs to the past,—unless there's reason for + self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to carry + the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed by it. + We should put it where it belongs,—behind us. We should sweep the + old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness the + present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too great a + claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You needn't be + unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob yourself,—you rob + others.” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: “But you don't + understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past. It's a + matter of—of absence.” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could not + have taken offence, “it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you do + wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to believe + that all is of the past; and then try to forget.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” she cried, turning pale. + </p> + <p> + Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single + twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor. + </p> + <p> + “One can see how much you cared for him,” was his reply, sadly uttered. + </p> + <p> + “Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past? + What makes you say that?” + </p> + <p> + “I only—look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more + calmly than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of + again in New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; + your whole life will be darkened if you don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I believe + I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened by being + true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened! I'll never + give him up! Never!” + </p> + <p> + Pain showed on Turl's countenance. “You mustn't doom yourself—you + mustn't waste your life,” he protested. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?” + </p> + <p> + He waited a moment; then answered, simply, “I love you.” + </p> + <p> + The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to her + question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when she + spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality. + </p> + <p> + “I belong to the absent—entirely and forever. Nothing can change my + hope; or make me forget or want to forget.” + </p> + <p> + Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which he + had shown before; but this time it was more poignant. + </p> + <p> + “I see I must wait,” he said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient + laugh, “It will be a long time of waiting.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous + manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed + him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII — LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER + </h2> + <p> + Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher, incidentally + to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of an hour in a + gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, whose name was + not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the stairs, he met the + other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just directed to Larcher's + room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer and outgoer passed each + other; but, the servant at that instant lighting the gas, Turl glanced + around for a better look, and encountered the other's glance at the same + time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl for a scarce perceptible + instant, the other for a moment longer. Then Turl passed out, the servant + having run to open the door; and the new visitor went on up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either bored + or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. But when + a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black clothes + appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mr. Bud! This <i>is</i> a pleasant surprise!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into + heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat + and be comfortable before the fire. “I thought, as you'd gev me your + address, you wouldn't object—” Mr. Bud began with a beaming + countenance; but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. “Say—I + met a young man down-stairs, goin' out.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young + man, smartly dressed.” + </p> + <p> + “That's him. What name did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Turl.” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's + funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as + if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But + I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that same + place.” + </p> + <p> + “We often have that feeling—of precisely the same thing having + happened a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' + There's a scientific theory—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm + dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny thing + is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like you are + in this.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's interesting,” said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once + seemed to be haunting his footsteps. + </p> + <p> + “I've got it!” cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. “D'yuh mind that night you + came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?—and we went up an' + searched my room fur a trace?” + </p> + <p> + “And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, + an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now + down-stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' + the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times + him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a + good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, + that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Turl—T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?” + </p> + <p> + “Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new + lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers + knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that evening. + So what the dickens <i>was</i> he doin' there?” + </p> + <p> + “It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been + some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed + to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow—here are + some comic sketches he brought me this afternoon.” Larcher got the + drawings from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. “I don't know how + good these are; I haven't examined them yet.” + </p> + <p> + The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the + name, “F. Turl.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, has he signed this lot?” asked Larcher. “I told him he ought to. + Let's see what his signature looks like.” He glanced at the corner of the + sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: “By George, I've seen that name!—and + written just like that!” + </p> + <p> + “Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since I've + known him. Where the deuce?” He shut his eyes, and made a strong effort of + memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at the + signature. “Yes, sir! <i>Francis</i> Turl—that was the name. And who + do you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very + handwriting?” + </p> + <p> + “Give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “Yuh don't say.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me + to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about a + meeting between the two. Now I wonder—was that an old note, and had + the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, the + next day Davenport disappeared.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway + Davenport was seen goin' into.” + </p> + <p> + “But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there + was a meeting <i>after</i> Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have + been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur + there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there + in search of Davenport—or for some other purpose connected with + him.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with + Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet + he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.—And then + his following me about!—Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed + him several times apparently on my track. And when I <i>did</i> make his + acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in love + with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her father had + taken him up. His going there to live looks like another queer thing.” + </p> + <p> + “There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I + guess he's wuth studyin'.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in chronological + order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting to occur + between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place Murray + Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he shadows + the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few more days + he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's sweetheart lives, + and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when Davenport is mentioned, lets + it be assumed that he didn't know the man.” + </p> + <p> + “And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr. + Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make + out o' all that?” + </p> + <p> + “To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and + Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do <i>you</i> + make out of it?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl to + the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin' too + big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance. This + Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as you + c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin' in + the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game.” + </p> + <p> + “You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll + be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course, + where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair + object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all you + know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her interest + in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp eyes fur + anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to live, you + say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to study him in. + She might find out considerable.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true,” said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna + would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. But + his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not + prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He + resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after + first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna. + </p> + <p> + “Between you an' the young lady,” Mr. Bud went on, “you may discover + enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about + Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They + may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's + confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid + o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had + anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to + knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. The + thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver up + what he knows.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive. + Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man + declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and + finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel + like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town car, + with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had + turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. + His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised + himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal + way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of + suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her + former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence + straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the + instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about. + Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day; she + would send a cab for her, to make sure. + </p> + <p> + The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly + impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, dear?” were almost her first words. “Why do you look so + serious?” + </p> + <p> + “I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom + will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very delicate + matter.” + </p> + <p> + Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her + wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough + to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had to + be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly lady to + writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so the + young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who have + lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the inmates + must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile. + </p> + <p> + Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand + before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the + blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an + armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies. + </p> + <p> + Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. “Now tell Florence all + about it, from the beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you told her whom it concerns?” he asked Edna. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't told her a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I think she'd better know first”—he turned to Florence—“that + it concerns somebody we met through her—through you, Miss Kenby. But + we think the importance of the matter justifies—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “He's nothing to Florence. We're + perfectly free to speak of him as we like.—It's about Mr. Turl, + dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Turl?” There was something eager in Florence's surprise, a more than + expected readiness to hear. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said Larcher, struck by her expression, “have <i>you</i> noticed + anything about his conduct—anything odd?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made me think.” + </p> + <p> + “Things in connection with somebody we know?” queried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “With—Murray Davenport?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—tell me what you know.” Florence's eyes were poignantly intent. + </p> + <p> + Larcher made rapid work of his story, in impatience for hers. His relation + deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, in suppressed + excitement: + </p> + <p> + “With all those circumstances—there can be no doubt he knows + something. And two things I can add. He spoke once as if he had seen me in + the past;—I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange + is, I don't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the + other thing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back”—her + voice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: “He <i>must</i> know + something about the disappearance. What could he have had to do with + Murray?” + </p> + <p> + Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud—without credit + to that gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turl + might still be in Davenport's confidence. “For all we know,” said Larcher, + “it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with us through Turl. + Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed about our welfare. In + some way or other he may be acting for Davenport, secretly, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Florence slowly shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked Edna, quickly, with a searching look. “Has he been making + love to you?” + </p> + <p> + Florence blushed. “I can hardly put it as positively as that,” she + answered, reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen in + love,” suggested Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of,” put in + Edna. “But if he did that—if he was in Davenport's confidence, and + yet spoke of love, or showed it—he was false to Davenport. And so in + any case he's got to give an account of himself.” + </p> + <p> + “How are we to make him do it?” asked Larcher. + </p> + <p> + Edna, by a glance, passed the question on to Florence. + </p> + <p> + “We must go cautiously,” Florence said, gazing into the fire. “We don't + know what occurred between him and Murray. He may have been for Murray; or + he may have been against him. They may have acted together in bringing + about his—departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for + his own purposes. We must draw the truth from him—we must have him + where he can't elude us.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacability + toward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part toward + Davenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to stand + in her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that we should force matters?