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 wasAugust, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting thanthey looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in thebasement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes anddried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at thereflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he sawwere hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents downtheir backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dryin his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easychair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement calledhim forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limitedthough 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 NewYork dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. 

Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and mediumappearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereonsat 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, anda negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram. 

"Who the deuce--?" began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he openedthe message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise. "Can I call?" he said, aloud. "Well, rather!" He let his book dropforgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. Thetelegram 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 hasalready been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the youngman plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with nosense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets withimpatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flyingfeet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, afterdue announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he waskept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the endof that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room. 

She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though forindoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back ina poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; andshe marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hairarranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawlessskin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher'sconceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humilityin the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thingcompared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat uponher with a serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, madeit much less noticeable. 

"Well, this is a pleasure!" he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meether. 

"Hello, Tom!" she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. "Youneedn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, ofcourse, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. Wehave at least an hour to ourselves. "

"An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you atthis time of year. When I got your telegram--"

"I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York inAugust!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hotwave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though Iinvented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with acab. 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 downand be comfortable, --at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here'ssome wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn'torder anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But ifyou'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 sharethem. How thoughtful of you!"

She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the smalltable. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedlyacross at his hostess. 

"There's something I want you to do for me, " she answered, sittingcomposedly 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 Ishould have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more orless--that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to dowith 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?--goingabout hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to beeasy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to knowhim. "

"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 gettingalong; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, orthe reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how hefares. "

"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 outabout this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if youhesitate, and hem and haw--" She stopped, with the faintest shrug of theshoulders. 

"You might tell me the reasons, dear, " he said, humbly. 

"I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have thisinformation got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll getit, 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'shappiness depends on it, --perhaps more than one person's; I may tell youthat much. "

"Whose happiness?"

"It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't _my_ happiness, youmay be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, indoing this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you shouldbe inquisitive beyond that. "

"You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing youask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop tothink how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry andquestion--"

"Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in thisparticular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Uponmy 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 hadasked 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 serveyou more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance canhandle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say;writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and hassomething to do with theatres. Is there any other information to startwith?"

"No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairlygood-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and takeshis 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'tlike 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_ neversaw him. "

"There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was awriter and an artist and connected with theatres, " said Larcher. "And itisn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in athousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidencesdo occur. "

"He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember, " added the younglady. 

"He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want thisreport?"

"As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about hiscircumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; andwhen you find out anything more, write again. We're going back toEasthampton to-morrow, you know. "

A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up hisumbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue and acar. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additionalminutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last toconsideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangenessthereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate newsabout a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on gettingthat news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher couldonly give it up, and think upon means for the early accomplishment of hispart in the matter. He had decided to begin immediately, for his firstinquiries would be made of men who kept late hours, and with whosemidnight haunts he was acquainted. 

He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below FourteenthStreet. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement, where he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an atmosphereof tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap wine, and thenoisy talk of a numerous company sitting--for the most part--at longtables whereon were the traces of a _table d'hôte_ dinner. Coffee andclaret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and glasses, butalso on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but youthpreponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of sayingit. 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 youngmen with halos of hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen inParis in their days of art study. Larcher made his way through the crowdin the front room to that in the back, acknowledging many salutations. The last of these came from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whoseround, humorous face was made additionally benevolent by spectacles, andwhose forward bend of the shoulders might be the consequence of studiouspursuits, 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 meetingwere 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 lookedaround 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 MurrayDavenport?"

"I believe there is such a man--an illustrator. Is that the one youmean?"

"I suppose so. Where can I find him?"

"I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some ofhis 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 aresome things I want to find out about him, that'll require my gettingacquainted with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So thetrouble is to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead upto a pretty close acquaintance. "

"No trouble in that, " said Tompkins, decidedly. "Look here. He's anillustrator, 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-respectingillustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certaintyof 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 dothe illustrations. "

"Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?"

"Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider itpresumptuous if _I_ did it. Suppose it happened to be one of thoseeditors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in themanuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport asillustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editorto make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even ifDavenport refused the job, --which he wouldn't, --you'd have an opportunityto pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms of mind andmanner. "

"Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose heturned out to be a bad illustrator?"

"I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't haveremembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in myroom to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend himintelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of yoursin hand just now?"

"Why, yes, " said Larcher, brightening, "I got a notice of acceptanceto-day from the _Avenue Magazine_, of a thing about the rivers of NewYork City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration. "

"That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet forillustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'llthink I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now andtackle 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 thedirectory at the drug-store--unless you'd prefer to tarry here at thebanquet of wit and beauty. " Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved ahand over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and conceitit largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances regularlyto inhabit. 

Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather forthe pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins led theway up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign oldwoman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that she, whowas on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent in the shapeof her customers, might know of Murray Davenport; or, indeed, as he hadwhispered to Larcher, that the illustrator might be one of the crowd inthe restaurant at that very moment. But the proprietress knew no suchperson, a fact which seemed to rate him very low in her estimation andsomewhat high in Mr. Tompkins's. The two young men thereupon hastened toboard 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'sa playwright. "

"Probably the same, " replied Larcher, remembering that his man hadsomething 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'sabode, but east of Madison Avenue, while his own was west of Fifth. Butnow his way was to the residence of Barry Tompkins, which proved to be ashabby room on the fifth floor of an old building on Broadway; a roomserving as Mr. Tompkins's sleeping-chamber by night, and his law officeby day. For Mr. Tompkins, though he sought pleasure and forage under thebanners of literature and journalism, owned to no regular service butthat of the law. How it paid him might be inferred from the oldness ofhis 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 andhimself. And his friends were wont to assert that he kept the card"working overtime, " himself, preferring to lay down the law tocompanionable persons in neighboring cafés rather than to possibleclients in his office. When Tompkins had lighted the gas, Larcher saw acracked low ceiling, a threadbare carpet of no discoverable hue, an olddesk crowded with documents and volumes, some shelves of books at oneside, and the other three sides simply walled with books and magazinesin irregular piles, except where stood a bed-couch beneath a lot ofprints which served to conceal much of the faded wall-paper. 

Tompkins bravely went for the magazines, saying, "You begin with thatpile, and I'll take this. The names of the illustrators are always in thetable of contents; it's simply a matter of glancing down that. "

After half an hour's silent work, Tompkins exclaimed, "Here we are!" andtook a magazine to the desk, at which both young men sat down. "'A Heartin Peril, '" he quoted; "'A Story by James Willis Archway. Illustrated byMurray Davenport. Page 38. '" He turned over the leaves, and disclosedsome rather striking pictures in half-tone, signed "M. D. " Two men and twowomen figured in the different illustrations. 

"This isn't bad work, " said Tompkins. "I can recommend 'M. D. ' with aclear conscience. His women are beautiful in a really high way, --butthey've got a heartless look. There's an odd sort of distinction in hismen's faces, too. "

"A kind of scornful discontent, " ventured Larcher. "Perhaps the storyrequires it. "

"Perhaps; but the thing I mean seems to be under the expressionsintended. I should say it was unconscious, a part of the artist'sconception of the masculine face in general before it's individualized. I'll bet the chap that drew these illustrations isn't precisely the manin 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 sortof man, the more wonder that a girl like Edna Hill should so strangelybusy herself about him. 

CHAPTER II. 

ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE

Two days later, toward the close of a sunny afternoon, Mr. Thomas Larcherwas admitted by a lazy negro to an old brown-stone-front house half-waybetween Madison and Fourth Avenues, and directed to the third story back, whither he was left to find his way unaccompanied. Running up the darkstairs swiftly, with his thoughts in advance of his body, he suddenlychecked himself, uncertain as to which floor he had attained. At ahazard, he knocked on the door at the back of the dim, narrow passage hewas in. He heard slow steps upon the carpet, the door opened, and a manslightly taller, thinner, and older than himself peered out. 

"Pardon me, I may have mistaken the floor, " said Larcher. "I'm lookingfor Mr. Murray Davenport. "

"'Myself and misery know the man, '" replied the other, with quietindifference, in a gloomy but not unpleasing voice, and stepped back toallow his visitor's entrance. 

A little disconcerted at being received with a quotation, and one of suchimport, --the more so as it came from the speaker's lips so naturallyand with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on astranger, --Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper, theupholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in onecorner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the tablewhich stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk, wereall of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The same wasto be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black garmentof the square-cut "sack" or "lounge" shape. Books filled the mantel, theflat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table, which heldalso a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript paper, and theparaphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the walls, and standingabout on top of books and elsewhere, were water-colors, drawings inhalf-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many unfinished, besides a fewphotographs of celebrated paintings and statues. But long before he hadsought more than the most general impression of these contents of theroom, Larcher had bent all his observation upon their possessor. 

The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by theseand kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose distinguishedby a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty of form was inthe 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 tinylight 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, witha negligent, sullen effect. The general expression was of an oddpainwearied dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of anunquenchable humor. 

"This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself, " said Larcher, handingit. 

"Mr. Rogers?" inquired Murray Davenport. 

"Editor of the _Avenue Magazine_. "

Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, withoutdiminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himselftook a chair before the table. 

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher, " he said, conventionally; then, witha 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 anyoffered me before. "

"Oh, but I've seen some of your work, " contradicted Larcher. "Theillustrations 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 wererecommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate thisstuff of mine, " and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript fromunder his coat. 

"It's so unprecedented, " resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflectiveway of speaking. "I can scarcely help thinking there must be somemistake. "

"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 newillustrators they hear of. "

"Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offerto _me_--an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, like agift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called goodluck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has fallen to mebefore; never from the beginning of things to the present. So, in spiteof my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case. " This wassaid with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling. 

Larcher smiled. "Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse todo the pictures. "

"Oh, no, " returned Davenport, indolently. "I won't refuse. I'll acceptthe 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 itis to me, doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'llreceive 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 Ideclined. The money too, is an object--I won't conceal that fact. Tothink of a chance to earn a little money, coming my way without theslightest effort on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'mstill tempted to think this is all a dream. "

Larcher laughed. "Well, as to effort, " said he, "I don't think I shouldbe here now with that accepted manuscript for you to illustrate, if Ihadn't taken a good deal of pains to press my work on the attention ofeditors. "

"Oh, I don't mean to say that your prosperity, and other men's, is dueto having good things thrust upon you in this way. But if you do owe allto 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. Thegreatest fortune I could ever have asked would have been that my painsshould 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 bewondered at. The best a man has a right to ask is freedom from whatpeople call habitual bad luck. That's an immunity I've never had. Mylabors have been always banned--except when the work has masqueradedas some other man's. In that case they have been blessed. It will seemstrange to you, Mr. Larcher, but whatever I've done in my own name hasmet 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--inmoney 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 toenterprises 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, seehow the reputation itself is the cause of the apparent ill luck. Takethis thing, for instance. " He held up a sheet of music paper, whereon hehad evidently been writing before Larcher's arrival. "A song, supposed tobe sentimental. As the idea is somewhat novel, the words happy, and thetune rather quaint, I shall probably get a publisher for it, who willoffer me the lowest royalty. What then? Its fame and sale--or whether itshall have any--will depend entirely on what advertising it gets frombeing sung by professional singers. I have taken the precaution to submitthe idea and the air to a favorite of the music halls, and he haspromised 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 witha flourish on the programme, and putting his best voice and style intoit, it would have a chance of popularity. Other singers would want it, itwould be whistled around, and thousands of copies sold. But will he dothat?"

"I don't see why he shouldn't, " said Larcher. 

"Oh, but he knows why. He remembers I am a Jonah. What comes from mecarries ill luck. He'll sing the song, yes, but he won't hazard anyauspicious occasion on it. He'll use it as a means of stopping encoreswhen he's tired of them; he'll sing it hurriedly and mechanically; he'llmake 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 mightextend 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 athing as luck. Everything that occurs has a cause, an infinite line ofcauses. But a man's success or failure is due partly to causes outsideof his control, often outside of his ken. As, for instance, a suddenchange of weather may defeat a clever general, and thrust victory uponhis incompetent adversary. Now when these outside causes are adverse, and prevail, we say a man has bad luck. When they favor, and prevail, hehas good luck. It was a rapid succession of failures, due partly to follyand carelessness of my own, I admit, but partly to a run of adverseconjunctures far outside my sphere of influence, that got me my unluckyname 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 withyours, 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 thatmade Larcher color as one detected. But his weakness had been for aninstant only, and he rallied laughingly. 

"Many thanks, but I'm not superstitious, Mr. Davenport. Anyhow, myarticle has been accepted, and nothing can increase or diminish theamount I'm to receive for it. "

"But consider the risk to your future career, " pursued Davenport, with afaint smile. 

"Oh, I'll take the chances, " said Larcher, glad to treat the subject asa 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 melancholyhumor, "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, Ithank 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, asa result of your contact with it. "

"Thank you; but it doesn't matter much, as things are. No; they areright; Murray Davenport is a marked name; marked for failure. You mustknow, Mr. Larcher, I'm not only a Jonah; I'm that other ludicrous figurein the world, --a man with a grievance; a man with a complaint ofinjustice. Not that I ever air it; it's long since I learned better thanthat. I never speak of it, except in this casual way when it comes upapropos; but people still associate me with it, and tell newcomers aboutit, and find a moment's fun in it. And the man who is most hugely amusedat it, and benevolently humors it, is the man who did me the wrong. Forit's been a part of my fate that, in spite of the old injury, I shouldoften work for his pay. When other resources fail, there's always he tofall back on; he always has some little matter I can be useful in. Heposes then as my constant benefactor, my sure reliance in hard times. Andso he is, in fact; though the fortune that enables him to be is built onthe 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 ofme where my name is known. Please let nobody assure you, either that thewrong is an imaginary one, or that I still speak of it in a way todeserve 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 asocial and communicative nature, talks on fluently to the firstintelligent listener after a season of solitude. Larcher was keen to makethe most of a mood so favorable to his own purpose in seeking the man'sacquaintance. 

"You may trust me to believe nobody but yourself, if the subject evercomes up in my presence, " said Larcher. "I can certainly testify to thecool, 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 thesame; 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 yourhabits 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'--tofall 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 uponhis face. "I don't know what your experience may have been. We have onlyour own lights to go by; and mine have taught me to expect nothing fromwomen. Fair-weather friends; creatures that must be amused, and areunscrupulous at whose cost or how great. One of their amusements is tobe worshipped by a man; and to bring that about they will pretend love, with a pretence that would deceive the devil himself. The moment theyare bored with the pastime, they will drop the pretence, and feel injuredif the man complains. We take the beauty of their faces, the softness oftheir eyes, for the outward signs of tenderness and fidelity; and forthose supposed qualities, and others which their looks seem to express, we love them. But they have not those qualities; they don't even knowwhat it is that we love them for; they think it is for the outwardbeauty, 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 aredisappointed to find it isn't there, they wonder at us and blame us forinconstancy. The beautiful woman who could be what she looks--who couldreally 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 wonderinghow near she might come to justifying Davenport's opinion of women. Forhimself, though he found her bewitching, her prettiness had never seemedthe outward sign of excessive tenderness. He answered conventionally:"Well, one _would_ suppose so from your remarks. Of course, women liketo 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 shadeBy the light quivering aspen made. '

I've sometimes had reason to recall those lines. " Mr. Larcher sighed atcertain 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'veexperienced both, of course, but not so as to learn their effect onwomen. But suppose, if you can, a woman who should look kindly on anundeserving, but not ill-meaning, individual like myself. Suppose that, after a time, she happened to hear of the reputation of bad luck thatclung to him. What would she do then?"