—not wait and watch for other + circumstances to come out?” queried Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with what we + already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantage against + him—first make sure to have him alone with us three, and then + suddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'll + startle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary—I'll put + the worst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him to + tell all in self-defence.” Florence was scarlet with suppressed energy of + purpose. + </p> + <p> + “The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us,” said + Larcher, yielding at once to her initiative. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as possible,” replied Florence, falling into thought. + </p> + <p> + “We might send for him to call here,” suggested Edna, who found the + situation as exciting as a play. “But then Aunt Clara would be in the way. + I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come to your + rooms, and you invite him there.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to invite + another to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on this + occasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough at + best, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before he + could be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief. + </p> + <p> + “Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairs + who always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms to ourselves—and + Mr. Turl. I'll see to it that he comes. I'll go home now, and give orders + requesting him to call. But you two must be there when he arrives. Come to + dinner—or come back with me now. You will stay all night, Edna.” + </p> + <p> + After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompany Florence + home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. This + arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to Aunt Clara and + go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for the afternoon. As + Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, nervously: “It's quite + thrilling, isn't it?” He faced the blizzard again with a feeling that the + anticipatory thrill of the coming evening's business was anything but + pleasant. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII — MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL + </h2> + <p> + The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive than + those to which the ordinary residents of boarding-houses are subject. + Father and daughter had their meals served in their own principal room, + the one with the large fireplace, the piano, the big red easy chairs, and + the great window looking across the back gardens to the Gothic church. The + small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby. + Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above. + </p> + <p> + The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when Mr. + Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had confided to + the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the shape of + claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in from a + restaurant at eleven o'clock. + </p> + <p> + “So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three + hours,” said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together. + </p> + <p> + “How excited you are, dear!” was the reply. “You're almost shaking.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm not—it's from the cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I don't think it's cold here.” + </p> + <p> + “It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see + the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!” She gazed out at the + whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between the + furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the + pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the + gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and + shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever + augmented by the myriad rushing particles. + </p> + <p> + Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was already + seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall. + </p> + <p> + “It's Tom,” cried Edna. “Good boy!—ahead of time.” But the negro man + servant announced Mr. Bagley. + </p> + <p> + A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. “Tell him my father is not + here—is spending the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bagley!—he <i>must</i> be devoted, to call on such a night!” + remarked Edna, when the servant had gone. + </p> + <p> + “He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations—he's forever + wanting us to go to the theatre—or on his automobile—or to + dine at Delmonico's—or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals + don't discourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to + give us some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father + sometimes accepts—for himself.” + </p> + <p> + Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentleman + wished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenby for + her father. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she sighed. “Show him in.” + </p> + <p> + “If he threatens to stay two minutes, I'll see what I can do to make it + chilly,” volunteered Edna. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted and + undauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on Miss + Kenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he took + somewhat aback by barely noticing at all. + </p> + <p> + He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voice + about the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed a mind + for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read an evening + paper. + </p> + <p> + She had not. + </p> + <p> + “I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, in + spite of the blizzard,” said Mr. Bagley. “I s'pose he wasn't going to take + any chances of losing his heiress.” + </p> + <p> + Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could not keep + silent. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of her + title—poor thing!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mustn't say that,” interposed Florence, gently. “Perhaps they + love each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Titled Europeans don't marry American girls for love,” said Edna. + “Haven't you been abroad enough to find out that? Or if they ever do, they + keep that motive a secret. You ought to hear them talk, over there. They + can't conceive of an American girl being married for anything <i>but</i> + money. It's quite the proper thing to marry one for that, but very bad + form to marry one for love.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know,” said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling to + Edna's knowledge, “they've got to admit that our girls are a very + charming, superior lot—with a few exceptions.” His look placed Miss + Kenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else. + </p> + <p> + “Have they, really?” retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. “I know + some of them admit it,—and what they say and write is published and + quoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written in + Europe about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresay + that's the reason of your one-sided impression.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for the + approval of Miss Kenby: + </p> + <p> + “Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if they + don't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, and + cleverest, they're a long way off the truth, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to know what you mean by <i>the</i> American girl. There are all + sorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations: pretty + girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girls and silly + ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've got a larger + proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any other country. + But then we make up for that by so many of us having frightful <i>ya-ya</i> + voices and raw pronunciations. As for our wonderful cleverness, we have + the assurance to talk about things we know nothing of, in such a way as to + deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nations haven't, and + that's the chief difference.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked as if he knew not exactly where he stood in the argument, or + exactly what the argument was about; but he returned to the business of + impressing Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothing + of. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question which + nation had the most beautiful and sensible women.” + </p> + <p> + Florence winced at the crude directness. “You are too kind,” she said, + perfunctorily. + </p> + <p> + “As for me,” he went on, “I've got my opinion of these European gentlemen + that marry for money.” + </p> + <p> + “We all have, in this country, I hope,” said Edna; “except, possibly, the + few silly women that become the victims.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be perfectly willing,” pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watching + for the effect on Florence, “to marry a girl without a cent.” + </p> + <p> + “And no doubt perfectly able to afford it,” remarked Edna, serenely. + </p> + <p> + He missed the point, and saw a compliment instead. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're not so far out of the way there, if I do say it myself,” he + replied, with a stony smile. “I've had my share of good luck. Since the + tide turned in my affairs, some years ago, I've been a steady winner. + Somehow or other, nothing seems able to fail that I go into. It's really + been monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousand dollars + that a trusted agent absconded with.” + </p> + <p> + “You're mistaken,” Florence broke in, with a note of indignation that made + Bagley stare. “He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and your money may + be gone for the present. But there was no crime on his part.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, do you know anything about it?” asked Bagley, in a voice subdued by + sheer wonder. + </p> + <p> + “I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers said + about your money; that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? I + inquire merely for information.” Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he could + be in his manner of inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>know</i> Murray Davenport,” was her reply. + </p> + <p> + “You knew him well?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “You—took a great interest in him?” + </p> + <p> + “Very great.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said Bagley, in pure surprise, and gazing at her as if she were + a puzzle. + </p> + <p> + “You said you had a message for my father,” replied Florence, coldly. + </p> + <p> + Bagley rose slowly. “Oh, yes,”—he spoke very dryly and looked very + blank,—“please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I + wish you and he would go sleighing to-morrow. I'll call at half-past two.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; I'll tell him.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley summoned up as natural a “good night” as possible, and went. As he + emerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any one who + had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of the blank + expression with which he had left the room. “She gave me the dead + freeze-out,” he muttered. “The dead freeze-out! So she knew Davenport! and + cared for the poverty-stricken dog, too!” + </p> + <p> + Startled by a ring at the door-bell, Bagley turned into the common + drawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heard + Larcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed by the + two girls. He paced the drawing-room floor, with a wrathful frown; then + sat down and meditated. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if he ever does come back to New York, I won't do a thing to him!” + was the conclusion of his meditations, after some minutes. + </p> + <p> + Some one came down the stairs, and walked back toward the Kenby rooms. + Bagley strode to the drawing-room door, and peered through the hall, in + time to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knocked + at the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed it + after him. + </p> + <p> + “That young dude Turl,” mused Bagley, with scorn. “But she won't freeze + him out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, compared to + what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own at a + time!—and now this light-weight!—compared with <i>me</i> I—I'd + give thirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, the characteristics + of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill. + </p> + <p> + “And did you notice,” said that young lady, in conclusion, “how he simply + couldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? Because + Davenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of the + Bagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance of + having their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to see impecunious + Davenports—and Larchers—preferred to them.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Larcher. “I didn't know you were so observant. But it's + easy to imagine the reasoning of the money-grinders in such cases. The + satisfaction of money-greed is to them the highest aim in life; so what + can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent of that aim? + They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest of society, + though most people court and flatter them on account of their money. They + never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be a money-grinder and + good company at the same time.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is it?” asked Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has to neglect + so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But even before that, + the very nature that made him choose money-getting as the chief end of man + was incapable of the finer qualities. There <i>are</i> charming rich men, + but either they inherited their wealth, or made it in some high pursuit to + which gain was only an incident, or they are exceptional cases. But of + course Bagley isn't even a fair type of the regular money-grinder—he's + a speculator in anything, and a boor compared with even the average + financial operator.” + </p> + <p> + This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young people + while they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock neared + the appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher found + himself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as she + sat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up a + request to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and had + promptly received the desired answer. + </p> + <p> + In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was able + to break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard in + the hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose and + opened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile. + </p> + <p> + Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting of Larcher + and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairs near the + fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so far toward a + recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, when the others + had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them and the piano. + Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcher faced him from + the other side of the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, with + a remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, with her + eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely: + </p> + <p> + “I asked you here to speak of something else—a matter we are all + interested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want to + know—we all want to know—what has become of Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + Turl's face blenched ever so little, but he made no other sign of being + startled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry; + then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but finally + returned to hers. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask me?” he said, quietly. “What have I to do with Murray + Davenport?” + </p> + <p> + Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically: + </p> + <p> + “You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for one + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, was I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It was + about a meeting you were to have with him.” + </p> + <p> + Turl pondered, till Florence resumed the attack. + </p> + <p> + “We don't pretend to know where that particular meeting occurred. But we + do know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to in + New York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him about + the time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no use + in your denying that you had some part in his affairs.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, to give him a chance to speak. But he only gazed at her with a + thoughtful, regretful perplexity. So she went on: + </p> + <p> + “We don't say—yet—whether that part was friendly, indifferent,—or + evil.” + </p> + <p> + The last word, and the searching look that accompanied it, drew a swift + though quiet answer: + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't evil, I give you my word.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?” said Larcher, + quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You have been + clever—or I have been stupid.—I'm sorry Davenport showed you + my letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, as your part was not evil,” pursued Florence, with ill-repressed + eagerness, “you can't object to telling us about him. Where is he now?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, but I do object. I have strong reasons. You must excuse me.” + </p> + <p> + “We will not excuse you!” cried Florence. “We have the right to know—the + right of friend-ship—the right of love. I insist. I will not take a + refusal.” + </p> + <p> + Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him, + Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. A + brief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace the floor, + for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape from the + room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to his + passage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind. + He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, at last, + his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spoke in a + tone less than ordinarily conciliating: + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no way + accountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I have + nothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again; + he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance there + was nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. There + is no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as he + desired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear,—and + that no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Let him + rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future.” + </p> + <p> + To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst of passionate + menace: + </p> + <p> + “I <i>will</i> know! I'll resort to anything, everything, to make you + speak. As yet we've kept our evidence to ourselves; but if you compel us, + we shall know what to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + Turl let a frown of vexation appear. “I admit, that would put me out. It's + a thing I would go far to avoid. Not that I fear the law; but to make + matters public would spoil much. And I wouldn't make them public, except + in self-defence if the very worst threatened me. I don't think that + contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof is to be + feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make me speak. Be + reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what Murray Davenport + himself desired above all things.” + </p> + <p> + “Who authorized you to tell <i>me</i> what Murray Davenport desired? He + would have desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off + with a quiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force + you to speak. You admit you would go far to avoid the test.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because I shouldn't like to be involved in a raking over of the + affairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I do + admit. The man is best forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold you answerable + to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a way to bring + you to account!” + </p> + <p> + Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiver + to his lips. Noting this, Larcher quickly intervened: + </p> + <p> + “In pity to a woman, don't you think you ought to tell her what you know? + If there's no guilt on your part, the disclosure can't harm you. It will + end her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows.” + </p> + <p> + “She will grow out of that feeling,” said Turl, still watching her + compassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain her + composure. + </p> + <p> + “No, she won't!” put in Edna Hill, warmly. “You don't know her. I must + say, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse to + divulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she's + been undergoing for months, is too much for me!” + </p> + <p> + Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed her + eyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him. + </p> + <p> + “If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request,” said he, “you + wouldn't make it.” + </p> + <p> + “It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, is to + me,” said Florence, in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + “It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closest secret. + You don't know how earnestly he wished that.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through <i>my</i> knowledge + of any secret,” Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl was + again visibly moved. “But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart, he + would not have had this secret from me. And to think!—he disappeared + the very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now you + would keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learned too + well that fate is pitiless; and I find that men are no less so.” + </p> + <p> + Turl's face was a study, showing the play of various reflections. Finally + his ideas seemed to be resolved. “Are we likely to be interrupted here?” + he asked, in a tone of surrender. + </p> + <p> + “No; I have guarded against that,” said Florence, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll tell you Davenport's story. But you must be patient, and let me + tell it in my own way, and you must promise—all three—never to + reveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and great reason + for keeping it secret.” + </p> + <p> + On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken a moment's + preliminary thought, began his account. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV — A STRANGE DESIGN + </h2> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, “you know already + what was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediately + before his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall on + enterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, either + inseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that his + affairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he played the + merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for the profit, + of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect, equivalent to the + thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunities in the theatrical + market, with people not above the superstitions of their guild; also it + produced in him a discouragement, a self-depreciation, which kept the + quality of his work down to the level of hopeless hackery. For yielding to + this influence; for stooping, in his necessity, to the service of Bagley, + who had wronged him; for failing to find a way out of the slough of + mediocre production, poor pay, and company inferior to him in mind, he + began to detest himself. + </p> + <p> + “He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helped measuring + his taste and intellect with those of average people, and he had valued + himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him to think well of + himself. On his trip to Europe he had met—I needn't say more; but to + have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable was bound to elevate + him in his own esteem. This event in his life had roused his ambition and + filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, or rather had braced + him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputed bad luck. You can + imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause of hope, the reason for + striving, was—as he believed—withdrawn from him. He assumed + that this calamity was due to your having learned about the supposed + shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. And while he + did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time found cause in + himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must be worthless and + undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope that went with you, + was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, he had ever + apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fancied ill-luck, and + his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colors than ever + before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded on them. And so + he got into the state I just now described. + </p> + <p> + “He was dejected, embittered, wearied; sick of his way of livelihood, sick + of the atmosphere he moved in, sick of his reflections, sick of himself. + Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. His self-loathing, which + steadily grew, would have become a maddening torture if he hadn't found + refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved this by an outburst of + bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood found anybody at hand for + his confidences. But for the most part he lived in a lethargic + indifference, mechanically going through the form of earning his living. + </p> + <p> + “You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. It + may have been partly because he lacked the instinct—or perhaps the + initiative—for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at the + expense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause, which + of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said—or given the + impression—that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worth + having out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for the + not-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reserve + somewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it. + </p> + <p> + “That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though its + existence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea which + he had conceived,—he no longer knew when, nor in what mental + circumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave of + things for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth by + association. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden new + attractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grown + to look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and develop + it. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the time + of Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a region + of his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath his languid, + uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he had adopted as a + design of action for himself to realize,—perfecting it to the + smallest incidental detail. + </p> + <p> + “This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or less + capable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believe + that a thing is true—except where the physical condition is + concerned, or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct—he + can give himself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from + its really being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves + believe that the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted + man is Orlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we + make ourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We <i>know</i> these + make-believes are not realities, but we <i>feel</i> that they are; we have + the sensations that would be effected by their reality. Now this + self-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how children + content themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift, or + a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A man will + tell a false tale of some exploit or experience of his youth until, after + years, he can't for his life swear whether it really occurred or not. Many + people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories, and come + finally to believe them. Even where the <i>knowing</i> part of the mind + doesn't grant belief, the imagining part—and through it the feeling + part—does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the + effect of a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition—on + one's life, in short—may be much the same as that of actuality. All + depends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe is + supported. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; not + only that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, as + that man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel and + act, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in time + sufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes, + he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mind he + should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of his + imagination and feeling would in time be so potent that the man he coldly + <i>knew</i> himself to be—the actual Murray Davenport—would be + the stranger, while the man he <i>felt</i> himself to be would be his more + intimate self. Needless to say, this new self would be a very different + man from the old Murray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from + the old self, the old recollections, the old environment, and all the old + adverse circumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time + when you, Larcher, were working with him. + </p> + <p> + “He imagined a man such as would be produced by the happiest conditions; + one of those fortunate fellows who seem destined for easy, pleasant paths + all their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all the + cheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenport + believed that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by the + name or suspicion of ill-luck. + </p> + <p> + “I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this new + personality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite the + history he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he made + it as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. One + circumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwing + over his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all the + surroundings with which it had been closely intimate,—not cities and + public resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, but + rooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the old + identity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have made + many acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in the + places where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some of + these people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shifting + life, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanent + claim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places which Davenport + had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollections of, but + would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of a too + definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about old + friends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginning + to have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lasting + associations and friendships could be formed, and these could be cherished + as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time a good number + could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on. + </p> + <p> + “But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for the + new self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man should + find himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter, + a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefully + cultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough to + avoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far and + still be in hourly risk of running against one of the old Murray + Davenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to the + constant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport by + himself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glass + window, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt at mental + transformation with the reminder of his physical identity. Even if he + could avoid being confronted many times a day by the reflected face of + Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually brought back to his + inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of the face on the + glances of other people,—for you know that different faces evoke + different looks from observers, and the look that one man is accustomed to + meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not precisely the same as + that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to the point, Murray + Davenport saw that to make his change of identity really successful, to + avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, to make himself + another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all the more so in his + own through finding himself so in the world's, he must transform himself + physically—in face and figure—beyond the recognition of his + closest friend—beyond the recognition even of himself. How was it to + be done? + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problem + as if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see. + </p> + <p> + “In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished by + the touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort of + fairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real