"Undertake to be his mascot, I suppose, and neutralize the evilinfluence, " replied Larcher, laughingly. 

"Well, if I were to predict on my own experience, I should say she wouldtake flight as fast as she could, to avoid falling under the evilinfluence herself. The man would never hear of her again, and she woulddoubtless live happy ever after. "

For the first time in the conversation, Davenport sighed, and thefaintest 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, lesthe might betray his inquisitive purpose. 

"Yes, to some extent, though the business of making a bare living takesup a good deal of time. You observe the signs of various occupationshere. I have amused myself a little in science, too, --you see the cabinetover 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 amoney-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 arewanted? I'm afraid I've been wasting your time. "

In their brief talk about the task, Larcher, with the private design ofbetter acquaintance, arranged that he should accompany the artist tocertain riverside localities described in the text. Business detailssettled, 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 youdine. "

"Wherever you like. I dine at restaurants, and I'm not faithful to anyparticular one. "

"I prefer to dine as Addison preferred, --on one or two good things wellcooked, and no more. Toiling through a ten-course _table d'hôte_ menu isreally 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. Asa friend of mine, Barry Tompkins, says, it's a place where you get anunsurpassable English mutton-chop, a perfect baked potato, a mug ofdelicious ale, and afterward a cup of unexceptionable coffee. He saysthat, when you've finished, you've dined as simply as a philosopher andbetter 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, whichin that part was beginning to be shabby, the street lights were alreadyheralding the dusk. The two hastened from the region of deterioratingrespectability to the grandiose quarter westward, and thence to Broadwayand the clang of car gongs. The human crowd was hurrying to dinner. 

"What a poem a man might write about Broadway at evening!" remarkedLarcher. 

Davenport replied by quoting, without much interest:

'The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight tide--And slowly there a lady fairWas walking in her pride. '

"Poe praised those lines, " he added. "But it was a different Broadwaythat Willis wrote them about. "

"Yes, " said Larcher, "but in spite of the skyscrapers and theincongruities, 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 manyfailures? Or had it some particular source? What part in its origin hadbeen 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'sreasons for seeking information?

Pondering these questions, Larcher found himself at the entrance to thechosen dining-place. It was a low, old-fashioned doorway, on a levelwith the sidewalk, a little distance off Broadway. They were just aboutto enter, when they heard Davenport's name called out in a nasal, overbearing voice. A look of displeasure crossed Davenport's brow, asboth 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 hadintruded into a frock coat and high silk hat, and who wore a largediamond in his tie; a man who swung his arms and used plenty of thesurrounding space in walking, as if greedy of it, --this man came acrossthe street, and, with an air of proprietorship, claimed MurrayDavenport's attention. 

CHAPTER III. 

A READY-MONEY MAN

"I want you, " bawled the gentleman with the diamond, like a rusticwasherwoman summoning her offspring to a task. "I've got a little matterfor you to look after. S'pose you come around to dinner, and we can talkit 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 ownreasons. I can meet you later. "

"No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you'redetermined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on anddine. "

Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; thenintroduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing abrief condescending glance and a rough "How are you, " Mr. Bagley led theway into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, andLarcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem. 

Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve thestate of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed fromthe narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartmentadorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest fromanother intending party a table close to a street window. He spread outhis arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced invarious ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner ofwalking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize thecompany'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 thenwanting to know why it didn't, --he plunged at once into the details ofsome business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulkingbehind an evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By thetime the chops and potatoes had been brought, the business had beencommunicated, and Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. Hesuddenly took notice of Larcher. 

"So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?" quoth he, looking with benignpatronage from one young man to the other. 

"I've known Mr. Davenport a--short while, " said Larcher, with all theiciness of injured conceit. 

"Same business?" queried Bagley. 

"I beg your pardon, " said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreignlanguage. 

"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, whoshowed no feeling whatever. 

"Well, I guess that's about all Dav does, " said Bagley, in a jocularmanner. "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 withhimself. "I've always managed to get along, " he admitted. "And a goodthing for you I have, Dav. Where'ud you be to-day if you hadn't had mefor 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 andpotato. When he had got these sufficiently disposed of to permit furtherspeech, he added: "No, sir, you literary fellows think yourselves veryfine people, but I don't see many of you getting to be millionaires byyour work. "

"There are other ambitions in life, " said Larcher. 

Mr. Bagley emitted a grunt of laughter. "Sour grapes! Sour grapes, youngfellow! 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, inorder to look his amazement. A curious twitch of the lips was the onlymanifestation 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. Dramaticauthor, 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 toany play I ever heard of, " said Larcher. "And yet I've paid a good dealof attention to the theatre. "

"That's because I never wrote but one play, and the money I made out ofthat--twenty thousand dollars it was--I put into the business of managingother 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. --Iforget what your name is. We were both in hard luck then, me and Dav. ButI knew what to do if I ever got hold of a bit of capital. So I wrote thatplay, and made a good arrangement with the actor that produced it, andgot 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 EastFourteenth Street. We used to lend each other cuffs and collars. A mannever forgets those days. "

With Davenport's talk of the afternoon fresh in mind, Larcher hadpromptly identified this big-talking vulgarian. Hot from severalaffronts, which were equally galling, whether ignorant or intended, hecould conceive of nothing more sweet than to take the fellow down. 

"I shouldn't wonder, " said he, "if Mr. Davenport had more particularreasons to remember that play. "

Davenport looked up from his plate, but merely with slight surprise, notwith disapproval. Bagley himself stared hard at Larcher, then glanced atDavenport, and finally blurted out a laugh, and said:

"So Dav has been giving you his fairy tale? I thought he'd dropped it asa played-out chestnut. God knows how the delusion ever started in hishead. That's a question for the psychologists--or the doctors, maybe. Buthe used to imagine--I give him credit for really imagining it--he used toimagine he had written that play. I s'pose that's what he's been tellingyou. But I thought he'd got over the hallucination; or got tired tellingabout it, anyhow. "

But, in the circumstances, no nice consideration of probabilities wasnecessary 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 todecide 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 notknowing exactly what to make of him, or what manner to use toward him. Heseemed at last to decide against a wrathful attitude, and replied:

"I suppose you're a very unbiased judge, and a very superior person allround. But nobody's asking for your opinion, and I guess it wouldn'tcount for much if they did. The public has long ago made up its mindabout 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 ofhuman nature, --and yet you presume to call yourself a writer. I guess youdon't know the full circumstances of this case. Davenport himself admitsthat 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 marketingof the piece was on the cards. He was out of his head a good deal duringhis 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 theacceptance of the piece. And I gave him that at once, too--half the amountof the money paid on acceptance, it was; for anything I knew then, itmight have been half of all I should ever get for the play, becausenobody could predict how it would pan out. Well, I've never borne him anounce of malice for his delusion. Maybe at this very moment he stillhonestly thinks himself the author of that play; but I've always stood byhim, and always will. Many's the piece of work I've put in his hands; andI 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 everydollar I've got in the world. " He finished with a clap of good fellowshipon Davenport's shoulder, and then fell upon the remainder of his chop andpotato with a concentration of interest that put an end to the dispute. 

As for Davenport, he had continued eating in silence, with anexpressionless face, as if the matter were one that concerned a stranger. Larcher, observing him, saw that he had indeed put that matter behindhim, as one to which there was nothing but weariness to be gained inreturning. The rest of the meal passed without event. Mr. Bagley madeshort 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 withoutany 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, Ican tell you. But Bagley is a man who can brazen out any assertion; he'sa man impossible to outface. Even when he and I are alone together, heplays the same part; won't admit that I wrote the piece; and pretends tothink I suffer under a delusion. I _was_ ill at the time he disposed ofmy 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 throughbeing inmates of the same lodging-house. I rather took to him at first. I thought he was a breezy, cordial fellow; mistook his loudness forfrankness, 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 toldamusing stories of the people in the country town he came from, and ofhis struggles in trying to get a start in business. I was struggling ashard in my different way--a very different way, for he was an uttersavage as far as art and letters were concerned. But we exchangedaccounts of our daily efforts and disappointments, and knew all abouteach other's affairs, --at least he knew all about mine. And one of minewas 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 hecould understand. I had some idea of sending it to an actor who was thenin 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 ofsubmitting it as soon as I could get it typewritten. But before I coulddo that, I was on my back with pneumonia, utterly helpless, and notthinking 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 torecovery, was my debts, and particularly my debt to the landlady. Shewas a good woman, and wouldn't let me be moved to a hospital, but tookcare of me herself through all my illness. She furnished my food duringthat time, and paid for my medicines; and, furthermore, I owed her forseveral weeks' previous rent. So I bemoaned my indebtedness, and thehopelessness 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 inwith his face full of news, and told me he had got some money from thesale of a farm, in which he had inherited a ninth interest. He said heintended to risk his portion in the theatrical business--he had had someexperience as an advance agent--and offered to buy my play outright forfive hundred dollars. 

"Well, it was like an oar held out to a drowning man. I had never beforehad 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 myplay were a fair success, the author's percentage would be many timesfive hundred dollars. But it might never be accepted, --no play of minehad been, and I had hawked two or three around among the managers, --andin that case I should get nothing at all. As for Bagley, his risk inproducing a play by an unknown man was great. His chances of loss seemedto 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 propertyof Bagley. 

"I consoled myself with the reflection that, if the play made a realsuccess, I should gain some prestige as an author, and find an easierhearing for future work. I was reading a newspaper one morning when thename of my play caught my eye. You can imagine how eagerly I started toread the item about it, and what my feelings were when I saw that it wasimmediately to be produced by the very actor to whom I had talked ofsending it, and that the author was George A. Bagley. I thought theremust be some mistake, and fell upon Bagley for an explanation as soon ashe came home. He laughed, as men of his kind do when they think they haveplayed some clever business trick; said he had decided to rent the playto the actor instead of taking it on the road himself; and declared thatas it was his sole property, he could represent it as the work of anybodyhe chose. I raised a great stew about the matter; wrote to thenewspapers, and rushed to see the actor. He may have thought I was alunatic from my excitement; however, he showed me the manuscript Bagleyhad given him. It was typewritten, but the address of the typewritercopyist was on the cover. I hastened to the lady, and inquired about themanuscript from which she had made the copy. I showed her some of mypenmanship, but she assured me the manuscript was in another hand. I ranhome, and demanded the original manuscript from Bagley. 'Oh, certainly, 'he said, and fished out a manuscript in his own writing. He had copiedeven my interlineations and erasures, to give his manuscript the look ofan original draft. This was the copy from which the typewriter hadworked. My own handwritten copy he had destroyed. I have sometimesthought that when the idea first occurred to him of submitting my play tothe actor, he had meant to deal fairly with me, and to profit only by anagent's commission. But he may have inquired about the earnings of plays, and learned how much money a successful one brings; and the discovery mayhave tempted him to the fraud. Or his design may have been complete fromthe first. It is easy to understand his desire to become the sole ownerof the play. Why he wanted to figure as the author is not so clear. Itmay have been mere vanity; it may have been--more probably was--a desireto keep to himself even the author's prestige, to serve him in futuretransactions of the same sort. In any case, he had created evidence ofhis authorship, and destroyed all existing proof of mine. He had madegood terms, --a percentage on a sliding scale; one thousand dollars downon 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 morethan twenty thousand dollars in two seasons. That is the sum I shouldhave had if I had submitted the play to the same actor, as I had intendedto do. I made a stir in the newspapers for awhile; told my tale tomanagers and actors and reporters; started to take it to the courts, buthad to give up for lack of funds; in short, got myself the name, as Itold you today, of a man with a grievance. People smiled tolerantly at mystory; it got to be one of the jokes of the Rialto. Bagley soon hit onthe policy of claiming the authorship to my face, and pretending to treatmy assertion charitably, as the result of a delusion conceived inillness. You heard him tonight. But it no longer disturbs me. "

"Has he ever written any plays of his own? Or had any more produced overhis 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 Streetand the race-tracks; went into real estate. He speculates now in manythings. I don't know how rich he is. He isn't openly in theatricalmanagement any more, but he still has large interests there; he is whatthey 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 beenat the last pinch, he has come to my rescue, employing me in some affairincidental to his manifold operations. Unless you have been hungry, andwithout a market for your work; unless you have walked the streetspenniless, and been generally 'despised and rejected of men, ' you, perhaps, can't understand how I could accept anything at his hands. ButI could, and sometimes eagerly. As soon as possible after our break, heassumed the benevolent attitude toward me. I resisted it with properscorn 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 thesituation. I got used to his service, and his pay, yet without evercompounding for the trick he played me. He trusts me thoroughly--heknows men. This association with him, though it has saved me fromdesperate straits, is loathsome to me, of course. It has contributed asmuch as anything to my self-hate. If I had resolutely declined it, Imight have found other resources at the last extremity. My life mighthave 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 acceptedand establish a name. On the other, I couldn't collect my royalties. Thethird was a failure. But none of these, or of any I have written, was upto the level of the play that Bagley dealt with. I admit that. It was myone work of first-class merit. I think my poor powers were affected by myexperience with that play; but certainly for some reason I

'. . . Never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture. '

I should have been a different man if I had received the honor and theprofits of that first accepted play of mine. "

"I should think that, as Bagley is so rich, he would quietly hand youover twenty thousand dollars, at least, for the sake of his conscience. "

"Men of Bagley's sort have no conscience where money is concerned. I usedto wonder just what share of his fortune was rightly mine, if one knewhow to estimate. It was my twenty thousand dollars he invested; whatpercentage of the gains would belong to me, giving him his full due forlabor and skill? And then the credit of the authorship, --which he flatlyrobbed me of, --what would be its value? But that is all matter for merespeculation. 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 inthe world. "

"Yes, he would. " Davenport smiled. "He knows that _I_ know the differencebetween a moral right and a legal right. He knows the difficulties inthe way of any attempt at self-restitution on my part, --and theunpleasant consequences. Oh, yes, he would trust me with large sums; hasdone so, in fact. I have handled plenty of his cash. He is what they calla 'ready-money man;' does a good deal of business with bank-notes of highdenomination, --it enables him to seize opportunities and make swifttransactions. He should interest you, if you have an eye for character. "

Upon which remark, Davenport raised his cup, as if to finish the coffeeand the subject at the same time. Larcher sat silently wondering whatother dramas were comprised in the history of his singular companion, besides that wherein Bagley was concerned, and that in which the ficklewoman had borne a part. He found himself interested, on his own account, in this haggard-eyed, world-wearied, yet not unattractive man, as wellas for Miss Hill. When Davenport spoke again, it was in regard to theartistic business which now formed a tie between himself and Larcher. 

This business was in due time performed. It entailed as much associationwith Davenport as Larcher could wish for his purpose. He learnt littlemore of the man than he had learned on the first day of theiracquaintance, but that in itself was considerable. Of it he wrote a fullreport to Miss Hill; and in the next few weeks he added some triflingdiscoveries. In October that young woman and her aunt returned to town, and to possession of a flat immediately south of Central Park. Often asLarcher called there, he could not draw from Edna the cause of herinterest in Davenport. But his own interest sufficed to keep him theregular associate of that gentleman; he planned further magazine work forhimself to write and Davenport to illustrate, and their collaborationtook them together to various parts of the city. 

CHAPTER IV. 

AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD

The lower part of Fifth Avenue, the part between Madison and WashingtonSquares, the part which alone was "the Fifth Avenue" whereof Thackeraywrote in the far-off days when it was the abode of fashion, --the far-offdays when fashion itself had not become old-fashioned and got improvedinto Smart Society, --this haunted half-mile or more still retains manyfine old residences of brown stone and of red brick, which are spruceand 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 anapartment to which, on a certain clear, cold afternoon in October, thereader's presence in the spirit is respectfully invited. 

The hallway of the house is prolonged far beyond the ordinary limits ofhallways, in order to lead to a secluded parlor at the rear, apparentlyused by its occupants as a private sitting and dining room. At the leftside of this room, after one enters, are folding doors opening from whatis evidently somebody's bed-chamber. At the same side, further on, is alarge window, the only window in the room. As the ceiling is so high, andthe 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 ofwintry brightness. 

The view of the world outside afforded by the window--which lookssouthward--is of part of a Gothic church in profile, and the backs ofhouses, all framing an expanse of gardens. It is a peaceful view, andthis back parlor itself, being such a very back parlor, receives thecity's noises dulled and softened. One seems very far, here, from theclatter and bang, the rush and strenuousness, really so near at hand. The dimness is restful; it is relieved, near the window, by a splash ofsunlight; and, at the rear of the room, by a coal fire in the grate. Thefurniture is old and heavy, consisting largely of chairs of black woodin 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 flowinggray mustache. His eyes are closed, but perhaps he is not asleep. Thereis a piano near a corner, opposite the window, and out of the splash ofsunshine, but its rosewood surface reflects here and there the firelight. And at the piano, playing a soft accompaniment, sits a tall, slenderyoung woman, with a beautiful but troubled face, who sings in a low voiceone of Tosti's love-songs. 

Her figure is still girlish, but her face is womanly; a classic face, notlike the man's in expression, but faintly resembling it in form, thoughher features, clearly outlined, have not the smallness of his. Her eyesare large and deep blue. There is enough rich color of lip, and faintercolor of cheek, to relieve the whiteness of her complexion. The troubleon her face is of some permanence; it is not petty like that of theman's, but is at one with the nobility of her countenance. It seems tofind rest in the tender sadness of the song, which, having finished, shesoftly 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 hischair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed bythe song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice:

"Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And suchexpression!--unconscious expression, too. What a pity--what ashame--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 hideour light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And theworld 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 answersas 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 comicopera--"

The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: "Andyou know well enough my determination about that. The one week'sexperience I had--"

"Oh, nonsense!" interrupted the man. "All managers are not like thatfellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic operastage. "

"No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If Iabsolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put tothat necessity. "

"Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?"

"We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us ourpresent allowance--"

"Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom Ibrought up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father tothe full extent of his ability!"

"All the same, it's a far greater allowance than most sons or brothersmake. "

"Because other sons are ungrateful, and blind to their duty, it doesn'tfollow that Dick ought to be. Thank Heaven, I brought him up better thanthat. I'm only sorry that his sister can't see things in the same lightas he does. After all the trouble of raising my children, and the hopesI've built on them--"

"But you know perfectly well, " she protests, softly, "that Dick makes ussuch 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 toyou, he says it's not that, but his love for me. And because it is thefree gift of his love, I'm willing to accept it. "

"I suppose so, I suppose so, " says the man, in a tone of resignation toinjury. "It's very little that I'm considered, after all. You were alwaysa pair, always insensible of the pains I've taken over you. You alwaysseemed to regard it as a matter of course that I should feed you, andclothe 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 personalgrievance:

"If any man's hopes ever came to shipwreck, mine have. Just look backover my life. Look at the professional career I gave up when I marriedyour mother, in order to be with her more than I otherwise could havebeen. Look how poorly we lived, she and I, on the little income shebrought me. And then the burden of you children! And what some men wouldhave felt a burden, as you grew up, I made a source of hopes. I hadendowed 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 businesswhen your mother died. I was satisfied to share the small allowance herfather made you two children. I never complained. I said to myself, 'Iwill invest my time in bringing up my children. ' I thought it would turnout the most profitable investment in the world, --I gave you childrenthat much credit then. How I looked forward to the time when I shouldbegin to realize on the investment!"

"I'm sure you can't say Dick hasn't repaid you, " says the girl. "Hebegan 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 Ihad fitted him for it by then. Where would he have been, and you, whenyour grandfather died in debt, and the allowance stopped short, if Ihadn'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 abare living, at least, from my labor and care. Who should get a livingout of Dick's work if not his father, who equipped him with the qualitiesfor success?" The gentleman speaks as if, in passing on those valuablequalities to his son by heredity, he had deprived himself. "Dick hasn'tdone any more than he ought to; he never could. And yet what _he_ hasdone, is so much more than nothing at all, that--" He stops as if it wereuseless to finish, and looks at his daughter, who, despite the fact thatthis conversation is an almost daily repetition, colors with displeasure. 

After a moment, she gathers some spirit, and says: "Well, if I haven'tearned any money for you, I've at least made some sacrifices to pleaseyou. "

"You mean about the young fellow that hung on to us so close on our tripto Europe?"

"The young man who did us so many kindnesses, and was of so much use toyou, on our trip to Europe, " she corrects. 

"He thought I was rich, my dear, and that you were an heiress. He was anobody, an adventurer, probably. If things had gone any further betweenyou and him, your future might have been ruined. It was only anotherexample of my solicitude for you; another instance that deserves yourthanks, but elicits your ingratitude. If you are fastidious about amusical 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 yourillness, and the scenes that wrung from me the promise to break withhim?"

"It was motive enough, wasn't it?" he replies, defensively, a littlefrightened at her sudden manner of revolt. "My thoughtfulness for yourfuture--my duty as a father--my love for my child--"

"You pretended it was your jealous love for me, your feeling ofdesertion, your loneliness. I might have known better! You played on mypity, on my love for you, on my sense of duty as a daughter left to fillmy mother's place. When you cried over being abandoned, when you lookedso 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 wasthere leaning over you, I couldn't endure to grieve you, and I gave mypromise. And it was only that mercenary motive, after all!--to save mefor a profitable marriage!" She gazes at her father with an expression sonew to him on her face, that he moves about in his chair, and coughsbefore answering:

"You will appreciate my action some day. And besides, your promise todrop the man wasn't so much to give. You admitted, yourself, he hadn'twritten to you. He had afforded you good cause, by his neglect. "

"He was very busy at that time. I always thought there was somethingstrange about his sudden failure to write--something that could havebeen 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, whichhe contemplates deeply, to the exclusion of all other objects. The girl, after regarding him for a moment, sighs profoundly; placing her elbows onthe keyboard, she leans forward and buries her face in her hands. 

This picture, not disturbed by further speech, abides for several ticksof the French clock on the mantelpiece. Suddenly it is broken by a knockat the door. Florence sits upright, and dries her eyes. A negro manservant with a discreet manner enters and announces two visitors. "Showthem in at once, " says Florence, quickly, as if to forestall any possibleobjection from her father. The negro withdraws, and presently, with arapid swish of skirts, in marches a very spick and span young lady, her diminutive but exceedingly trim figure dressed like an animatedfashion-plate. She is Miss Edna Hill, and she comes brisk and dashing, with cheeks afire from the cold, bringing into the dull, dreamy room thelife and freshness of the wintry day without. Behind her appears astranger, whose name Florence scarcely heeded when it was announced, andwho enters with the solemn, hesitant air of one hitherto unknown to thepeople of the house. He is a young man clothed to be the fit companion ofMiss Hill, and he waits self-effacingly while that young lady vivaciouslygreets Florence as her dearest, and while she bestows a touch of hergloved fingers and a "How d'ye do, Mr. Kenby, " on the father. She thenintroduces the young man as Mr. Larcher, on whose face, as he bows, thereappears a surprised admiration of Florence Kenby's beauty. 

Miss Hill monopolizes Florence, however, and Larcher is left to wander tothe 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 allinteresting, a fact which the young man is not slow in divining. Strainedrelations immediately ensue between the two gentlemen. 

As soon as the young ladies are over the preliminary burst of complimentsand news, Edna says:

"I'm lucky to find you at home, but really you oughtn't to be moping ina dark place like this, such a fine afternoon. "

"Father can't go out because of his rheumatism, and I stay to keep himcompany, " replies Florence. 

"Oh, dear me, Mr. Kenby, " says Edna, looking at the gentleman ratherskeptically, as if she knew him of old and suspected a habit ofexaggerating his ailments, "can't you pass the time reading orsomething? Florence _must_ go out every day; she'll ruin her looks ifshe doesn't, --her health, too. I should think you could manage toentertain 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, theservants aren't always available, except for routine duties. "

"Well, I'll tell you what, " proposes Edna, blithely; "you get on yourthings, dear, and we'll run around and have tea with Aunt Clara atPurcell's. Mr. Larcher and I were to meet her there, but you come withme, and Mr. Larcher will stay and look after your father. He'll be veryglad to, I know. "

Mr. Larcher is too much taken by surprise to be able to say how veryglad 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 Florenceis rushed by her friend's impetuosity into coat and hat, and carriedoff, Miss Hill promising to return with her for Mr. Larcher "in an houror two. " Before Mr. Larcher has had time to collect his scatteredfaculties, he is alone with the pettish-looking old man to whom he hasfelt himself an object of perfect indifference. He glares, with a defiantsense of his own worth, at the old man, until the old man takes notice ofhis existence. 

"Oh, it's kind of you to stay, Mr. --ahem. But they really needn't havetroubled you. I can get along well enough myself, when it's absolutelynecessary. Of course, my daughter will be easier in mind to have someone here. "

"I am very glad to be of service--to so charming a young woman, " saysLarcher, very distinctly. 

"A charming girl, yes. I'm very proud of my daughter. She's my constantthought. Children are a great care, a great responsibility. "

"Yes, they are, " asserts Larcher, jumping at the chance to show thisuninterested old person that wise young men may sometimes be entertainedunawares. "It's a sign of progress that parents are learning on whichside the responsibility lies. It used to be universally accepted thatthe obligation was on the part of the children. Now every writer on thesubject starts on the basis that the obligation is on the side of theparent. It's hard to see how the world could have been so idioticformerly. As if the child, summoned here in ignorance by the parents fortheir 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 beingthey have called into existence? How can they help seeing theirobligation to make existence for that being as good and happy as it's intheir power to make it? Who dare say that there is a limit to theirobligation 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 tolife. The child, becoming in time a parent, assumes a parent's debt. Theobligation passes on from generation to generation, moving always to thefuture, never back to the past. "

"Somewhat original theories!" sniffs the old man. "I suppose, then, aparent 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, toprovide 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 sofar-seeing and provident, and many parents do have to look to theirchildren for support. In such cases, the child ought to provide for theparent, but out of love or humanity, not because of any purely logicalclaim. You see the difference, of course. "

Mr. Kenby gives a shrug, and grunts ironically. 

"The old-fashioned idea still persists among the multitude, " Larchergoes on, "and many parents abuse it in practice. There are people wholook upon their children mainly as instruments sent from Heaven for themto live by. From the time their children begin to show signs ofintelligence, they lay plans and build hopes of future gain upon them. It makes my blood boil, sometimes, to see mothers trying to get theirpretty daughters on the stage, or at a typewriter, in order to live atease themselves. And fathers, too, by George! Well, I don't think there'sa more despicable type of humanity in this world than the able-bodiedfather who brings his children up with the idea of making use of them!"

Mr. Larcher has worked himself into a genuine and very heartyindignation. Before he can entirely calm down, he is put to some wonderby seeing his auditor rise, in spite of rheumatism, and walk to the doorat 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, afterstanding like a statue for some time by the fire, ensconces himself in agreat armchair before it, and gazes into it until, gradually stolen uponby 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 enterthe room. He is on his feet in time to keep his slumbers a secret, andexplains that Mr. Kenby has gone for a nap. When the gas is lit, he seesthat Florence, too, is bright-faced from the outer air, that her eye hasa fresher sparkle, and that she is more beautiful than before. As it isgetting late, and Edna's Aunt Clara is to be picked up in a shop inTwenty-third Street where the girls have left her, Larcher is borne offbefore he can sufficiently contemplate Miss Kenby's beauty. Florence isno 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 youngman that was! He has the most horrible principles. I think he must be ananarchist, or something of that sort. Did you enjoy your tea?"

The odious young man, walking briskly up the lighted avenue, past pianoshops 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 hashad a romance, too; but I mustn't tell that. "

"It's strange you never mentioned her to me before, being such goodfriends 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 makemoney out of their children. "

"What! Then I _did_ put my foot in it!" Larcher tells of the briefconversation he had with Mr. Kenby. It makes Edna laugh heartily. 

"Good for him!" she cries. "It's a shame, his treatment of Florence. Herbrother 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'squite too fond of him--she even gave up a nice young man she was in lovewith, for her father's sake. But listen. I don't want you to mentionthese 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 inmute protest, she laughs merrily at his helplessness. So they go on upthe avenue. 

CHAPTER V. 

A LODGING BY THE RIVER

The day after his introduction to the Kenbys, Larcher went with MurrayDavenport on one of those expeditions incidental to their collaborationas writer and illustrator. Larcher had observed an increase of thestrange indifference which had appeared through all the artist'sloquacity at their first interview. This loquacity was sometimesrepeated, but more often Davenport's way was of silence. His apathy, orit might have been abstraction, usually wore the outer look ofdreaminess. 