life + there have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dual + identity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts from + one to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor is + such a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenport + wasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if he + had been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, or + ensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise of + imagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in those + cases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change in facial + expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such as + Davenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to work + the mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He must + resort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, the + magic of witches, and the drugs of romance,—he must employ Science + and the physical means it afforded. + </p> + <p> + “Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had never + arrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interest in + them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. His general + reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curious odds and + ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employed by + criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition: not + merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removing beards, + changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening or thinning the + face by dietary means,—devices that won't fool a close acquaintance + for half a minute,—not merely these, but the practice of tampering + with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alter the very + hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certain muscle, the + cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over the wound, makes a + very great alteration of outward effect. The result of this operation, + however, is not an improvement in looks, and as Davenport's object was to + fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance, he could not resort to it + without modifications, and, besides that, he meant to achieve a far more + thorough transformation than it would produce. But the knowledge of this + operation was something to start with. It was partly to combat such + devices of criminals, that Bertillon invented his celebrated system of + identification by measurements. A slight study of that system gave + Davenport valuable hints. He was reminded by Bertillon's own words, of + what he already knew, that the skin of the face—the entire skin of + three layers, that is, not merely the outside covering—may be + compared to a curtain, and the underlying muscles to the cords by which it + is drawn aside. The constant drawing of these cords, you know, produces in + time the facial wrinkles, always perpendicular to the muscles causing + them. If you sever a number of these cords, you alter the entire drape of + the curtain. It was for Davenport to learn what severances would produce, + not the disagreeable effect of the operation known to criminals, but a + result altogether pleasing. He was to discover and perform a whole complex + set of operations instead of the single operation of the criminals; and + each operation must be of a delicacy that would ensure the desired general + effect of all. And this would be but a small part of his task. + </p> + <p> + “He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formed + noses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call + 'plastic surgery,' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery.' From the 'beauty + shops,' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changing his + nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminating the + hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as to produce + perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came the hint of + cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks,—a detail that fell in + admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimples would + be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. What are + commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made to serve + the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face where such + furrows would aid his plan,—at the ends of his lips, for instance, + where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth could be imitated + by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirth form in + good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free from wrinkles, + perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had taken refuge in. It + was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say in regard to make-up. + </p> + <p> + “But changing the general shape of the face—the general drape of the + curtain—and the form of the prominent features, would not begin to + suffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hair + arrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, the + complexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hair + rather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of the head + and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead was usually + concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, and having it cut + in a new fashion, he could materially change the appearance of his + forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, he could do as much + for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If the forehead needed + still more change, the line of implantation could be altered by removing + hairs with tweezers; and the same painful but possible means must be used + to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. By removing hairs from the tops + of the ends, and from the bottom of the middle, he would be able to raise + the arch of each eyebrow noticeably. This removal, along with the clearing + of hair from the forehead, and thinning the eyelashes by plucking out, + would contribute to another desirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what + are commonly called gray. In the course of his study of Bertillon, he came + upon the reminder that—to use the Frenchman's own words—'the + gray eye of the average person is generally only a blue one with a more or + less yellowish tinge, which appears gray solely on account of the shadow + cast by the eyebrows, etc.' Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, + and the clearing of the forehead of its hanging locks, must considerably + decrease that shadow. The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes + would be helped by something else, which I shall come to later. The use of + the tweezers on the eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, + 'no part of the face contributes a more important share to the general + expression of the physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow.' The + complexion would be easy to deal with. His way of life—midnight + hours, abstemiousness, languid habits—had produced bloodless cheeks. + A summary dosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a + reformation of diet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, + air, proper food, and rational living would not only preserve but + intensify. + </p> + <p> + “But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, would + not do. As long as his bodily form, walk, attitude, carriage of the head, + remained the same, so would his general appearance at a distance or when + seen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against the + disillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected in + some distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by some former + acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might be endangered, + if some particularly curious and discerning person should go in for + solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenport in a + man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, and so + forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto he had + leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of the + strongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give him + tightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame, + alter the swing of his arms, and entail—without effort on his part—a + change in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way of + placing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequent + throwing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration, too: + it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequently further + affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticed the great + difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward or thrown + back,—as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accounts for + the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they're taken + of,—a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to get a + stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their faces + slightly averted. + </p> + <p> + “You understand, of course, that only his entire <i>appearance</i> would + have to be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be + unable to recognize him, even vaguely as resembling some one they couldn't + 'place.' But there was, of course, no anthropometric record of him in + existence, such as is taken of criminals to ensure their identification by + the Bertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected without + the least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to his + hands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the body + make on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts to + identify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible. + Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and that + rather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity to + the observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borne + out by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decided + that his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degeneration + of the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the new + character he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taught + in most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a little care + and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small he could + soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to go carefully + until habituated to the new style, with which he might defy even the + handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man who would + disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that of an + uneducated person. + </p> + <p> + “There would still remain the voice to be made over,—quite as + important a matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict + an identification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkable + resemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail to + notice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-way + knowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music and + elocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll come + to that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operations + which he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightest + beginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete and + every facility offered. That was not till the last night you saw him, + Larcher,—the night before his disappearance. + </p> + <p> + “For operations so delicate, meant to be so lasting in their effect, so + important to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity of a + perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not erase errors, + or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub out misplaced lines + and try again, as an actor can in 'making up.' He had learned a good deal + about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contact with the stage. His + plan was to use first the materials employed by actors, until he should + succeed in producing a countenance to his liking; and then, by surgical + means, to make real and permanent the sham and transient effects of + paint-stick and pencil. He would violently compel nature to register the + disguise and maintain it. + </p> + <p> + “He was favored in one essential matter—that of a place in which to + perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at + leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would + spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock + himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and + remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would + probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more + under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort, + in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat, + water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited + solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a + living soul—a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. + He couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as + investigations would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly + ruined by the intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which + he owed to you, Larcher,—one of the few lucky circumstances that + ever came to the old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy + augury for his design,—that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. + Bud down on the water-front. + </p> + <p> + “He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his + permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his + absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept away + in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud—and you, + Larcher—knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you + two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that + access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been + there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it + wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport + could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing + whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need + only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr. + Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that the + shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old man + busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was now all + ready to put his design into execution.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV — TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED + </h2> + <p> + “On the very afternoon,” Turl went on, “before the day when Davenport + could have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order to + confide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence, and, + rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport went and + received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot of money, in + bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placed the next + day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather in passively + letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as to whether he + would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that evening of anything + but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on the morrow. As not an + hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessary for the healing of + the operations, he would either have to despatch Bagley's business very + quickly or neglect it altogether. In the latter case, what about the money + in his hands? The sum was nearly equal to that which Bagley had morally + defrauded him of. + </p> + <p> + “This coincidence, coming at that moment, seemed like the work of fate. + Bagley was to be absent from town a week, and Murray Davenport was about + to undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. It really + appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poetic justice; had + deliberately planned a restitution; had determined to befriend the new man + as it had afflicted the old. For the new man would have to begin existence + with a very small cash balance, unless he accepted this donation from + chance. If there were any wrong in accepting it, that wrong would not be + the new man's; it would be the bygone Murray Davenport's; but Murray + Davenport was morally entitled to that much—and more—of + Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach of trust; but + Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and common humanity. + Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred times more than + this sum now represented to Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Davenport was pondering this on his way home from Bagley's rooms, + when he met Larcher. Partly a kind feeling toward a friend he was about to + lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting the + question of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made him + invite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrived + to introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteer + on the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. As for + your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and your eventual + inferences if he should disappear without using it for Bagley, the fact + would come out anyhow as soon as Bagley returned to New York. And whatever + you would think, either in condemnation or justification, would be thought + of the old Murray Davenport. It wouldn't matter to the new man. During + that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse of + communicativeness—such a desire for a moment's relief from his + long-maintained secrecy—that he was on the verge of confiding his + project to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; and + you had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations. + </p> + <p> + “He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as few + belongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides the + Bagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result of + his collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a few + instruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set of + shaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought the + day before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to their fate. + He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn't help + feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a new tenant + accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act. + </p> + <p> + “He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines of + tonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healing + preparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel. + His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed as for + travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward, whereas a + trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put out of sight. + Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put into wrapping-paper. His + second visit was to a department store, where he got the linen and other + articles he would need during his seclusion,—sheets, towels, + handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. He provided + himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear in immediately + after his transformation, until he could be supplied by regular tailors, + haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes, everything,—particularly + shoulder braces; he put those on when he came to be fitted with the suit + and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the old Davenport's was to emerge with + the new man. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he left his purchases to be called for. His paper parcel, + containing the instruments, drugs, and so forth, he thought best to cling + to. From the department store he went to some other shops in the + neighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in his + pockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of the + money again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing the + funds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the bills + themselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His next + important call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He had + got up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large part + of the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that he + was buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcels here + made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he went out, + hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and was driven to + the department store. The things he had bought there were put on the cab + seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, and had his parcels + from there stowed inside the cab, which they almost filled up. But he + managed to make room for himself, and ordered the man to drive to and + along South Street until told to stop. It was now quite dark, and he + thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory of the exact place + if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by being mentioned and looked + for. + </p> + <p> + “However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, when + Mr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no great + interest in the locality,—it was a cold night, and he was doubtless + thinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying his parcels + into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying the cabman. + As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving his things up + to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the door locked, and the + gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eye fell on Bagley's + money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to use it as Bagley had + ordered. Davenport wondered what he would do with it, but postponed the + problem; he thrust the package of bills out of view, behind the books on + Mr. Bud's shelf, and turned to the business he had come for. No one had + seen him take possession of the room; no eye but the cabman's had followed + him to the hallway below, and the cabman would probably think he was + merely housing his goods there till he should go aboard some vessel in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + “A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It was + the healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room was well + enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused the gas-stove + to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep the coal-stove + in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too great a problem. + As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its light couldn't reach + the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield for the keyhole. For + water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to a bath-room, of which + Mr. Bud kept a key hung up in his own apartment. During his secret + residence in the house, Davenport visited the bath-room only at night, + taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had first been puzzled by the + laundry problem, but it proved very simple. His costume during his time of + concealment was limited to pajamas and slippers. Of handkerchiefs he had + provided a large stock. When the towels and other articles did require + laundering, he managed it in a wash-basin. On the first night, he only + unpacked and arranged his things, and slept. At daylight he sat down + before a mirror, and began to design his new physiognomy with the make-up + pencils. By noon he was ready to lay aside the pencils and substitute + instruments of more lasting effect. Don't fear, Miss Hill, that I'm going + to describe his operations in detail. I'll pass them over entirely, merely + saying that after two days of work he was elated with the results he could + already foresee upon the healing of the cuts. Such pain as there was, he + had braced himself to endure. The worst of it came when he exchanged + knives for tweezers, and attacked his eyebrows. This was really a tedious + business, and he was glad to find that he could produce a sufficient + increase of curve without going the full length of his design. In his + necessary intervals of rest, he practised the new handwriting. He was most + regular in his diet, sleep, and use of medicines. After a few days, he had + nothing left to do, as far as the facial operations were concerned, but + attend to their healing. He then began to wear the shoulder-braces, and + took up the matter of voice. + </p> + <p> + “But meanwhile, in the midst of his work one day,—his second day of + concealment, it was,—he had a little experience that produced quite + as disturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he came + across the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in the + afternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, as + usual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in and + out. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by a knock. + He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fear the + knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heard + again, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them as yours, + Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days that they + might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned. Later, + in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many little alarms + at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as people went to + and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after he had + begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he made was + low, it might have been audible to a person just outside his door. But he + kept his ear alert, and the voice-practice was shut off at the slightest + intimation of a step on the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard many + feet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If it + had been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuous sort + of growl, difficult to place or identify. + </p> + <p> + “You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than their + possessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of American + voices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, we + speak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middle + notes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice is + naturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases is + to glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had done + this. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading verse + aloud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in the slang + phrase, 'all there.' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way of bringing + the lower voice into predominance; of making it become the habitual voice, + to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one can do this in time by + studied practice, but the constant watchfulness is irksome and may lapse + at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and for all, so that the quick + unconscious response to the mind's order to speak would be from the lower + voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud's dictionary, opened it at U, + and recited one after another all the words beginning with that letter as + pronounced in 'under.' This he did through the whole list, again and + again, hour after hour, monotonously, in the lower register of his voice. + He went through this practice every day, with the result that his deeper + notes were brought into such activity as to make them supplant the higher + voice entirely. Pronunciation has something to do with voice effect, and, + besides, his complete transformation required some change in that on its + own account. This was easy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of + imitating dialects, foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier + in life he had naturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, + which is somewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in his + association with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed into + the slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only to + return to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as in + other details of the well-ordered life his new self was to lead. + </p> + <p> + “As I said, he was provided with shaving materials. But he couldn't cut + his own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in the + old fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the end of + that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could do + about it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longest + locks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After the + first two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention each + day. His vocal and handwriting exercises weren't to be carried to excess, + and so he had a good deal of time on his hands. Some of this, after his + face was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise, using + chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenic implements. + He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave the utmost care to + their composition from the preserved foods at his disposal. He slept from + nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed no artificial light. For pure + air, he kept a window open all night, being well wrapped up, but in the + daytime he didn't risk leaving open more than the cracks above and below + the sashes, for fear some observant person might suspect a lodger in the + room. Sometimes he read, renewing an acquaintance which the new man he was + beginning to be must naturally have made, in earlier days, with Scott's + novels. He had necessarily designed that the new man should possess the + same literature and general knowledge as the bygone Davenport had + possessed. For already, as soon as the general effect of the operations + began to emerge from bandages and temporary discoloration, he had begun to + consider Davenport as bygone,—as a man who had come to that place + one evening, remained a brief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving + behind him his clothes and sundry useful property which he, the new man + who found himself there, might use without fear of objection from the + former owner. + </p> + <p> + “The sense of new identity came with perfect ease at the first bidding. It + was not marred by such evidences of the old fact as still remained. These + were obliterated one by one. At last the healing was complete; there was + nothing to do but remove all traces of anybody's presence in the room + during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of a barber. + The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove, starting it with + the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feeding it first with + Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and other inflammable + things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He made one large + bundle of the shoes, cans, jars, surgical instruments, everything that + couldn't be easily burnt, and wrapped them in a sheet, along with the dead + ashes of the conflagration in the stove. He then made up Mr. Bud's bed, + restored the room to its original appearance in every respect, and waited + for night. As soon as access to the bath-room was safe, he made his final + toilet, as far as that house was concerned, and put on his new clothes for + the first time. About three o'clock in the morning, when the street was + entirely deserted, he lugged his bundle—containing the unburnable + things—down the stairs and across the street, and dropped it into + the river. Even if the things were ever found, they were such as might + come from a vessel, and wouldn't point either to Murray Davenport or to + Mr. Bud's room. + </p> + <p> + “He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his new + sensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a market + restaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop—one of those that + open in time for early-rising customers—and had his hair cut in the + desired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought a + supply of linen and so forth, with a trunk and hand-bag, so that he could + 'arrive' properly at a hotel. He did arrive at one, in a cab, with bag and + baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, he + called at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, he + recalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind the + books on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, but + in any case it oughtn't to remain where it was; so he went back to Mr. + Bud's room, entering the house unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + “He took the money from the cover it was in, and put it in an inside + pocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effects + of this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quite + irresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhile + before going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, was + only increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked very tempting. + To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down on the bed, + with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed. + </p> + <p> + “He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, and the + lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on the floor + and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; he then + sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed down the + cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left the room for + the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to the foot of the + stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One of them + happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had already seen + their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked his stars for + the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Bud and + Larcher.” + </p> + <p> + Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florence + and Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was now + complete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have to + make, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeed was + Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder shared with + him, could not be guessed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI — AFTER THE DISCLOSURE + </h2> + <p> + The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often + than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no + great stupidity in her remark to Turl: + </p> + <p> + “But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that + hallway one night, but it turned out to be you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was I,” was the quiet answer. “The name of the new man, you see, + was Francis Turl.” + </p> + <p> + As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a + certain doubt: “But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you + before he—before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the + night before he disappeared—it was signed Francis Turl.” + </p> + <p> + Turl smiled. “Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's character. + He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character he had + constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun practical + experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some of that + practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could better + mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than letters + between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief acquaintance, + which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray Davenport's affairs + ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This has already happened + in the matter of the money, for example. The name, too, was selected long + before the disappearance. That explains the letter you saw. I didn't dare + tell this earlier in the story,—I feared to reveal too suddenly what + had become of Murray Davenport. It was best to break it as I have, was it + not?