"Your friend seems to go about in a trance, " Barry Tompkins said of himone day, after a chance meeting in which Larcher had made the twoacquainted. 

This was a near enough description of the man as he accompanied Larcherto a part of the riverfront not far from the Brooklyn Bridge, on theafternoon at which we have arrived. The two were walking along a squalidstreet lined on one side with old brick houses containing junk-shops, shipping offices, liquor saloons, sailors' hotels, and all the variousestablishments that sea-folk use. On the other side were the wharves, with a throng of vessels moored, and glimpses of craft on the broadriver. 

"Here we are, " said Larcher, who as he walked had been referring to apocket map of the city. The two men came to a stop, and Davenport tookfrom a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century, representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this withthe scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport thenlooked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon onthe ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottlesin the window. 

"If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows upthere, " 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 attendantbehind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing somesort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third oldfellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seatedby himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly allhead-lines. 

Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who livedoverhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect, gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, andfinally 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 thebarkeeper pointed to the rural-looking old man with the newspaper, atthe 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 possessorof a pleasant knobby face half surrounded by a gray beard that stretchedfrom ear to ear beneath his lower jaw, dropped his paper and scrutinizedthe young men benevolently. They went over to him, and Larcher explainedtheir intrusion with as good a grace as possible. 

"Why, certainly, certainly, " the old man chirped with alacrity. "Glad tohave yuh. I'll be proud to do anything in the cause of literature. Comeright up. " And he rose and led the way to the street door. 

"Take care, Mr. Bud, " said the jocular barkeeper. "Don't let them sellyou no gold bricks or nothin'. I never see them before, so you can'thold me if you lose your money. "

"You keep your mouth shut, Mick, " answered the old man, "and send me upa bottle o' whisky and a siphon o' seltzer as soon as your side partnercomes 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 theriver. It was a room of moderate size, provided with old furniture, afaded carpet, mended curtains, and lithographs of the sort given awaywith Sunday newspapers. It had, in its shabbiness, that curious effectof cosiness and comfort which these shabby old rooms somehow possess, and luxurious rooms somehow lack. A narrow bed in a corner was coveredwith an old-fashioned patchwork quilt. There was a cylindrical stove, but not in use, as the weather had changed since the day before; andbeside the stove, visible and unashamed, was a large wooden box partlyfull of coal. While Larcher was noticing these things, and Mr. Bud wasoffering chairs, Davenport made directly for the window and looked outwith an interest limited to the task in hand, and perfunctory even so. 

"This is my city residence, " said the host, dropping into a chair. "Itain't every hard-worked countryman, these times, that's able to keep upa city residence. " As this was evidently one of Mr. Bud's favorite jests, Larcher politically smiled. Mr. Bud soon showed that he had otherfavorite jests. "Yuh see, I make my livin' up the State, but every nowand then I feel like comin' to the city for rest and quiet, and so I keepthis place the year round. "

"You come to New York for rest and quiet?" exclaimed Larcher, stillkindly feigning amusement. 

"Sure! Why not? As fur as rest goes, I just loaf around and watch otherpeople work. That's what I call rest with a sauce to it. And as fur asquiet 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 businessis, or where I'm bound fur. Now in the country everybody wants to knowwhere from, and where to, and what fur. The only place to be reely aloneis where thur's so many people that one man don't count for anything. Andtalk about noise!--What's all the clatter and bang amount to, if it's gotnothin' to do with your own movements? Now at my home where the noiseconsists 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' noisethat jars a man. Yuh see, I got a wife and four daughters. They're verygood women--very good women, the whole bunch--but I do find it restfuland refreshin' to take the train to New York about once a month, and loafaround 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 thehabit. I hev some poultry customers here in the city, and I make out Igot to come to look after business. That story don't go fur with thefam'ly; but they hev their way about everything else, so they got togimme my way about this. "

Davenport turned around from the window, and spoke for the first timesince 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 itworth 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 somewhereelse to finish them. "

It was a remark that made Larcher wonder a little, at the moment, knowingthe artist's usual methods of work. But Mr. Bud, ignorant of suchmatters, 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 arow of well-worn books on a wooden shelf near the bed. His suddeninterest, slight as it was, produced another transient surprise inLarcher. 

"Yes, sir, " said the old man, with pride and affection, "them books is mychief amusement. Sir Walter Scott's works; I've read 'em over again andagain, every one of 'em, though I must confess there's two or threethat's pretty rough travellin'. But the others!--well, I've tried a goodmany authors, but gimme Scott. Take his characters! There's stacks ofnovels comes out nowadays that call themselves historical; but the peoplein 'em seems like they was cut out o' pasteboard; a bit o' wind wouldblow 'em away. But look at the _body_ to Scott's people! They're all theway round, and clear through, his characters are. --Of course, I'm noliterary man, gentlemen. I only give my own small opinion. " Mr. Bud'smanner, on his suddenly considering his audience, had fallen from itsbold enthusiasm. 

"Your small opinion is quite right, " said Davenport. "There's no doubtabout the thoroughness and consistency of Scott's characters. " He tookone of the books, and turned over the leaves, while Mr. Bud looked onwith brightened eyes. "Andrew Fairservice--there's a character. 'Gudee'en--gude e'en t' ye'--how patronizing his first salutation! 'She's awild slip, that'--there you have Diana Vernon sketched by the old servantin a touch. And what a scene this is, where Diana rides with Frank to thehilltop, shows him Scotland, and advises him to fly across the border asfast as he can. "

"Yes, and the scene in the Tolbooth where Rob Roy gives Bailie NicolJarvie them three sufficient reasons fur not betrayin' him. " The old mangrinned. He seemed to be at his happiest in praising, and finding anotherto praise, his favorite author. 

"Interesting old illustrations these are, " said Davenport, taking upanother volume. "Dryburgh Abbey--that's how it looks on a gray day. Iwas lucky enough to see it in the sunshine; it's loveliest then. "

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Bud. "You been to Dryburgh Abbey?--to Scott'sgrave?"

"Oh, yes, " said Davenport, smiling at the old man's joyous wonder, whichwas about the same as he might have shown upon meeting somebody who hadbeen to fairy-land, or heaven, or some other place equally far from NewYork. 

"You don't say! Well, to think of it! I _am_ happy to meet you. ByGeorge, I never expected to get so close to Sir Walter Scott! And maybeyou've seen Abbotsford?"

"Oh, certainly. And Scott's Edinburgh house in Castle Street, and thehouse in George Square where he lived as a boy and met Burns. "

Mr. Bud's excitement was great. "Maybe you've seen Holyrood Palace, andHigh Street--"

"Why, of course. And the Canongate, and the Parliament House, and theCastle, and the Grass-market, and all the rest. It's very easy; thousandsof 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. Ikind o' just drifted into this New York business, but if I undertook togo across the ocean, that _would_ be the last straw. And I'm afraid Icouldn't get on to the manners and customs over there. They sayeverything's different from here. To tell the truth, I'm timid where Idon't know the ways. If I was like you--I shouldn't wonder if you'd beento some of the other places where things happen in his novels?"

With a smile, Davenport began to enumerate and describe. The old man satenraptured. The whisky and seltzer came up, and the host saw that theglasses were filled and refilled, but he kept Davenport to the samesubject. Larcher felt himself quite out of the talk, but foundcompensation in the whisky and in watching the old man's greedy enjoymentof Davenport's every word. The afternoon waned, and all opportunity ofmaking the intended sketches passed for that day. Mr. Bud was forlighting up, or inviting the young men to dinner, but they found pretextsfor tearing themselves away. They did not go, however, until Davenporthad arranged to come the next day and perform his neglected task. Mr. Budaccompanied them out, and stood on the corner looking after them untilthey were out of sight. 

"You've made a hit with the agriculturist, " said Larcher, as they tooktheir way through a narrow street of old warehouses toward the region ofskyscrapers 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 ofthe time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the moreremarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came onin Larcher's presence. 

It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner inMadison 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. Helooked pallid in the light of the reading lamp at his elbow, and hiseyes seemed withdrawn deep into their hollows. He welcomed his visitorwith 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 thetopmost book. 

"Oh, Shakespeare, " laughed Larcher. "The Sonnets. Hello, you've markedpart of this. "

"Little need to mark anything so famous. But it comes closer to me thanto most men, I fancy. " And he recited slowly, without looking down at thepage:

'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 havingrecourse 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 wereany other person now existing. I wouldn't change selves with thisparticular man, or that particular man. It wouldn't be enough to throwoff the burden of my memories, with their clogging effect upon my lifeand conduct, and take up the burden of some other man's--though Ishould 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. Butwe often wish our lot was like somebody else's. "

Davenport shook his head. "I don't prefer to remain myself, any morethan 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 ownimagining--that would be something;--to begin afresh, with anunencumbered personality of my own choosing; to awake some morning andfind that I was not Murray Davenport nor any man now living that I knowof, 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 atleast change his place and his way of life. "

"But the old self is always there, casting its shadow on the newplace. And even change of scene and habits is next to impossiblewithout money. "

"I must admit that New York, and my present way of life, are good enoughfor 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 onephase, the chief scene would be a small secluded country-house in an oldwalled garden. There would be the home of my books, and the centre of mywalks over moors and hills. From this, I would transport myself, whenthe mood came, to the intellectual society of some large city--that ofLondon would be most to my choice. Mind you, I say the _intellectual_society; a far different thing from the Society that spells itself witha capital S. "

"Why not of New York? There's intellectual society here. "

"Yes; a trifle fussy and self-conscious, though. I should prefer asociety more reposeful. From this, again, I would go to the life of thestreets and byways of the city. And then, for the fourth phase, to thedirect 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. Ishould be satisfied, in the arts, rather to receive than to give; to beaudience and spectator; to contemplate and admire. "

"Well, I hope you may have your wish yet, " was all that Larchercould say. 

"I _should_ like to have just one whack at life before I finish, "replied Davenport, gazing thoughtfully into the shadow beyond thelamplight. "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. " (Larcherremembered the talk of an inconstant woman. ) "No, I have never beenanything like happy. My father was a cold man who chilled all aroundhim. He died when I was a boy, and left my mother and me to poverty. Mymother loved me well enough; she taught me music, encouraged mystudies, and persuaded a distant relation to send me to the College ofMedicine and Surgery; but her life was darkened by grief, and thedarkness fell over me, too. When she died, my relation dropped me, andI undertook to make a living in New York. There was first the strugglefor existence, then the sickening affair of that play; afterward, misfortune enough to fill a dozen biographies, the fatal reputation ofill luck, the brief dream of consolation in the love of woman, theawakening, --and the rest of it. "

He sighed wearily and turned, as if for relief from a bitter theme, tothe book in his hand. He read aloud, from the sonnet out of which theyhad 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 arisingFrom 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 thoselines and flatter myself they expressed my situation. There was a sillysong, too, that she pretended to like. You know it, of course, --a littlepoem of Frank L. Stanton's. " He went to the piano, and sang softly, in alight 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! Asif any happiness that came to Murray Davenport could be real or lasting!"

"Oh, never be disheartened, " said Larcher. "Your time is to come; you'llhave your 'whack at life' yet. "

"It would be acceptable, if only to feel that I had realized one or twoof 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 diverseambitions, or diverse hopes, at least. You know the old Lapland song, inLongfellow:

_'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'scooperation was done. Larcher would have projected more, but theartist could not be pinned down to any definite engagement. He wasnon-committal, with the evasiveness of apathy. He seemed not to care anylonger about anything. More than ever he appeared to go about in a dream. Larcher might have suspected some drug-taking habit, but for havingobserved the man so constantly, at such different hours, and often withso little warning, as to be convinced to the contrary. 

One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and thebeauty of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a senseof life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met hisfriend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in hisinner contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, asa 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, thatis. "

"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 fromBroadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of whichrose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larchercalled 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 telegraphfrom the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurrycall' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, tolook after a few matters in his absence. "

"I trust you'll find them interesting, " said Larcher, comparing his ownfailure 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, Iattend. When he entrusts, I accept. I've done it so long, and so often, Ican'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 thisstage. "

With little more talk, they arrived at the artist's house. 

"If you talk of moonlight, " said Davenport, in a manner of somekindliness, "you should see its effect on the back yards, from mywindows. 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 comeup?"

Larcher assented readily. A minute later, while his host was seekingmatches, he looked down from the dark chamber, and saw that thetransformation wrought in the rectangular space of back yards had notbeen exaggerated. The shrubbery by the fences might have shelteredfairies. The boughs of the trees, now leafless, gently stirred. Even theplain house-backs were clad in beauty. 

When Larcher turned from the window, Davenport lighted the gas, but nothis 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 athin rubber band. Davenport opened a drawer of the table, and essayedto sweep the book thereinto by a careless push. The book went toofar, struck the arm of a chair, flew open at the breaking of theoverstretched rubber, fell on its side by the chair leg, and disclosed apile of bank-notes. These, tightly flattened, were the sole contents ofthe covers. As Larcher's startled eyes rested upon them, he saw that thetopmost bill was for five hundred dollars. 

Davenport exhibited a momentary vexation, then picked up the bills, andlaid them on the table in full view. 

"Bagley's money, " said he, sitting down before the table. "I'm to placeit for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carryingout personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business tothe reliable Davenport. "

"When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of somuch 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 muchready money on his person, " said Davenport, smiling. "These are largebills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walkingabout with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket. "

"Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were--" Larcher checkedhimself. 

"Yes, " said Davenport, unmoved. "Just the amount of Bagley's wealth thatmorally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, tovery good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I couldmake it go far--exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of acongenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here amI; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treatit 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 themin the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lyingthere. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took thisup, and handed it to Larcher, saying:

"You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do youmake 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 differentways. 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 whatcharacter would you infer from his penmanship?"

"Well, --I don't know. " Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. "Aneducated 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 merelydescribe the handwriting itself. Your characterization, as far as itgoes, 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 specimenof 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 particularman--Francis Turl?"

"Oh, more or less, " said Davenport, evasively, as if not inclined to giveany information about that person. This apparent disinclination increasedLarcher's hidden curiosity as to who Francis Turl might be, and whyDavenport had never mentioned him before, and what might be between thetwo for settlement. 

Davenport put Turl's writing back into the drawer, but continued toregard his own. "'A vile cramped hand, '" he quoted. "I hate it, as I havegrown to hate everything that partakes of me, or proceeds from me. Sometimes I fancy that my abominable handwriting had as much to do withalienating a certain fair inconstant as the news of my reputedunluckiness. Both coming to her at once, the combined effect was toomuch. "

"Why?--Did you break that news to her by letter?"

"That seems strange to you, perhaps. But you see, at first it didn'toccur 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 almostforgot about the bad luck. It wasn't till both of us were back in NewYork, that I felt I should have to tell her, lest she might hear it firstfrom somebody else. But I shied a little at the prospect, just enough tomake 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 thewriting of an overdue letter, grows into a huge task that way. So thislittle ordeal got magnified for me, and all that winter I couldn't bracemyself to go through it. In the spring, Bagley had use for me in hisaffairs, and he kept me busy night and day for two weeks. When I gotfree, I was surprised to find she had left town. I hadn't the least ideawhere she'd gone; till one day I received a letter from her. She wrote asif she thought I had known where she was; she reproached me withnegligence, but was friendly nevertheless. I replied at once, clearingmyself of the charge; and in that same letter I unburdened my soul of thebad 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 aone-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing historyof 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. Youremember his library--made up entirely of Scott?"

"Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way ofliving did. "

"I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from thecountry 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 inthe country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'shortspell, ' 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 tosketch 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 onthe subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. Thisstopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silentfor a moment; then rose, with the words:

"Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlitgarden. When shall I see you again?"

"Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don'tfind me here. "

"I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. Ishall 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 lunchtogether. "

"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 sawDavenport standing by the table, looking after him. What was theinscrutable expression--half amusement, half friendliness andself-accusing regret--which faintly relieved for a moment theindifference of the man's face?

CHAPTER VII. 

MYSTERY BEGINS

The discerning reader will perhaps think Mr. Thomas Larcher a very dullperson in not having yet put this and that together and associated thelove-affair of Murray Davenport with the "romance" of Miss FlorenceKenby. One might suppose that Edna Hill's friendship for Miss Kenby, andher inquisitiveness regarding Davenport, formed a sufficient pair ofconnecting links. But the still more discerning reader will probablyjudge otherwise. For Miss Hill had many friends whom she brought toLarcher's notice, and Miss Kenby did not stand alone in his observation, as she necessarily does in this narrative. Larcher, too, was not as fullyin possession of the circumstances as the reader. Nor, to him, were thecircumstances isolated from the thousands of others that made up hislife, as they are to the reader. Edna's allusion to Miss Kenby's"romance" had been cursory; Larcher understood only that she had givenup a lover to please her father. Davenport's inconstant had abandonedhim because he was unlucky; Larcher had always conceived her as such awoman, and so of a different type from that embodied in Miss Kenby. Tobe sure, he knew now that Davenport's fickle one had a father; but sohad most young women. In short, the small connecting facts had no suchsignificance in his mind, where they were not grouped away from otherfacts, as they must have in these pages, where their very presencetogether implies inter-relation. 

In his reports to Edna, a certain delicacy had made him touch lightlyupon the traces of Davenport's love-affair. He may, indeed, have guessedthat those traces were what she was most desirous to hear of. But acertain manly allegiance to his sex kept him reticent on that point inspite of all her questions. He did not even say to what motive Davenportascribed the false one's fickleness; nor what was Davenport's presentopinion of her. "He was thrown over by some woman whose name he nevermentions; since then he has steered clear of the sex, " was what Larcherreplied 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 theprevious chapter. At the end of that interview, Larcher had said thatfor the second day thereafter he was engaged; Hence he had appointedthe third day for his next meeting with Davenport. The engagement forthe second day was, to spend the afternoon with Edna Hill at ariding-school. Upon arriving at the flat where Edna lived under the mildprotection of her easy-going aunt, he found Miss Kenby included in thearrangement. To this he did not object; Miss Kenby was kind as well asbeautiful; and Larcher was not unwilling to show the tyrannical Ednathat 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 theafternoon. The three returned, very merry, to the flat, in a state of theutmost readiness for afternoon tea, for the day was cold and blowy. Tomake things pleasanter, Aunt Clara had finished her tea and was taking anap. The three young people had the drawing-room, with its bright coalfire, to themselves. 

Everything was trim and elegant in this flat. The clear-skinned maid whoplaced the tea things, and brought the muffins and cake, might have beentransported that instant from Mayfair, on a magic carpet, so neat washer black dress, so spotless her white apron, cap, and cuffs, so cleanher slender hands. 

"What a sweet place you have, Edna, " remarked Florence Kenby, lookingaround. 

"So you've often said before, dear. And whenever you choose to make itsweeter, 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 thecase, put me down as the first applicant. "

"Our capacity for 'paying guests' is strictly limited to one person, andno 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 hisown selfish plans. "

"Edna, dear! You mustn't. "

"Why mustn't I?" replied Edna, pouring tea. "Truth's truth. He's yourfather, but I'm your friend, and you know in your heart which of us woulddo more for you. You know, and he knows, that you'd be happier, and havebetter health, if you came to live with us. If he really loves you, whydoesn't he let you come? He could see you often enough. But I know thereason; he's afraid you'd get out of his control; he has his ownprojects. You needn't mind my saying this before Tom Larcher; he readyour father like a book the first time he ever met him. "

Larcher, in the act of swallowing some buttered muffin, instantly lookedvery wise and penetrative. 

"I should think your father himself would be happier, " said he, "if helived 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 altogetherunselfish about me, there would always be my promise. "

"What does that matter--such a promise?" inquired Edna, between sips oftea. 

"You would make one think you were perfectly unscrupulous, dear, " saidFlorence, 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 badpromise, you inaugurate a wrong. As long as you keep that promise, youperpetuate that wrong. The only way to end the wrong, is to break thepromise. "

"Bravo, Tommy! You can't get over logic like that, Florence, dear, andyour 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 forthat other promise of yours--that _fearful_ promise!--you can't deny youwronged somebody by that; somebody you had no right to wrong. "

"It was a choice between him and my father, " replied Florence, in a lowvoice, and turning very red. 

"Very well; which deserved to be sacrificed?" cried Edna, her eyes andtone showing that the subject was a heating one. "Which was likely tosuffer more by the sacrifice? You know perfectly well fathers _don't_ diein those cases, and consequently your father's hysterics _must_ have beenput 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'swhole life is darkened. "

"Don't say that, dear, " pleaded Florence, gently. "Men soon get over suchthings. "

"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, ifwhat 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 MurrayDavenport. 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 withhim, " Larcher explained, addressing Florence. "He sent you a letter aboutit. "

"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 himup?"

"Indeed it had not! Why, if I'd known about that--But the letter youspeak 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 hadgone, and then he wrote you about the bad luck nonsense. There musthave been some strange defect in your mail arrangements. "

"I always thought some letters must have gone astray and miscarriedbetween us. I knew he couldn't be so negligent. I'd have taken pains toclear it up, if I hadn't promised my father just at that time--" Shestopped, unable to control her voice longer. Her lips were quivering. 

"Speaking of your father, " said Larcher, "you must have got a subsequentletter from Davenport, because he sent it registered, and the receiptcame back with your father's signature. "

"No, I never got that, either, " said Florence, before the inferencestruck 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 herfriend. 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 aboutthe letters till the night before last. "

"And all this time that poor young man has thought Florence tossed himover 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 thinkingso?"

"But I didn't know Miss Kenby was the lady he meant. If you'd only toldme it was for her you wanted news of him--"

"Stupid, you might have guessed! But I think it's about time he had somenews 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. "Ifyou could see the effect on the man, of that false impression, MissKenby! I don't mean to say that his state of mind is entirely due tothat; he had causes enough before. But it needed only that to take awayall 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 forstrong resentment. That false impression has only brought him to thelast stage of indifference. I should say it was the finishing touch tomaking 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 therebuffs he gets, both the kindness and the coldness of the woman. If hethinks he's ill-treated, he measures the supposed cause by hissufferings. As they are so great, he thinks the woman's crueltycorrespondingly great. Nobody will believe such good things of a womanas the man who loves her; but nobody will believe such bad things ifmatters 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 MurrayDavenport ought to know your true reason for giving him up. Even ifmatters never go any further, he ought to know that you still--h'm--feelan interest in him--still wish him well. I'm sure if he knew about yoursolicitude--how it was the cause of my looking him up--I can see throughall that now--"

"I can never thank you enough--and Edna, " said Florence, in a tremulousvoice. 

"No thanks are due me, " replied Larcher, emphatically. "I value hisacquaintance on its own account. But if he knew about this, knew yourreal motives then, and your real feelings now, even if he were never tosee 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, inhumanity. It would console him inexpressibly; would be infinitely sweetto him. It would change the color of his view of life; give him hope andstrength; make a new man of him. "

Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. "I should be so glad, " shesaid, gently, "if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort ofcommunication with him. "

"Oh, that promise!" cried Edna. "Just think how it was obtained. Andthink about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn'trelease you, I wonder what!"

Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder. 

"Moreover, " said Larcher, "you won't be holding communication. Thematter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's luckyforgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet himto-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I reallydon't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby. "

Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, anda 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 ratherhave than to see him made happy. "

"If you'd like to see it with your own eyes, " said Larcher, "let me sendhim to you for the news. "

"Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he cameto see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid ofmeeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York. "

Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbysto anybody. "Well, " said he, "in that case, Murray Davenport shall bemade happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon. "

"And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it, " criedEdna. "Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansomand kidnap you. " "I think I can come voluntarily, " said Florence, smilingthrough her tears. 

"And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of anysilly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our teaget cold. I must have another cup. " And Miss Hill rang for fresh hotwater. 

The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth andlaughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generouscause 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 timepreviously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid outhis time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard thedisappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding hisfriend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget theappointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make. Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend'slodging-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 atthe 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 thattelegram come?" he inquired. 

"Last evening. "

"It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean hehasn't been in?"

Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the comingof 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 kindlylook. 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 thatengagement?"

"On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?"

"Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenporthasn't been home for two days!"

"Two days! Why, that's rather strange!"

"Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he eithertold me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly aboutsaving 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 themorning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carryany grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcelwrapped in brown paper. "

"Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn'tsoon turn up--What do you think about it?"

"I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case ofmysterious disappearance--that's what I think!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

MR. LARCHER INQUIRES

Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcherspoke 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 thefreedom 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 aperson of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away orcovered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothingaddressed to Larcher or anybody else. 

"It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon, " remarked thelandlady. 

"It certainly does. " Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possessionat their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him onleaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, butsomething checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in away that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestlywished 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'snothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knockeddown 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'dmeant to stay away so long?"

"Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for hemet me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent inadvance. "

"But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for sometime. "

"No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a littlemoney ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over mefor another month. ' He knew I gener'ly--had use for money whenever ithappened 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 turnedto the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step camealmost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted theflight above. 

"It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up, " said Mrs. Haze, in a dejectedwhisper. 

The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, thehope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearancebecame certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chilland desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face ofthe landlady. 

"Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?" saidshe, still in a lowered voice. 

"I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a generalalarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, Ibelieve. There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightenedwithout sufficient cause. "

"I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd sendout an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to makea 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 betterwait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if hehasn'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 afuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasonsfor this, how we shall all feel. "

"He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the onlyfriend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a goodmany single men are, --that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days ata 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'llgive 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 chancehe might be. I've only just now thought of it. "

The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport hadspoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place mighthave an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance--abare chance--of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that placeor its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of himthan Mrs. Haze had. 

That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in thevery chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalledDavenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anythingin connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt andthe solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he sayto the girls when he met them at tea?

At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He wentdown-stairs, and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promisedto return about four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in anelevated car, and out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began toimagine his friend had by that time arrived home. This feeling remainedwith him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to thehouse on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked atMr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent inthe ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear thethump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked. 

"Evidently nobody at home, " said Larcher, and made his way down-stairsagain. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he hadseen on his first visit to the place. 

"I thought I might find a friend of mine here, " he said, after ordering adrink. "Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeksago. "

"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 oldman Bud. "

"What day was that?"

"Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the daybefore 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 soyou 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 allknowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions. 

Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feelingthat his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until hewas again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat. It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. Thetelegram 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 hisengagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat. 

"Here he is!" cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in highspirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been ingreat merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yetunknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating. 

"Well? Well? Well?" said Edna. "How did he take it? Speak. Tell us yourgood 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'snoise. 

"Well, the fact is, " began Larcher, embarrassed, "I can't tell you anygood news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with meto-day, and I haven't been able to see him. "

"Not able to see him?" Edna exclaimed, hotly. "Why didn't you go andfind him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way withmen--always afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what anunreliable, 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'vespent 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'tmanaged 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 isshe concerned? There's something behind this, Tom--I can tell by yourlooks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?"

A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easieror pleasanter. 

"I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been awayfrom home for a day or two without saying anything about it to hislandlady, 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 mentalobservation in the moment's silence that followed, --a silence broken bya low cry from Florence Kenby. 

"Oh, if anything has happened to him!"

The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for whichLarcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a timehe was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awedby this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport, undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped toraise. 

"Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Menoften go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He'squite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tomsays. "

"As I say!" exclaimed Larcher. "_I_ don't say it's bad at all. It's yourown imagination, Edna, --your sudden and sensational imagination. There'sno 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 waitawhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it gotnoised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order ofthings--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 howhe would hate that sort of publicity. "

"That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, ifyou knew my anxiety!"

"I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquartersat once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll goaround 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 notedhis look. "She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she wasyesterday. "

"Yes, " said Florence, "I--I had a talk with him--I spoke to him aboutthose letters, and he finally--explained the matter. We settled manythings. 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 adisappointment, " 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, hewouldn't be long missing. "

"It would be too cruel if any harm befell him"--Florence's voice quiveredas she spoke--"at this time, of all times. It would be the crowningmisfortune. "

"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 cango tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for youon the way?"

"I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you wouldstop 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. Whilethey waited for that, she asked, cautiously:

"Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say beforeFlorence?"

A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but againhe felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, andshould 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. Sofar, 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 harmbrings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concernif _I_ were missing?"

"I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us insuspense. You're a dear boy! _Au revoir!_"

With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfishmotives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. Thistime he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home;yet it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. Thesame deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and wasmirrored in the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought nonews. 

Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house inwhich, the choice being "optional, " sundry of the lodgers took theirrooms "with board. " Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of"helping out" the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itselfdisguised as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, andthrew on her things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. Thereshe 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 illegiblenotes, and setting a subordinate to looking through the latest entriesin a large record, dismissed the subject by saying that whatever wasproper to be done _would_ be done. He had a blandly incredulous way withhim, as if he doubted, not only that Murray Davenport was missing, butthat any such person as Murray Davenport existed to _be_ missing; as ifhe merely indulged his visitors in their delusion out of politeness; asif in any case the matter was of no earthly consequence. The subordinatereported that nothing in the record for the past two days showed anysuch man, or the body of any such man, to have come under the all-seeingeye of the police. Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that aninvestigation should be started forthwith. The big man reminded her thatno dead body had been found, and repeated that all proper steps would betaken. With this grain of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returnedto her bread pudding, for which her boarders were by that time waiting. 

When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomedto carry much money about with him, or was known to have had anyconsiderable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silentlyallowed Mrs. Haze to answer. "Not as far as I know; I shouldn't thinkso, " she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still soshort, and might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did notyet warrant the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wishedto keep private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might bemade from that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump atthe inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guardhis friend from that. 

Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come herequired the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dineat her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eatat one of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cookingtogether are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city inthe world. He soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcelygiven his order when in sauntered Barry Tompkins. 

"Stop right here, " cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer andpulling 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 Iroam 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 madethose rounds before. "

"Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; andagain when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered tohim 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 havesearch-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who'sthe latest victim of the strenuous life?"

"Murray Davenport!"

"What! is he occurring again?"

Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The twomade an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguinginquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who haveever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of theexperience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasurefrom a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, therebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmlessinformation from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingledhope 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 goosechase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few featuresof the disheartening business. The labors of Larcher and Tompkinselicited nothing; lightened though they were by the impecunious lawyer'stact, knowledge, and good humor, they left the young men dispirited anddead tired. Larcher had nothing to telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought ofher passing a sleepless night, waiting for news, the dupe and victim ofevery sound that might herald a messenger. He slept ill himself, theshort time he had left for sleep. In the morning he made a swiftbreakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. Davenport's room was stilluntenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram still lay unclaimed in thehall 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 themorning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for anindefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it wasthe forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had herlapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair, during the ensuing days, --for days did ensue, and nothing was seen orheard of the missing one, --but of these Larcher was not often a witness. Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and anunfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their timebetween the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby wassubdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek, cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. Hevolunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject ofDavenport's disappearance, and was not asked even for those. Hisdiminution spoke volumes for the unexpected force of personalityFlorence 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. Besidesregular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house, and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to everyplace he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person hehad 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 causedthe proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house andsearched the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most ofthe newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that MurrayDavenport, "a song-writer, " was missing from his lodging-house. Larcherhoped that this, if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoyhim, would certainly bring word from him. But the man remained as silentas unseen. Was there, indeed, what the newspapers call "foul play"? Andwas Larcher called upon yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? Theknowledge of that would give the case an importance in the eyes of thepolice, but would it, even if the worst had happened, do any good toDavenport? Larcher thought not; and held his tongue. 

One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance, --or, as Larcherpreferred to call it, non-appearance, --that gentleman, having just satdown in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first page ofan evening paper--one of the yellow brand--which he had bought a minutebefore. All at once he was struck in the face, metaphorically speaking, by a particular set of headlines. He held his breath, and read thefollowing opening paragraph:

"The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phaseon the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has notbeen seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house, --East----th Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a largeamount of cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposesthe previous night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when hecalled this morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the moneyshould have been handed over, he found that not a cent of it had beendisposed of according to orders. Davenport had for some years frequentlyacted as a secretary or agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousandsof dollars for the latter in such a manner as to gain the highestconfidence. "

There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times overon the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girlswere sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Ednasprang 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 toheadline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate ofutterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer. 

"Well! What do you think of _that_?" she said, and stopped to takebreath. 

"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 clearedup!" she cried. "For don't you see? He may have been robbed--waylaid forthe money--made away with! God knows what else can have happened! Thenewspaper 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 atLarcher, who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve themystery. 

CHAPTER IX. 

MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY

A month passed, and it was not cleared up. Larcher became hopeless ofever having sight or word of Murray Davenport again. For himself, hemissed 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 ofmind: to be so impatient of suspense as to cry out as she had done, andyet perforce to wait hour after hour, day after day, week after week, in the same unrelieved anxiety, --this prolonged torture is not to be toldin words. She schooled herself against further outcries, but the evidenceof 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 bellor knock. She clutched back hope as it was slipping away, and would notsurrender uncertainty for its less harrowing follower, despair. She hadresumed, as the probability of immediate news decreased, her former wayof 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 forthe sake of her friend. Larcher called on the Kenbys twice or thrice aweek, sometimes with Edna, sometimes alone. 

There was one possibility which Larcher never mentioned to Miss Kenbyin discussing the case. He feared it might fit too well her own secretthought. That was the possibility of suicide. What could be moreconsistent 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 ratheran argument in favor of his having acted it. No threatened men livelonger, as a class, than those who have themselves as threateners. It wastrue, Larcher had seen in Davenport's copy of Keats, this passage marked:

". . . For many a timeI have been half in love with easeful Death. "

But an unhappy man might endorse that saying without a thought ofpossible self-destruction. So, for Davenport's very silence on that wayof escape from his tasteless life, Larcher thought he might have takenit. 

He confided this thought to no less a person than Bagley, some weeksafter the return of that capitalist from Chicago. Two or three times, meeting by chance, they had briefly discussed the disappearance, eachbeing more than willing to obtain whatever light the other might be ableto throw on the case. Finally Bagley, to whom Larcher had given hisaddress, had sent for him to call at the former's rooms on a certainevening. These rooms proved to be a luxurious set of bachelor apartmentsin one of the new tall buildings just off Broadway. Hard wood, stampedleather, costly rugs, carved furniture, the richest upholstery, the artof the old world and the inventiveness of the new, had made this ahandsome abode at any time, and a particularly inviting one on a coldDecember night. Larcher, therefore, was not sorry he had responded tothe summons. He found Bagley sharing cigars and brandy with another man, a squat, burly, middle-aged stranger, with a dyed mustache and the dressand general appearance of a retired hotel-porter, cheap restaurantproprietor, theatre doorkeeper, or some such useful but not interestingmember of society. This person, for a time, fulfilled the promise ofhis looks, of being uninteresting. On being introduced to Larcher as Mr. Lafferty, he uttered a quick "Howdy, " with a jerk of the head, andlapsed into a mute regard of tobacco smoke and brandy bottle, which hemaintained while Bagley and Larcher went more fully into the Davenportcase than they had before gone together. Larcher felt that he was beingsounded, but he saw no reason to withhold anything except what relatedto Miss Kenby. It was now that he mentioned possible suicide. 

"Suicide? Not much, " said Bagley. "A man _would_ be a chump to turn onthe gas with all that money about him. No, sir; it wasn't suicide. Weknow that much. "

"You _know_ it?" exclaimed Larcher. 

"Yes, we know it. A man don't make the preparations he did, when he'sgot 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 couldpump you in front of Lafferty here. I'm satisfied you've told all youknow, 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'mwilling for you to know as much as I do. The knowledge won't do you anygood--it hasn't done me any good--but it'll give you an insight into yourfriend Davenport. Then you and his other friends, if he's got any, won'troast me because I claim that he flew the coop and not that somebody didhim for the money. See?"

"Not exactly. "

"All right; then we'll open your eyes. I guess you don't happen to knowwho Mr. Lafferty here is, do you?"

"Not yet. "

"Well, he's a central office detective. " (Mr. Lafferty bore Larcher'slook of increased interest with becoming modesty. ) "He's been on thiscase 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 hisdiscoveries to "dumb luck, " promptly discoursed in a somewhat thick butrapid voice. 

"On the Wednesday morning he was las' seen, he left the house about nineo'clock, with a package wrapt in brown paper. I lose sight of'm f'r acouple 'f hours, but I pick'm up again a little before twelve. He's stillgot the same package. He goes into a certain department store, and buysa suit o' clothes in the clothin' department; shirts, socks, an'underclothes in the gents' furnishin' department; a pair o' shoes in theshoe department, an' s'mother things in other departments. These he hasall done up in wrappin'-paper, pays fur 'em, and leaves 'em to be calledfur 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'sgot no bearin' on the case. After he has his lunch, he goes to a certainbig grocer's and provision dealer's, an' buys a lot o' canned meats andvarious 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'rso 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 thinghe does is, he hires a cab, and has himself druv around to the departmentstore he was at before. He gets the things he bought there, an' puts 'emon the cab, an' has himself druv on to the grocer's an' provisiondealer'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 roomfur himself on the back seat. An' then he has the hackman drive to aplace away down-town. "

Mr. Lafferty paused for a moment to wet his throat with brandy andwater. Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shownin withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reservingsomething to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that theman he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. 

"By the description, of course, " replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust atLarcher's inferiority of intelligence. "D'yuh s'pose I'd foller a man'strail 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 toplace. "

"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 howit was?" He had turned to Larcher. "The cabman read of Davenport'sdisappearance, and putting together the day, and the description in thepapers, and the queer load of parcels, goes and tells the police. Lafferty is put on the case, pumps the cabman dry, then goes to thestores where the cab stopped to collect the goods, and finds out therest. Only, when he comes to tell the story, he tells the facts not intheir order as he found them out, but in their order as they occurred. "

"You know all about it, Mr. Bagley, " said Lafferty, taking refuge injocular irony. "You'd ought 'a' worked up the case yourself. "

"You left Davenport being driven down-town, " Larcher reminded thedetective. 

"Yes, an' that about lets me out. The cabman druv 'im to somewhere onSouth Street, by the wharves. It was dark by that time, and the driverdidn't notice the exact spot--he just druv along the street till the mantold him to stop, that was his orders, --an' then the man got out, tookout his parcels, an' carried them across the sidewalk into a darkhallway. Then he paid the cabman, an' the cabman druv off. The last thecabman 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 himafter that. "

"No, I haven't, " said Larcher. 

"Jes' think it over. You can put two and two together, can't you? A newoutfit o' clo'es, first of all. Then a stock o' provisions. To make iteasier, I'll tell yuh this much: they was the kind o' provisions peopletake on yachts, an' he even admitted to the salesman they was for thatpurpose. And then South Street--the wharves; does that mean ships? Doesthe whole business mean a voyage? But a man don't have to stock up extryfood 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 thatgoes to South America, an' Asia, and the South Seas, and God knows whereall. 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 atnight. Why did he wait fur dark to be druv down there? You bet, he wasmakin' his flittin' as silent as possible. He'd prob'ly squared it witha skipper to take 'im aboard on the dead quiet. That's why there ain'tmuch 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'llever tell? It'll be sure to be in a country where we ain't got noextradition treaty. And when this particular captain shows up again atthis port, innocent enough _he'll_ be; _he_ never took no passengeraboard in the night, an' put 'im off somewheres below the 'quator. Iguess Mr. Bagley can about consider his twenty thousand to the bad, unless his young friend takes a notion to return to his native landbefore he's got it all spent. "

"And that's your belief?" said Larcher to Bagley, "--that he went to someother country with the money?"

"Absconded, " replied the ready-money man. "Yes; there's nothing else tobelieve. 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 hisconfidence. So I thought you might as well know his real character. Lafferty's going to give the result of his investigation to the newspapermen, anyhow. The only satisfaction I can get is to show the fellow up. "

When Larcher left the presence of Bagley, he carried away no definiteconclusion except that Bagley was an even more detestable animal than hehad before supposed. If the man whom Lafferty had traced was reallyDavenport, then indeed the theory of suicide was shaken. There remainedthe possibility of murder or flight. The purchases indeed seemed toindicate flight, especially when viewed in association with South Street. South Street? Why, that was Mr. Bud's street. And a hallway? Mr. Bud'sroom was approached through a hallway. Mr. Bud had left town the daybefore that Wednesday; but if Davenport had made frequent visits therefor sketching, was it not certain that he had had access to the room inMr. Bud's absence? Larcher had knocked at that room two days after theWednesday, and had got no answer, but this was no evidence that Davenportmight not have made some use of the room in the meanwhile. If he had madeuse of it, he might have left some trace, some possible clew to hissubsequent movements. Larcher, thinking thus on his way from Bagley'sapartment-house, resolved to pay another visit to Mr. Bud's quartersbefore saying anything about Bagley's theory to any one. 

He was busy the next day until the afternoon was well advanced. As soonas he got free, he took himself to South Street; ascended the dark stairsfrom the hallway, and knocked loudly at Mr. Bud's door. There was no moreanswer than there had been six weeks before; nothing to do but repair tothe saloon below. The same bartender was on duty. 

"Is Mr. Bud in town, do you know?" inquired Larcher, having observed theusual 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 daysthen. "

"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 heresince?"

"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 aman with a large hand-bag, who proved to be none other than Mr. Budhimself. 

"I was just looking for you, " cried Larcher. 

"That so?" replied Mr. Bud, cheerily, grasping Larcher's hand. "I justgot 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, willyuh? I got to git somethin' into me 'fore I go up-stairs. Gimme a plateo' soup on that table, an' the whisky bottle. Will you join me, sir? Twoplates o' soup, an' two glasses with the whisky bottle. Set down, setdown, sir. Make yourself at home. "

Larcher obeyed, and as soon as the old man's overcoat was off, and theold man ready for conversation, plunged into his subject. 

"Do you know what's become of my friend Davenport?" he asked, in a lowtone. 

"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 thepapers. 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'sgo and see. "

In some excitement, without waiting for partiallars, the farmer roseand led the way out. It was already quite dark. 

"Oh, I don't expect to find him in your room, " said Larcher, at hisheels. "But he may have left some trace there. "

Mr. Bud turned into the hallway, of which the door was never locked tilllate at night. The hallway was not lighted, save as far as the rays of astreet-lamp went across the threshold. Plunging into the darkness withhaste, closely followed by Larcher, the old man suddenly brushed againstsome one coming from the stairs. 

"Excuse _me_" said Mr. Bud. "I didn't see anybody. It's all-fired dark inhere. "

"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 cornerto 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 theirdifferent directions, Mr. Bud's direction being up the stairs. 

"Must be a new lodger, " said Mr. Bud. "He was comin' from these stairswhen I run agin 'im. I never seen 'im before. "

"You can't truly say you saw him even then, " replied Larcher, guidinghimself by the stair wall. 

"Oh, he turned around outside, an' I got the street-light on him. Agood-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 hisroom, he struck a match, and lighted one of the two gas-burners. 

"Everything same as ever, " said Mr. Bud, looking around from the centreof the room. "Books, table, chairs, stove, bed made up same's I leftit--"

"Hello, what's this?" exclaimed Larcher, having backed against a hollowmetallic 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'sconvenienter than the old stove. He wanted to pay me fur the gas itburned when he was here sketchin', but I wouldn't stand fur that. "

The ropey, rubbery something was the tube connecting the heater with thegas-fixture. 

"I move we light 'er up, and make the place comfortable; then we can talkthis matter over, " continued Mr. Bud. "Shet the door, an' siddown. "

Seated in the waves of warmth from the gas-stove, the two went into thedetails of the case. 

Larcher not withholding the theory of Mr. Lafferty, and even touchingbriefly on Davenport's misunderstanding as to Florence Kenby. 

"Well, " said Mr. Bud, thoughtfully, "if he reely went into a hallway inthese parts, it would prob'ly be the hallway he was acquainted with. Buthe wouldn't stay in the hallway. He'd prob'ly come to this room. An' he'dno 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, orunder the bed, or somewheres. "

A search was made of the places named, as well as of drawers andwash-stand, but Mr. Bud found no additions to his property. He evenlooked in the coal-box, --and stooped and fished something out, which heheld up to the light. "Hello, I don't reco'nize this!"