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an + involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something + almost like repulsion. + </p> + <p> + “It's so strange,” she said, in a hushed voice. “I can't believe it. I + don't know what to think.” + </p> + <p> + Turl sighed patiently. “You can understand now why I didn't want to tell. + Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,—to + interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to perfect + it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it, of course. + I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll support the + illusion.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead + to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind + was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered + aversion in her look. + </p> + <p> + “I had meant to leave New York,” he went on, watching her with cautious + anxiety, “in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the + friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the street + that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell into a + strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about Davenport. + This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the disappearance, so I was + pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. Also, I wondered whether + he would detect any trace of my long occupancy of his room. I found I'd + forgot to bring out the cover taken from the bankbills. Suppose that were + seen, and you recognized it, what theories would you form? For the sake of + my purpose I ought to have put curiosity aside, but it was too keen; I + resolved to gratify it this one time only. The hallway was perfectly dark, + and all I had to do was to wait there till you and Mr. Bud should come + out. I knew he would accompany you down-stairs for a good-night drink in + the saloon when you left. The slightest remark would give me some insight + into your general views of the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came + down together. I stood well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. + And you can imagine what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. + Do you remember? Davenport—it couldn't be anybody else—had + disappeared just too soon to learn that 'the young lady'—so Mr. Bud + called her—had been true, after all! And it broke your heart to have + nothing to report when you saw her!” + </p> + <p> + “I do remember,” said Larcher. Florence's lip quivered. + </p> + <p> + “I stood there in the darkness, like a man stunned, for several minutes,” + Turl proceeded. “There was so much to make out. Perhaps there had been + something going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I—that + Davenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought out + things that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but the + end of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' was + deeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw her + frequently. + </p> + <p> + “I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. Had I—had + Davenport—(the distinction between the two was just then more + difficult to preserve)—mistakenly imagined himself deprived of that + which was of more value than anything else in life? had he—I—in + throwing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyond + recovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of my + soul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's last + crudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could I + remain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfully + carried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering the + happiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! I + couldn't give it up. But the great design—should all that skill and + labor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't be + undone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and the + coveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if the + transformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved at + least. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, there + was no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to the + old unlucky name and history!—it was asking too much! + </p> + <p> + “Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile the + alternatives—to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the + happiness. Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should + remain, and should play to win the happiness for himself. I would change + my plans somewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do + was to find you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit of + seeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch the houses + where he called. Knowing where he lived, and his favorite resorts, I had + never any difficulty in getting on his track. In that way, I came to keep + an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himself in with a + door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room I still occupy, + and managed very easily to throw myself in your father's way. You know the + rest, and how through you I met Miss Hill and Larcher. In this room, also, + I have had the—experience—of meeting Mr. Bagley.” + </p> + <p> + “And what of his money?” asked Florence. + </p> + <p> + “That has remained a question. It is still undecided. No doubt a third + person would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, the + creditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But the + creditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather than thought, + was sincere enough in considering the case at least debatable. As for me, + you will say, if I am Francis Turl, I am logically a third person. Even + so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems against nature. As + Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly Murray Davenport's claims, + perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing what my course would + ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim to certain money was in + dispute—that a decision might deprive me of it. I didn't explain, of + course, that the decision would be my own. If the money goes back to + Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. I made up my mind not + to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport had been; to rely entirely + on the one which seemed to promise most. I have to thank you, Larcher, for + having caused me to learn what that was, in my former iden—in the + person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old and new selves will still + overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense of being Francis Turl as + much as you might imagine; and the lapses will necessarily be fewer and + fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fall back on my ability as an + artist in black and white. But my work should be of a different line from + that which Murray Davenport had followed—not only to prevent + recognition of the style, but to accord with my new outlook—with + Francis Turl's outlook—on the world. That is why my work has dealt + with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comic sketches, and + shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decided against keeping + the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming in soon. What I received—what + Davenport received for illustrating your articles, Larcher, though it made + him richer than he had often found himself, had been pretty well used up + incidentally to the transformation and my subsequent emergence to the + world. So I resorted to you to facilitate my introduction to the market. + When I met you here one day, I expressed a wish that I might run across a + copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery. I knew—it was another piece + of my inherited information from Davenport—that you had that book. + In that way I drew an invitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that + began resulted as I desired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful + to you from the bottom of my heart.” + </p> + <p> + “The pleasure has been mine, I assure you,” replied Larcher, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “And the profit mine,” said Turl. “The check for those first three + sketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn't + been alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me—Francis Turl was + born to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagley + money would unlock a good store of the sweets of life.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found no + answer there—nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how + to regard him, how to place him in her heart. + </p> + <p> + “But the matter of livelihood, or the question of the money,” he resumed, + humbly and patiently, “wasn't what gave me most concern. You will + understand now—Florence”—his voice faltered as he uttered the + name—“why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said + what I did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway that + night: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. What had + caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I dared not—as + Turl—inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but it + wasn't for me—Turl—to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, + now was that you would forget Davenport—that the way would be free + for the newcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old + love, I was both touched and baffled—touched infinitely at your + loyalty to Murray Davenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis + Turl. I should have thought less of you—loved you less—if you + had so soon given up the unfortunate man who had passed; and yet my + dearest hopes depended on your giving him up. I even urged you to forget + him; assured you he would never reappear, and begged you to set your back + to the past. Though your refusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked + you for it—thanked you in behalf of the old self, the old memories + which had again become dear to me. It was a puzzling situation,—my + preferred rival was my former self; I had set the new self to win you from + constancy to the old, and my happiness lay in doing so; and yet for that + constancy I loved you more than ever, and if you had fallen from it, I + should have been wounded while I was made happy. All the time, however, my + will held out against telling you the secret. I feared the illusion must + lose something if it came short of being absolute reality to any one—even + you. I'm afraid I couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any + divulgence that might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate + self. It seemed better to wait till time should become my ally against my + rival in your heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival—the + old Murray Davenport—was installed there; when I saw how much you + suffered—how much you would still suffer—from uncertainty + about his fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>was</i> cruel,” said Florence. “I have suffered.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” he replied. “I didn't fully realize—I was too intent + on my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!—it was more than + cruel. I shall not forgive myself for that, at least.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “And now that you know?” he asked, in a low voice, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “It is so strange,” she replied, coldly. “I can't tell what I think. You + are not the same. I can see now that you are he—in spite of all your + skill, I can see that.” + </p> + <p> + He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back, + saying quickly: + </p> + <p> + “And yet you are not he.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” said Turl. “And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am + Francis Turl—” + </p> + <p> + “And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me,” she answered. “Oh, I see + now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost—more lost than ever. Your + design has been all too successful.” + </p> + <p> + “It was <i>his</i> design, remember,” pleaded Turl. “And I am the result + of it—the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. + Surely all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, + severed from the unhappy, and made fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + “But what was it in him that I loved?” she asked, looking at Turl as if in + search of something missing. + </p> + <p> + He could only say: “If you reject me, he is stultified. His plan + contemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you so + far bring disaster on his plan.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, and repeated sadly: “You are not the same.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely the love I have for you—that is the same—the old + love transmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport + survives in me—and I'm willing that he should.” + </p> + <p> + Again she vainly asked: “What was it in him that I loved—that I + still love when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray + Davenport I knew, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if I wished + to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myself is + impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, the return + would be mental only, and even mentally it would never be complete. You + say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it you loved in him? + Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, if you doom me to + unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for my unhappiness.” He + smiled despondently. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” she said. “It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or even by + thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It's so + strange as yet. We must wait.” She rose, rather weakly, and supported + herself with the back of a chair. “When I'm ready for you to call, I'll + send you a message.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, and + Larcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and rather + embarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to the company + of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once the effect of + comparative speechlessness. + </p> + <p> + Out in the hall, when the door of the Kenby suite had closed behind them, + Turl said to Larcher: “You've had a good deal of trouble over Murray + Davenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize for + the trouble,—as his representative, you know,—and thank you + for the kindness.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't mention either,” said Larcher, cordially. “I take it from your + tone,” said Turl, smiling, “that my story doesn't alter the friendly + relations between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for the + sake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do for + a conception like yours—so original and bold—to come to + failure. Are you going to turn in now?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worth + being out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat.” + </p> + <p> + He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came face + to face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold—a bulky + man with overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was a + look of vengeful triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Just the fellow I was lookin' for,” said this person to Turl. “Good + evening, Mr. Murray Davenport! How about my bunch of money?” + </p> + <p> + The speaker, of course, was Bagley. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII — BAGLEY SHINES OUT + </h2> + <h3> + “I beg pardon,” said Turl, coolly, as if he had not heard aright. + </h3> + <p> + “You needn't try to bluff <i>me</i>,” said Bagley. “I've been on to your + game for a good while. You can fool some of the people, but you can't fool + me. I'm too old a friend, Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “My name is Turl.” + </p> + <p> + “Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll + just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my money + back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's left of + it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist, you are. + We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like. We'll see how + clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed + perfectly at ease. + </p> + <p> + “You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion,” he replied. “Your + name, I believe, is Bagley.