Larcher uttered an exclamation. "He _has_ been here! That's the note-bookcover the money was in. He had it the night before he was last seen. Icould swear to it. "

"It's all dirty with coal-dust, " cautioned Mr. Bud, as Larcher seized itfor closer examination. 

"It proves he's been here, at least. We've got him traced further thanthe detective, anyhow. "

"But not so very fur, at that. What if he was here? Mind, I ain'ta-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 waitfur the ship's boat than just this here?"

"But the money must have been handled here--taken out of this cover, andthe cover thrown away. Suppose somebody _had_ seen him display that moneyduring the day; _had_ shadowed him here, followed him to this room, takenhim 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 thebusiness. "

"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 thenight. 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 werefound, " ventured Larcher, rather lamely. "The criminal would naturallysuppose that a chambermaid visited the room every day. "

"The criminal 'ud risk less by leavin' the body right here; an' it don'tstand to reason that, after makin' such a haul o' money, he'd take anychances 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 randomguesswork. As fur me, I'd rather the young man did get away with themoney, --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 thesoup. " Larcher could offer no reason for remaining where they were. Asthey rose to go, the young man looked at his fingers, soiled from thecoal-dust on the covers. 

"There's a bath-room on this floor; we c'n wash our hands there, " saidMr. Bud, and, after closing up his own apartment, led the way, by thelight of matches, to a small cubicle at the rear of the passage, whereinwere an ancient wood-encased bathtub, two reluctant water-taps, and otherproducts of a primitive age of plumbing. From this place, discarding theaid of light, Mr. Bud and his visitor felt their way down-stairs. 

"Yes, " spoke Mr. Bud, as they descended in the darkness, "one 'ud almostimagine it was true about his bein' pursued with bad luck. To think ofthe young lady turnin' out staunch after all, an' his disappearin' justin time to miss the news! That beats me!"

"And how do you suppose the young lady feels about it?" said Larcher. "Itbreaks my heart to have nothing to report, when I see her. She's reallyan angel of a girl. "

They emerged to the street, and Mr. Bud's mind recurred to the strangerhe had run against in the hallway. When they had reseated themselves inthe saloon, and the soup had been brought, the old man said to thebartender:

"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. ButLarcher had no thought just then for any subject but Davenport, and tothat he kept the farmer's attention during the rest of their talk. Whenthe talk was finished, simultaneously with the soup, it had been agreedthat Mr. Bud should "nose around" thereabouts for any confirmation ofLafferty's theory, or any trace of Davenport, and should send for Larcherif any such turned up. 

"I'll be in town a week ur two, " said the old man, at parting. "Ibeen kep' so long up-country this time, 'count o' the turkeytrade--Thanksgivin' and Chris'mas, y'know. I do considerable in poultry. "

But some days passed, and Larcher heard nothing from Mr. Bud. A few ofthe newspapers published Detective Lafferty's unearthings, before Larcherhad time to prepare Miss Kenby for them. She hailed them with gladness aspointing to a likelihood that Davenport was alive; but she ignored allimplications of probable guilt on his part. That the amount of Bagley'sloss through Davenport was no more than Bagley's rightful debt toDavenport, Larcher had already taken it on himself delicately to informher. She had not seemed to think that fact, or any fact, necessary to herlover's justification. 

CHAPTER X. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

Meanwhile Larcher was treated to an odd experience. One afternoon, ashe turned into the house of flats in which Edna Hill lived, he chancedto 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 observedthis same young man, who was a stranger to him, standing at the corner ofhis own street as he left his lodgings that morning; and again saunteringalong behind him as he took the car to come up-town. Doubtless, thoughthe, the young man had caught the next car, and, by a coincidence, got offat 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 usuallylunched, his look met that of the same neat, braced-up young man, who wasstanding in the vestibule of a theatre across the way. "It seems I amhaunted by this gentleman, " mused Larcher, and scrutinized him ratherintently. Even across the street, Larcher was impressed anew with theyoung 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 anacquaintance, his roving eye fell again on the spruce young man, thistime 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 goneinto that saloon. "

"You're being shadowed by the police, " said the other, jokingly. "Whatcrime have you committed?"

The next afternoon, as Larcher stood on the stoop of the house in lowerFifth Avenue, and glanced idly around while waiting for an answer to hisring, 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 thestranger, but instantly feeling rebuked by the innocent good humor thatlurked about the stranger's mouth. As the young man came directlyopposite, without having apparently noticed Larcher, the latter'sattention was called away by the coming of the servant in response tothe bell. He entered the house, and, as he awaited the announcement ofhis name to Miss Kenby, he asked himself whether this haunting of hisfootsteps might indeed be an intended act. "Do they think I may be incommunication with Davenport? and _are_ they having me shadowed? Thatwould be interesting. " But this strange young man looked too intelligent, too refined, too superior in every way, for the trade of a shadowingdetective. Besides, a "shadow" would not, as a rule, appear on threesuccessive days in precisely the same clothes and hat. 

And yet, when Larcher left the house half an hour later, whom did he seegazing at the display in a publisher's window near by, on the same sideof the street, but the young man? Flaring up at this evidence to theprobability that he was really being dogged, Larcher walked straight tothe young man's side, and stared questioningly at the young man'sreflection in the plate glass. The young man glanced around in a casualmanner, as at the sudden approach of a newcomer, and then resumed hiscontemplation of the books in the window. The amiability of the youngman's countenance, the quizzical good nature of his dimpled face, disarmed resentment. Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned aninterest 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 hewas not taking further note of Larcher's movements. This was the end ofLarcher's odd experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himselffollowed. 

The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had notbeen 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 huskyvoice in the hall; "these are the cigars I was speaking of to yourfather. May I leave them?"

"Oh, come in, come in, Mr. Turl, " called out Miss Kenby's father himselffrom the fireside. 

"Thank you, no; I won't intrude. "

"But you must; I want to see you, " Mr. Kenby insisted, fussily gettingto his feet. 

Larcher asked himself where he had heard the name of Turl. Before hismemory could answer, the person addressed by that name entered the roomin a politely hesitating manner, bowed, and stood waiting for fatherand 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 thenewcomer, 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 ofhaving encountered him before. They were blue eyes, clear and soft, andwith something kind and well-wishing in their look. Larcher found thewhole face, now that it was animated with a sense of his existence, pleasanter than ever. He found himself attracted by it; and all themore for that did he wonder at the young man's appearance in the houseof his acquaintances, after those numerous appearances in his wake inthe street. 

Mr. Kenby now took exclusive possession of Mr. Turl, and while those twowere discussing the qualities of the cigars, Larcher had an opportunityof 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 methim 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 acommon name. "

No, it was not common. Florence had seen it in a novel or somewhere, buthad never before met anybody possessing it. She agreed that he seemedlikeable, --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 ofmind?

Larcher regarded him with interest. The full, clear brow, from which thehair was tightly brushed, denoted intellectual qualities, but the restof the face--straight-bridged nose, dimpled cheeks, and quizzicalmouth--meant urbanity. The warm healthy tinge of his complexion, evenlyspread from brow to chin, from ear-tip to ear-tip, was that of a socialrather than bookish or thoughtful person. He soon showed his civility byadroitly contriving to include Florence and Larcher in his conversationwith Mr. Kenby. Talk ran along easily for half an hour upon the shopwindows during the Christmas season, the new calendars, the pictureexhibitions, the "art gift-books, " and such topics, on all of which Mr. Turl spoke with liveliness and taste. ("Fancy my supposing this man adetective, " mused Larcher. )

"I've been looking about in the art shops and the old book stores, " saidMr. Turl, "for a copy of the Boydell Shakespeare Gallery, as it wascalled. You know, of course, --engravings from the Boydell collection ofShakespearean paintings. It was convenient to have them in a volume. I'msorry it has disappeared from the shops. I'd like very much to haveanother look through it. "

"You can easily have that, " said Larcher, who had impatiently awaited achance 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 ofowning such a thing is to have it always by; one mayn't touch it formonths, but, when the mood comes for it, there it is. I never permitanybody to lend me such things. "

"Then if you deprive me of the pleasure of lending it, will you take thetrouble of coming to see it?" Larcher handed him his card. 

"You're very kind, " replied Turl, glancing at the address. "If you'resure it won't be putting you to trouble. At what time shall I be leastin your way?"

"I shall be in to-morrow afternoon, --but perhaps you're not free tillevening. "

"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 appointmentwhich Mr. Kenby, whose opinion of Larcher had not changed since theirfirst meeting, viewed with decided lack of interest. 

When Larcher left, a few minutes later, he was so far under the spell ofthe newcomer's amiability that he felt as if their acquaintance wereconsiderably older than three-quarters of an hour. 

Nevertheless, he kept ransacking his memory for the circumstances inwhich he had before heard the name of Turl. To be sure, this Turl mightnot be the Turl whose name he had heard; but the fact that he _had_ heardthe 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 equallynegative answer came from everybody else to whom Larcher put the querythat day. 

He thought of friend after friend until it came Murray Davenport's turnin his mental review. He had a momentary feeling that the search waswarm here; but the feeling succumbed to the consideration that Davenporthad never much to say about acquaintances. Davenport seemed to have putfriendship behind him, unless that which existed between him and Larchercould be called friendship; his talk was not often of any individualperson. 

"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 moreof Mr. Turl. Then light may be thrown on his haunting my steps for threedays, 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. Inthe man's agreeable presence, Larcher felt that to imagine thecoincidences anything _but_ coincidences was absurd. 

The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, whichlay on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher hadnever observed. 

"You talk like an artist, " said Larcher. 

"I have dabbled a little, " was the reply. "I believe I can draw, when putto 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 aliving. 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 toillustrate?"

"If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be donefirst, and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some successwith me that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and thecombination took its chances. We did very well. My friend was MurrayDavenport, who disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him. "

"I think I read something in the papers, " replied Turl. "He went toSouth America or somewhere, didn't he?"

"A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery, " saidLarcher, making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not knownDavenport, it could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. "Hasn'tMr. 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 thevolume. 

"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 hecarefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it passed. 

"I've noticed she has seemed depressed, or abstracted, " he replied. "It'sa pity. She's very beautiful and womanly. She loved this man, do youmean?"

"Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding onhis part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. Thataggravates 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 bringingDavenport back. "

Turl was silent, and Larcher did not continue the subject. When thevisitor was through with the pictures, he joined his host at thefire, resigning himself appreciatively to one of the great, handsomeeasy-chairs--new specimens of an old style--in which Larcher indulgedhimself. 

"A pleasant place you have here, " said the guest, while Larcher wasbringing forth sundry bottles and such from a closet which did duty assideboard. 

"It ought to be, " replied Larcher. "Some fellows in this town only sleepin their rooms, but I work in mine. "

"And entertain, " said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other thingswere placed on a little round table at his elbow. "Here's variety ofchoice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and asandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me outof 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 'fashionableboarding-house. ' Imagine a fashionable boarding-house!" He smiled. "Butmy own portion of the house is limited in space. In fact, at present Icome under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroomhas supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of buddinggeniuses; 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 theneighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not muchof 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 betterthere as a mere 'lodger. '"

"You're not English, are you?"

"No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood andpolitical principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to theresources of any one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but ofcourse before the era of sky-scrapers, multitudinous noises, andperpetual building operations. "

"I thought there was something of an English accent in your speech nowand then. "

"Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took usto England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to aprivate school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greekat 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 faintcoast of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to oneof the universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after, --theonly sorrows I've ever had, --and I decided, on my own, to cut theuniversity 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 doomedto uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure. "

"Then your life has been uneventful since you jumped into the study ofart?"

"Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first ina London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe andthe United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I'venever had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone--Ispent the principal because I had other expectations. And now this otherlittle fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may bedeprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shallhave 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 myway. 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, newfriends. Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form newfriendships that chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones. I must confess I find new friends the more interesting, the more suitedto my new wants. Old friends so often disappoint on revisitation. Youchange, they don't; or they change, you don't; or they change, and youchange, but not in the same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brownof yesterday were eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones ofto-day and the Brown of to-day are different men, through differentexperiences, and don't harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?"

As he sipped his wine and ate his sandwich, gazing contentedly into thefire the while, Mr. Turl looked the living justification of hisphilosophy. 

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 inevitablethat Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. Shedeclared him "nice, " and was not above trying to make Larcher a littlejealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, wasnot of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was theslightest 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 imagefilled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelingsindeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should takehope 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'sheart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. WithLarcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of histhoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence ofinquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. That good woman had his address "in case anything turned up. " She hadrented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removedby the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimedby heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene ofhis toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all. 

It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at hiswriting-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he wassurprised 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. "Idon't believe so much comfort is good for a young man. "

She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairsbefore the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of thestairs, 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 agesture toward the table. 

"Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?" askedEdna. "Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, auntie?"

"Charming, " said Aunt Clara, still panting. "You must miss an elevatorin the house, Mr. Larcher. "

"If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where therewas one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of thelonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up. "

"We're keeping you from your work, Tommy, " said Edna, with suddenseriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell. 

"Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some teamade 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 achair for himself. 

"I just came in to tell you what I've discovered, " said Edna. "Mr. Turlis 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 ofcourse it'll be love's labor lost on his side. I suppose he doesn't knowthat yet, poor fellow. All she can do is to ignore the signs, and avoidhim 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 anawfully nice young man, so tall and straight, --they would look so welltogether. "

"Edna, you amaze me!" said Larcher. "How can you want her to beinconstant? I thought you were full of admiration for her loyalty toDavenport. "

"So I was, when there was a tangible Davenport. As long as we knew he wasalive, and within reach, there was a hope of straightening things outbetween 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 restoredto 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 Davenportis 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 youknow what's waiting for him if he does come back, unless he's got anawfully good explanation. And as for Florence's going to him, what chanceis there now of ever finding out where he is? It would either be one ofthose impossible countries where there's no extradition, or a place wherehe'd always be virtually in hiding. What a horrid life! So I think if sheisn't going to be miserable the rest of her days, it's time she tried toforget 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 distracther thoughts from the past, and get her to look around her. If I seeany way of preparing her mind to think well of Mr. Turl, I'll do it. Andwhat I want of you is not to discourage him by any sort of hints orallusions--to Davenport, you understand. "

"Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'mneither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him--andyet, 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 hisplan of going to work?"

"Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck ofblack-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have notrouble 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 keepFlorence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawakenher interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drivewith 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 wayto the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free tocheer up Florence. "

This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher'spleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gavehimself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, andlistening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Ednawas indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now andthen. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to haveeyes for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilaratingafternoon. In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be morethan the usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter inhandsome wraps and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna wasadroit enough not to prolong the drive to the stage of numbness andmelancholy. She had just ordered the coachman to drive home, when therear of the carriage suddenly sank a little and a wheel ground againstthe side. Edna screamed, and the driver stopped the horses. People camerunning up from the walks, and the words "broken axle" went round. 