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go + through; it's not like your <i>ill</i>usion, as you call it—and very + ill you'll be—” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know I call it that?” asked Turl, quickly. “I never spoke of + having an illusion, in your presence—or till this evening.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish. + </p> + <p> + “You must have been overhearing,” added Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't mind telling you I have been,” replied Bagley, with + recovered insolence. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick + one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely I've + got the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and sportsmanlike”—Bagley's + eyes gleamed facetiously—“to let you know before I notify the + police. But if you can disappear again before I do that, it'll be a mighty + quick disappearance.” + </p> + <p> + He started for the hall, to leave the house. + </p> + <p> + Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. “You'll have a simple + task proving that I am Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation well + enough to convince the authorities.” + </p> + <p> + “They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous—and + the story is so probable.” + </p> + <p> + “You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though I + couldn't catch it all. You can make it as probable again.” + </p> + <p> + “But I sha'n't have to tell it again. As the accused person, I sha'n't + have to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking is + necessary, I shall have a clever lawyer to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I can swear to what I heard from your own lips.” + </p> + <p> + “Through a keyhole? Such a long story? so full of details? Your having + heard it in that manner will add to its credibility, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I can swear I recognize you as Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + “As the accuser, you'll have to support your statement with the testimony + of witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. What + do you suppose they'll swear? His landlady, for instance? Do you think, + Larcher, that Murray Davenport's landlady would swear that I'm he?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so,” said Larcher, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Here's Larcher himself as a witness,” said Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I can swear I don't see the slightest resemblance between Mr. Turl and + Murray Davenport,” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “You can swear you <i>know</i> he is Murray Davenport, all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “And when my lawyer asks him <i>how</i> he knows,” said Turl, “he can only + say, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, of + his own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn for + amusement? No.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of,” put + in Larcher, “if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can take a + holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some other + city, if necessary.” + </p> + <p> + “There are others,—the ladies in there, who heard the story,” said + Bagley, lightly. + </p> + <p> + “One of them didn't know Murray Davenport,” said Turl, “and the other—I + should be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of the + witness-stand on my account. I hardly think you would subject her to it, + Mr. Bagley,—I do you that credit.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know about that,” said Bagley. “I'll take my chances of showing + you up one way or another, just the same. You <i>are</i> Murray Davenport, + and I know it; that's pretty good material to start with. Your story has + managed to convince <i>me</i>, little as I could hear of it; and I'm not + exactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that—” + </p> + <p> + “It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of the + traits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that sense to + any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager you + can't tell it so as to convince a lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + “How much will you wager?” said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spirit + lighting up in him. + </p> + <p> + “I merely used the expression,” said Turl. “I'm not a betting man.” + </p> + <p> + “I am,” said Bagley. “What'll you bet I can't convince a lawyer?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a betting man,” repeated Turl, “but just for this occasion I + shouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyer + were accessible at this hour.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as a + request to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quite sure + whether he interpreted correctly, Larcher put in: + </p> + <p> + “I think there's one to be found not very far from here. I mean Mr. Barry + Tompkins; he passes most of his evenings at a Bohemian resort near Sixth + Avenue. He was slightly acquainted with Murray Davenport, though. Would + that fact militate?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, as far as I'm concerned,” said Turl, taking a bank-bill from + his pocket and handing it to Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins,” said Bagley. “He'd do all right. But + if he's a friend of Davenport's—” + </p> + <p> + “He isn't a friend,” corrected Larcher. “He met him once or twice in my + company for a few minutes at a time.” + </p> + <p> + “But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport's + friend,” rejoined Bagley to Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't thought of that,” said Turl. “I only meant I was willing to + undergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you told the + story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be some other + lawyer at the place Larcher speaks of.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; I'll cover your money quick enough,” said Bagley, doing so. “I + guess we'll find a lawyer to suit in that crowd. I know the place you + mean.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. When + he returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. The + snowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; but the + white mass, little trodden in that part of the city since nightfall, was + so thick that the feet sank deep at every step. The labor of walking, and + the cold, kept the party silent till they reached the place where Larcher + had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's first orders + about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door to enter, the + burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast to the snowy + night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway led them into + this scene,—the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talking people, + who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles and glasses. + An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. One would + have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words for the + general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noise was + but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of three or + four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possible under + cover of the general noise. + </p> + <p> + Before the three newcomers had finished their survey of the room, Larcher + saw Barry Tompkins signalling, with a raised glass and a grinning + countenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go over to him,” said Bagley, abruptly. “I see there's room there.” + </p> + <p> + Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. The latter + merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeed leaped + suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly not yet in + Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all was friendly + between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why should Tompkins, supposing + he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion, conceal the fact? + </p> + <p> + Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairs by + the time Larcher had threaded a way to him. Larcher, looking around, saw + that Bagley had followed close. He therefore introduced Bagley first; and + then Turl. Tompkins had the same brief, hearty handshake, the same + mirthful grin—as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting + were an occasion for chuckling at it—for both. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport,” remarked Bagley to + Larcher, as soon as all in the party were seated. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” replied Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Then, Mr. Tompkins, you don't seem to live up to your reputation as a + quick-sighted man,” said Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon?” said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one of his + vanities. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible you don't recognize this gentleman?” asked Bagley, + indicating Turl. “As somebody you've met before, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Extremely possible,” replied Tompkins, with a sudden curtness in his + voice. “I do <i>not</i> recognize this gentleman as anybody I've met + before. But, as I never forget a face, I shall always recognize him in the + future as somebody I've met to-night.” Whereat he grinned benignly at + Turl, who acknowledged with a courteous “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “You never forget a face,” said Bagley, “and yet you don't remember this + one. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, and + look close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, and + don't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down over + the forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don't make + out your old acquaintance—and my old friend—Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally—with a + wondering inquiry—at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious,” said he. “He declares I am the + Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks you ought to + be able to identify me as that person.” + </p> + <p> + “If you gentlemen are working up a joke,” replied Tompkins, “I hope I + shall soon begin to see the fun; but if you're not, why then, Mr. Bagley, + I should earnestly advise you to take something for this.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just wait, Mr. Tompkins. You're a well-informed man, I believe. Now + let's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing his + appearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so as + almost to defy recognition?” + </p> + <p> + “I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defy + recognition by <i>me</i>. So much for your general question. As to this + gentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can only + wonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he said + to Larcher: “I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I was a + bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduce + you,” suggested Turl. + </p> + <p> + “You want a lawyer?” said Tompkins. “There are three or four here. Over + there's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, I + suppose,—a well-known criminologist.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think he'd be the very man for you,” said Turl to Bagley. + “Besides being a lawyer, he knows surgery, and he's an authority on the + habits of criminals.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he a friend of yours?” asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyes + lighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity of + ignorance. + </p> + <p> + “I never met him,” said Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” said Larcher; “and I don't think Murray Davenport ever did.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if Mr. Tompkins will introduce Mr. Larcher and me, and come away at + once without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet's + concerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way.” + </p> + <p> + Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legal + criminologist—a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely gray + hair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression—and, + having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagley + was not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, I've wanted to meet you,” he began, “to speak about a remarkable + case that comes right in your line. I'd like to tell you the story, just + as I know it, and get your opinion on it.” + </p> + <p> + The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness to + hear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he kept + during the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimes + turned penetratingly on Bagley, sometimes dropping idly to the table. + </p> + <p> + “There's a young fellow in this town, a friend of mine,” Bagley went on, + “of a literary turn of mind, and altogether what you'd call a queer Dick. + He'd got down on his luck, for one reason and another, and was dead sore + on himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took the most + remarkable notion you ever heard of.” And Bagley gave what Larcher had + inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the whole + transaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyes affected + the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by they occasionally + sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that those of Barry + Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the careful heeding of + every word, was maintained to the end of the story. + </p> + <p> + “And now, sir,” said Bagley, triumphantly, “I'd like to ask what you think + of that?” + </p> + <p> + The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the last + time his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: “It's + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “But I know it to be true!” blurted Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way you + describe,” said the medico-legal man. “But not such as would insure + against recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciable + length of time.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely you know what criminals have done to avoid identification?” + </p> + <p> + “Better than any other man in New York,” said the other, simply, without + any boastfulness. + </p> + <p> + “And you know what these facial surgeons do?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientific + monograph yet published on the art they profess.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you say that what my friend has done is impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “What you say he has done is quite impossible. Mr. Tompkins, for example, + whom you cite as having once met your friend and then failed to recognize + him, would recognize him in ten seconds after any transformation within + possibility. If he failed to recognize the man you take to be your friend + transformed, make up your mind the man is somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley drew a deep sigh, curtly thanked the criminologist, and rose, + saying to Larcher: “Well, you better turn over the stakes to your friend, + I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not going yet, are you?” said Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. I lose this bet; but I'll try my story on the police just the + same. Truth is mighty and will prevail.” + </p> + <p> + Before Bagley could make his way out, however, Turl, who had been watching + him, managed to get to his side. Larcher, waving a good-night to Barry + Tompkins, followed the two from the room. In the hall, he handed the + stakes to Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you win all right enough,” admitted Bagley. “My fun will come + later.” + </p> + <p> + “I trust you'll see the funny side of it,” replied Turl, accompanying him + forth to the snowy street. “You haven't laughed much at the little + foretaste of the incredulity that awaits you.” + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind. I'll make them believe me, before I'm through.” He had + turned toward Sixth Avenue. Turl and Larcher stuck close to him. + </p> + <p> + “You'll have them suggesting rest-cures for the mind, and that sort of + thing,” said Turl, pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “And the newspapers will be calling you the Great American Identifier,” + put in Larcher. + </p> + <p> + “There'll be somebody else as the chief identifier,” said Bagley, glaring + at Turl. “Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley.” Turl enforced obedience by stepping in front + of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, while an + elevated train rumbled along overhead. “I don't think you really mean + that. I don't think that, as an American, you would really subject a woman—such + a woman—to such an ordeal, to gain so little. Would you now?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't I?” Despite his defiant look, Bagley had weakened a bit. + </p> + <p> + “I can't imagine your doing it. But if you did, my lawyer would have to + make you tell how you had heard this wonderful tale.” + </p> + <p> + “Through the door. That's easy enough.” + </p> + <p> + “We could show that the tale couldn't possibly be heard through so thick a + door, except by the most careful attention—at the keyhole. You would + have to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole—at the + keyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, + attempting to answer that question—with the reporters eagerly + awaiting your reply to publish it to the town.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. At + last he growled: + </p> + <p> + “If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that money + have you got left?” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before he + disappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't it + the case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to that amount + from you?” + </p> + <p> + Bagley gave a contemptuous grunt; then, suddenly brightening up, he said: + “S'pose Davenport <i>was</i> entitled to it. As you ain't Davenport, why, + of course, you ain't entitled to it. Now what have you got to say?” + </p> + <p> + “Merely, that, as you're not Davenport, neither are you entitled to it.” + </p> + <p> + “But I was only supposin'. I don't admit that Davenport was entitled to + it. Ordinary law's good enough for me. I just wanted to show you where you + stand, you not bein' Davenport, even if he had a right to that money.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose Davenport had given me the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'd have to restore it, as it wasn't lawfully his.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can't prove that I have it, to restore.” + </p> + <p> + “If I can establish any sort of connection between you and Davenport, I + can cause your affairs to be thoroughly looked into,” retorted Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “But you can't establish that connection, any more than you can convince + anybody that I'm Murray Davenport.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley was fiercely silent, taking in a deep breath for the cooling of his + rage. He was a man who saw whole vistas of probability in a moment, and + who was correspondingly quick in making decisions. + </p> + <p> + “We're at a deadlock,” said he. “You're a clever boy, Dav,—or Turl, + I might as well call you. I know the game's against me, and Turl you shall + be from now on, for all I've ever got to say. I did swear this evening to + make it hot for you, but I'm not as hot myself now as I was at that + moment. I'll give up the idea of causing trouble for you over that money; + but the money itself I must have.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you need it badly?” asked Turl. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Need</i> it!” cried Bagley, scorning the imputation. “Not me! The loss + of it would never touch me. But no man can ever say he's done me out of + that much money, no matter how smart he is. So I'll have that back, if + I've got to spend all the rest of my pile to get it. One way or another, + I'll manage to produce evidence connecting you with Murray Davenport at + the time he disappeared with my cash.” + </p> + <p> + Turl pondered. Presently he said: “If it were restored to you, Davenport's + moral right to it would still be insisted on. The restoration would be + merely on grounds of expediency.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Bagley. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” Turl went on, “Davenport no longer needs it; and certainly <i>I</i> + don't need it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't you, on the level?” inquired Bagley, surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. I can earn a very good income. Fortune smiles on me.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't mind your holding out a thousand or two of that money when + you pay it over,—say two thousand, as a sort of testimonial of my + regard,” said Bagley, good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much. You mean to be generous; but I couldn't accept a + dollar as a gift, from the man who wouldn't pay Murray Davenport as a + right.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you accept the two thousand, then, as Murray Davenport's right,—you + being a kind of an heir of his?” + </p> + <p> + “I would accept the whole amount in dispute; but under that, not a cent.” + </p> + <p> + Bagley looked at Turl long and hard; then said, quietly: “I tell you what + I'll do with you. I'll toss up for that money,—the whole amount. If + you win, keep it, and I'll shut up. But if I win, you turn it over and + never let me hear another word about Davenport's right.” + </p> + <p> + “As I told you before, I'm not a gambling man. And I can't admit that + Davenport's right is open to settlement.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, at least you'll admit that you and I don't agree about it. You + can't deny there's a difference of opinion between us. If you want to + settle that difference once and for ever, inside of a minute, here's your + chance. It's just cases like this that the dice are good for. There's a + saloon over on that corner. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Turl. And the three strode diagonally across Sixth + Avenue. + </p> + <p> + “Gimme a box of dice,” said Bagley to the man behind the bar, when they + had entered the brightly lighted place. + </p> + <p> + “They're usin' it in the back room,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “Got a pack o' cards?” then asked Bagley. + </p> + <p> + The barkeeper handed over a pack which had been reposing in a cigar-box. + </p> + <p> + “I'll make it as sudden as you like,” said Bagley to Turl. “One cut + apiece, and highest wins. Or would you like something not so quick?” + </p> + <p> + “One cut, and the higher wins,” said Turl. + </p> + <p> + “Shuffle the cards,” said Bagley to Larcher, who obeyed. “Help yourself,” + said Bagley to Turl. The latter cut, and turned up a ten-spot. Bagley cut, + and showed a six. + </p> + <p> + “The money's yours,” said Bagley. “And now, gentlemen, what'll you have to + drink?” + </p> + <p> + The drinks were ordered, and taken in silence. “There's only one thing I'd + like to ask,” said Bagley thereupon. “That keyhole business—it + needn't go any further, I s'pose?” + </p> + <p> + “I give you my word,” said Turl. Larcher added his, whereupon Bagley bade + the barkeeper telephone for a four-wheeler, and would have taken them to + their homes in it. But they preferred a walk, and left him waiting for his + cab. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” exclaimed Larcher, as soon as he was out of the saloon. “I + congratulate you! I feared Bagley would give trouble. But how easily he + came around!” + </p> + <p> + “You forget how fortunate I am,” said Turl, smiling. “Poor Davenport could + never have brought him around.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no doubting your luck,” said Larcher; “even with cards.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky with cards,” began Turl, lightly; but broke off all at once, and + looked suddenly dubious as Larcher glanced at him in the electric light. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII — FLORENCE + </h2> + <p> + The morning brought sunshine and the sound of sleigh-bells. In the + wonderfully clear air of New York, the snow-covered streets dazzled the + eyes. Never did a town look more brilliant, or people feel more blithe, + than on this fine day after the long snow-storm. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it glorious?” Edna Hill was looking out on the shining white + gardens from Florence's parlor window. “Certainly, on a day like this, it + doesn't seem natural for one to cling to the past. It's a day for + beginning over again, if ever there are such days.” Her words had allusion + to the subject on which the two girls had talked late into the night. Edna + had waited for Florence to resume the theme in the morning, but the latter + had not done so yet, although breakfast was now over. Perhaps it was her + father's presence that had deterred her. The incident of the meal had been + the arrival of a note from Mr. Bagley to Mr. Kenby, expressing the + former's regret that he should be unavoidably prevented from keeping the + engagement to go sleighing. As Florence had forgotten to give her father + Mr. Bagley's verbal message, this note had brought her in for a quantity + of paternal complaint sufficient for the venting of the ill-humor due to + his having stayed up too late, and taken too much champagne the night + before. But now Mr. Kenby had gone out, wrapped up and overshod, to try + the effect of fresh air on his headache, and of shop-windows and pretty + women on his spirits. Florence, however, had still held off from the + all-important topic, until Edna was driven to introduce it herself. + </p> + <p> + “It's never a day for abandoning what has been dear to one,” replied + Florence. + </p> + <p> + “But you wouldn't be abandoning him. After all, he really is the same + man.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can't make myself regard him as the same. And he doesn't regard + himself so.” + </p> + <p> + “But in that case the other man has vanished. It's precisely as if he were + dead. No, it's even worse, for there isn't as much trace of him as there + would be of a man that had died. What's the use of being faithful to such + an utterly non-existent person? Why, there isn't even a grave, to put + flowers on;—or an unknown mound in a distant country, for the + imagination to cling to. There's just nothing to be constant to.” + </p> + <p> + “There are memories.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they'll remain. Does a widow lose her memories of number one when + she becomes Mrs. Number Two?” + </p> + <p> + “She changes the character of them; buries them out of sight; kills them + with neglect. Yes, she is false to them.” + </p> + <p> + “But your case isn't even like that. In these peculiar circumstances the + old memories will blend with the new.—And, dear me! he is such a + nice man! I don't see how the other could have been nicer. You couldn't + find anybody more congenial in tastes and manners, I'm sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't make you understand, dear. Suppose Tom Larcher went away for a + time, and came back so completely different that you couldn't see the old + Tom Larcher in him at all. And suppose he didn't even consider himself the + same person you had loved. Would you love him then as you do now?” + </p> + <p> + Edna was silenced for a moment; but for a moment only. “Well, if he came + back such a charming fellow as Turl, and if he loved me as much as Turl + loves you, I could soon manage to drop the old Tom out of my mind. But of + course, you know, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't forget for a moment + that he really was the old Tom.” + </p> + <p> + The talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. The servant gave the name + of Mr. Turl. Florence turned crimson, and stood at a loss. + </p> + <p> + “You can't truly say you're out, dear,” counselled Edna, in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + “Show him in,” said Florence. + </p> + <p> + Turl entered. + </p> + <p> + Florence looked and spoke coldly. “I told you I'd send a message when I + wished you to call.” + </p> + <p> + He was wistful, but resolute. “I know it,” he said. “But love doesn't + stand on ceremony; lovers are importunate; they come without bidding.—Good + morning, Miss Hill; you mustn't let me drive you away.” + </p> + <p> + For Edna had swished across the room, and was making for the hall. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to the drawing-room,” she said, airily, “to see the sleighs go + by.” + </p> + <p> + In another second, the door slammed, and Turl was alone with Florence. He + took a hesitating step toward her. + </p> + <p> + “It's useless,” she said, raising her hand as a barrier between them. “I + can't think of you as the same. I can't see <i>him</i> in you. I should + have to do that before I could offer you his place. All that I can love + now is the memory of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” said Turl, without moving. “I have thought it over. For your + sake, I will be the man I was. It's true, I can't restore the old face; + but the old outlook on life, the old habits, the old pensiveness, will + bring back the old expression. I will resume the old name, the old set of + memories, the old sense of personality. I said last night that a + resumption of the old self could be only mental, and incomplete even so. + But when I said that, I had not surrendered. The mental return can be + complete, and must reveal itself more or less on the surface. And the old + love,—surely where the feeling is the same, its outer showing can't + be utterly new and strange.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a more pleading and reverent note than he had yet used since + the revelation. A moist shine came into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Murray—it <i>is</i> you!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—sweetheart!” His smile of the utmost tenderness seemed more of + a kind with sadness than with pleasure. It was the smile of a man deeply + sensible of sorrow—of Murray Davenport,—not that of one versed + in good fortune alone—not that which a potent imagination had made + habitual to Francis Turl. + </p> + <p> + She gave herself to his arms, and for a time neither spoke. It was she who + broke the silence, looking up with tearful but smiling eyes: + </p> + <p> + “You shall not abandon your design. It's too marvellous, too successful; + it has been too dear to you for that.” + </p> + <p> + “It was dear to me when I thought I had lost you. And since then, the + pride of conceiving and accomplishing it, the labor and pain, kept it dear + to me. But now that I am sure of you, I can resign it without a murmur. + From the moment when I decided to sacrifice it, it has been nothing to me, + provided I could only regain you.” + </p> + <p> + “But the old failure, the old ill luck, the old unrewarded drudgery,—no, + you sha'n't go back to them. You shall be true to the illusion—we + shall be true to it—I will help you in it, strengthen you in it! I + needed only to see the old Murray Davenport appear in you one moment. + Hereafter you shall be Francis Turl, the happy and fortunate! But you and + I will have our secret—before the world you shall be Francis Turl—but + to me you shall be Murray Davenport, too—Murray Davenport hidden + away in Francis Turl. To me alone, for the sake of the old memories. It + will be another tie between us, this secret, something that is solely + ours, deep in our hearts, as the knowledge of your old self would always + have been deep in yours if you hadn't told me. Think how much better it is + that I share this knowledge with you; now nothing of your mind is + concealed from me, and we together shall have our smile at the world's + expense.” + </p> + <p> + “For being so kind to Francis Turl, the fortunate, after its cold + treatment of Murray Davenport, the unlucky,” said Turl, smiling. “It shall + be as you say, sweetheart. There can be no doubt about my good fortune. It + puts even the old proverb out. With me it is lucky in love as well as at + cards.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “The Bagley money—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that money. Listen, dear. Now that I have some right to speak, you + must return that money. I don't dispute your moral claim to it—such + things are for you to settle. But the danger of keeping it—” + </p> + <p> + “There's no longer any danger. The money is mine, of Bagley's own free + will and consent. I encountered him last night. He is in my secret now, + but it's safe with him. We cut cards for the money, and I won. I hate + gambling, but the situation was exceptional. He hoped that, once the + matter was settled by the cards, he should never hear a word about it + again. As he hadn't heard a word of it from me—Davenport—for + years, this meant that his own conscience had been troubling him about it + all along. That's why he was ready at last to put the question to a + toss-up; but first he established the fact that he wouldn't be 'done' out + of the money by anybody. I tell you all this, dear, in justice to the man; + and so, exit Bagley. As I said, my secret—<i>our</i> secret—is + safe with him. So it is, of course, with Miss Hill and Larcher. Nobody + else knows it, though others besides you three may have suspected that I + had something to do with the disappearance.” + </p> + <p> + “Only Mr. Bud.” + </p> + <p> + “Larcher can explain away Mr. Bud's suspicions. Larcher has been a good + friend. I can never be grateful enough—” + </p> + <p> + A knock at the door cut his speech short, and the servant announced + Larcher himself. It had been arranged that he should call for Edna's + orders. That young lady had just intercepted him in the hall, to prevent + his breaking in upon what might be occurring between Turl and Miss Kenby. + But Florence, holding the door open, called out to Edna and Larcher to + come in. Something in her voice and look conveyed news to them both, and + they came swiftly. Edna kissed Florence half a dozen times, while Larcher + was shaking hands with Turl; then waltzed across to the piano, and for a + moment drowned the outside noises—the jingle of sleigh-bells, and + the shouts of children snowballing in the sunshine—with the still + more joyous notes of a celebrated march by Mendelssohn. + </p> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery of Murray Davenport, by +Robert Neilson Stephens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT *** + +***** This file should be named 9185-h.htm or 9185-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/8/9185/ + + +Text file produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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