"We shall have to get out, " said Larcher, leading the way. He instantlyhelped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby. 

"Oh, what a nuisance!" cried Edna. "We can't go home in this carriage, ofcourse. "

"No, miss, " said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a parkpoliceman, and was examining the break. "But you'll be able to pick up acab 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 troublewas. From one of them--an automobile--a large, well-dressed man strodeover 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 supposewe'd better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab. "

"You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party, " saidBagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party. 

As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcherwith inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. Hedid so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girlsexchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural towarda man who owned an automobile and had an air of money. 

"I'm sorry you've had this break-down, " said Bagley, addressing theparty collectively. "Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You'renot likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood. "

"Thank you, " said Edna Hill, chillily. "We can't think of putting youout. "

"Oh, you won't put _me_ out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. Mycar holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when mine'shere waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your homeswithout 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 wentback to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him. 

"Your kindness is most opportune, sir, " said Mr. Kenby, musteringcordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. "I'm not atmy best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in thecold, I don't know what would happen. "

He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for thegirls to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor forLarcher to do but follow the girls. 

Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, heturned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. Hisglance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat withEdna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, andEdna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house wasreached, as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in herflat; but Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home byautomobile than wait and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence tothe escort of Larcher, and remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger. 

"That was _the_ Mr. Bagley, was it?" asked Florence, as the three youngpeople turned into the house. 

"Yes, " said Larcher. "I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. ButEdna'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 hismoney, " said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna. 

"Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money andthe man were missing. He could think of only one explanation, --men likethat are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, coarse-lookingcreature. We sha'n't see anything more of him. "

"I trust not, " said Larcher; "but he's one of the pushful sort. Hedoesn't know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a mananywhere. I'm sorry he turned up at that moment. "

"So am I, " said Florence, and added, explanatorily, "you know how readymy father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider. "

That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three dayslater, when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of greatred 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. Andthen there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may sendflowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart totreat flowers badly. _They_ can't help it. "

"Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?"

"I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Fathersays it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I canunderstand why American millionaires are looked down on in othercountries. "

"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-makingthe greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to beafflicted with any more visits from Mr. Bagley. "

"I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries hedid Murray, even if he were possible otherwise. "

When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she firstsent him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted fromthe introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed hisverbal self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying:

"Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turnedout. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him withthe other man they see much of, --I mean Turl, not you. The more sheloathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His goodqualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her totolerate Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, afterall, 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, becauseTurl makes no secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thingfor 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 soheartily? 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 rightby 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 bestfellow 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 thatsort of thing. "

In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence moreappreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was theimmediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression thatTurl was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the youngman's own story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theorythat Bagley, if he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presenceof a rival. As Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turleventually met in the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after EdnaHill's last recorded talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few wordswere wasted between them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed theyounger man as of no consequence, because lacking the signs of amoney-grabber; and the younger man, having shown a moment's curiosity, dropped Bagley as beneath interest for possessing those signs. Bagleytried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the advantage of later arrival andof perfect control of temper. Bagley took his departure, therefore, withthe dry voice and set face of one who has difficulty in holding hiswrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. Kenby made a pretext toaccompany Bagley a part of his way, with the design of leaving him in abetter humor. In magnifying his newly discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenbycommitted the blunder of taking too little account of Turl; and thusTurl found himself suddenly alone with Florence. 

The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of thefire was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn takesecond place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, lookingabsently out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rearprofile of the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched herface, with a softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The tickingof 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 knewher heart. 

"I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you'redoing, " he said. 

"If you mean that I seem grave, " she replied, with a faint smile, "it'sonly my way. I've always been a serious person. "

"But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch ofbrooding anxiety. "

"How do you know?" she asked, wonderingly. 

"I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I haveheard the cause mentioned. " There was an odd expression for a moment onhis 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 tobe, when the cause belongs to the past, --unless there's reason forself-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't tocarry the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressedby it. We should put it where it belongs, --behind us. We should sweepthe old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happinessthe present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past toogreat a claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. Youneedn't be unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You robyourself, --you rob others. "

She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: "But youdon'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 couldnot have taken offence, "it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think youdo wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself tobelieve 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 singletwitching 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 calmlythan you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again inNew York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your wholelife will be darkened if you don't. "

"Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. Ibelieve I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkenedby 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--youmustn'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 toher question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and whenshe spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality. 

"I belong to the absent--entirely and forever. Nothing can change myhope; or make me forget or want to forget. "

Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity whichhe 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 impatientlaugh, "It will be a long time of waiting. "

He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteousmanner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followedhim 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 ofan hour in a gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, whose name was not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of thestairs, he met the other visitor, a man, whom the servant had justdirected to Larcher's room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomerand outgoer passed each other; but, the servant at that instant lightingthe gas, Turl glanced around for a better look, and encountered theother's glance at the same time turned after himself. Each halted, Turlfor a scarce perceptible instant, the other for a moment longer. ThenTurl passed out, the servant having run to open the door; and the newvisitor went on up the stairs. 

The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being eitherbored or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. But when a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy blackclothes 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 intoheartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoatand be comfortable before the fire. "I thought, as you'd gev me youraddress, you wouldn't object--" Mr. Bud began with a beaming countenance;but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. "Say--I met a young mandown-stairs, goin' out. "

"Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced youngman, smartly dressed. "

"That's him. What name did you say?"

"Turl. "

"Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It'sfunny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst asif I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. ButI've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in thatsame place. "

"We often have that feeling--of precisely the same thing having happeneda long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield. ' There's ascientific theory--"

"Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'mdead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funnything is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting likeyou are in this. "

"Well, that's interesting, " said Larcher, recalling how Turl had onceseemed to be haunting his footsteps. 

"I've got it!" cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. "D'yuh mind that night youcame 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 nowdown-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 timeshim and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what agood-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 newlodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomersknew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them thatevening. So what the dickens _was_ he doin' there?"

"It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have beensome strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemedto me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow--here are somecomic sketches he brought me this afternoon. " Larcher got the drawingsfrom his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. "I don't know how good theseare; I haven't examined them yet. "

The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud thename, "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 thesketch; suddenly he exclaimed: "By George, I've seen that name!--andwritten 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 sinceI've known him. Where the deuce?" He shut his eyes, and made a strongeffort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard atthe signature. "Yes, sir! _Francis_ Turl--that was the name. And who doyou think showed me a note signed by that name in this veryhandwriting?"

"Give it up. "

"Murray Davenport. "

"Yuh don't say. "

"Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked meto judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note abouta meeting between the two. Now I wonder--was that an old note, and hadthe 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 hallwayDavenport was seen goin' into. "

"But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If therewas a meeting _after_ Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it havebeen in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occurthere? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back therein 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 withDavenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yethe's left us under the impression that he didn't know him. --And thenhis following me about!--Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed himseveral times apparently on my track. And when I _did_ make hisacquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been inlove with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and herfather had taken him up. His going there to live looks like anotherqueer thing. "

"There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. Iguess he's wuth studyin'. "

"I should think so. Let's put these queer things together inchronological order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meetingto occur between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the placeMurray Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, heshadows the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a fewmore days he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport'ssweetheart lives, and makes her acquaintance; and finally, whenDavenport 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 makeout o' all that?"

"To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl andDavenport 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 Turlto 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', asyou 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'llbe 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 fairobject 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 allyou know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Herinterest in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharpeyes fur anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house tolive, you say. I should guess that her house would be a good place tostudy him in. She might find out considerable. "

"That's true, " said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Ednawould say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could notprohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. Heresolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible afterfirst taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna. 

"Between you an' the young lady, " Mr. Bud went on, "you may discoverenough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows aboutDavenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. Theymay 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport'sconfidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rido' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' hadanything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up toknowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. The thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliverup 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 mandeclared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; andfinally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feellike a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-towncar, with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather hadturned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprisedhimself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committalway as to make her think herself the first to point the finger ofsuspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored herformer partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florencestraightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore theinstantaneous 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 nearlyimpossible to see across the street, Florence appeared. 

"What is it, dear?" were almost her first words. "Why do you lookso serious?"

"I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tomwill be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a verydelicate matter. "

Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding herwonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enoughto keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and hadto be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderlylady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, sothe young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers whohave lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill theinmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile. 

Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to standbefore the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or theblizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of anarmchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies. 

Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. "Now tell Florenceall 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 toFlorence--"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'reperfectly 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 thanexpected readiness to hear. 

"Why, " said Larcher, struck by her expression, "have _you_ noticedanything about his conduct--anything odd?"

"I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made methink. "

"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. Hisrelation deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, insuppressed 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 thepast;--I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange is, Idon't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the otherthing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back"--hervoice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: "He _must_ know somethingabout the disappearance. What could he have had to do with Murray?"

Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud--without credit tothat gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turlmight still be in Davenport's confidence. "For all we know, " saidLarcher, "it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with usthrough Turl. Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed aboutour 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 beenmaking love to you?"

Florence blushed. "I can hardly put it as positively as that, " sheanswered, reluctantly. 

"He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen inlove, " suggested Larcher. 

"Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of, " put inEdna. "But if he did that--if he was in Davenport's confidence, and yetspoke of love, or showed it--he was false to Davenport. And so in anycase 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'tknow 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 bringingabout his--departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for hisown purposes. We must draw the truth from him--we must have him wherehe can't elude us. "

Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacabilitytoward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part towardDavenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to standin her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised. 

"You mean that we should force matters?--not wait and watch for othercircumstances to come out?" queried Larcher. 

"I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with whatwe already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantageagainst him--first make sure to have him alone with us three, and thensuddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'llstartle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary--I'll put theworst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him totell all in self-defence. " Florence was scarlet with suppressed energyof purpose. 

"The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us, " saidLarcher, 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 thesituation as exciting as a play. "But then Aunt Clara would be in theway. I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come toyour rooms, and you invite him there. "

Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to inviteanother to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on thisoccasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough atbest, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before hecould be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief. 

"Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairswho always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms toourselves--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 hearrives. Come to dinner--or come back with me now. You will stay allnight, Edna. "

After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompanyFlorence home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. This arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to AuntClara and go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for theafternoon. As Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, nervously: "It's quite thrilling, isn't it?" He faced the blizzard againwith a feeling that the anticipatory thrill of the coming evening'sbusiness was anything but pleasant. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL

The living arrangements of the Kenbys were somewhat more exclusive thanthose 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, andthe 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, whenMr. Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he hadconfided to the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in theshape of claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent infrom a restaurant at eleven o'clock. 

"So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least threehours, " 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 seethe snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!" She gazed out at thewhirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street betweenthe furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around thepinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, thegardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas andshutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was everaugmented by the myriad rushing particles. 

Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence wasalready 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 manservant announced Mr. Bagley. 

A look of displeasure marked Florence's answer. "Tell him my father isnot here--is spending the evening with Mr. And Mrs. Lawrence. "

"Mr. Bagley!--he _must_ be devoted, to call on such a night!" remarkedEdna, when the servant had gone. 

"He calls at all sorts of times. And his invitations--he's foreverwanting us to go to the theatre--or on his automobile--or to dine atDelmonico's--or to a skating-rink, or somewhere. Refusals don'tdiscourage him. You'd think he was a philanthropist, determined to giveus some of the pleasures of life. The worst of it is, father sometimesaccepts--for himself. "

Another knock at the door, and the servant appeared again. The gentlemanwished to know if he might come in and leave a message with Miss Kenbyfor her father. 

"Very well, " she sighed. "Show him in. " "If he threatens to stay twominutes, I'll see what I can do to make it chilly, " volunteered Edna. 

Mr. Bagley entered, red-faced from the weather, but undaunted andundauntable, and with the unconscious air of conferring a favor on MissKenby by his coming, despite his manifest admiration. Edna he tooksomewhat aback by barely noticing at all. 

He sat down without invitation, expressed himself in his brassy voiceabout the weather, and then, instead of confiding a message, showed amind for general conversation by asking Miss Kenby if she had read anevening paper. 

She had not. 

"I see that Count What's-his-name's wedding came off all the same, inspite of the blizzard, " said Mr. Bagley. "I s'pose he wasn't going totake any chances of losing his heiress. "

Florence had nothing to say on this subject, but Edna could notkeep silent. 

"Perhaps Miss What-you-call-her was just as anxious to make sure of hertitle--poor thing!"

"Oh, you mustn't say that, " interposed Florence, gently. "Perhaps theylove 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 badform to marry one for love. "

"Oh, I don't know, " said Bagley, in a manner exceedingly belittling toEdna's knowledge, "they've got to admit that our girls are a verycharming, superior lot--with a few exceptions. " His look placed MissKenby decidedly under the rule, but left poor Edna somewhere else. 

"Have they, really?" retorted Edna, in opposition at any cost. "I knowsome of them admit it, --and what they say and write is published andquoted in this country. But the unfavorable things said and written inEurope about American girls don't get printed on this side. I daresaythat's the reason of your one-sided impression. "

Bagley looked hard at the young woman, but ventured another play for theapproval of Miss Kenby:

"Well, it doesn't matter much to me what they say in Europe, but if theydon't admit the American girl is the handsomest, and brightest, andcleverest, 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 allsorts of girls among us, as there are among girls of other nations:pretty girls and plain ones, bright girls and stupid ones, clever girlsand silly ones, smart girls and dowdy girls. Though I will say, we've gota larger proportion of smart-looking, well-dressed girls than any othercountry. 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 away as to deceive some people for awhile. The girls of other nationshaven'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 businessof impressing Florence. 

"Well, I'm certain Miss Kenby doesn't talk about things she knows nothingof. If all American girls were like her, there'd be no question whichnation 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 gentlementhat marry for money. "

"We all have, in this country, I hope, " said Edna; "except, possibly, thefew silly women that become the victims. "

"I should be perfectly willing, " pursued Bagley, magnanimously, watchingfor 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, " hereplied, with a stony smile. "I've had my share of good luck. Since thetide 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 reallybeen monotonous. The only money I've lost was some twenty thousanddollars that a trusted agent absconded with. "

"You're mistaken, " Florence broke in, with a note of indignation thatmade Bagley stare. "He did not abscond. He has disappeared, and yourmoney 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 bysheer wonder. 

"I know that Murray Davenport disappeared, and what the newspapers saidabout your money; that is all. "

"Then how, if I may ask, do you know there wasn't any crime intended? Iinquire merely for information. " Bagley was, indeed, as meek as he couldbe 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 shewere 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 veryblank, --"please tell him if the storm passes, and the snow lies, I wishyou 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 heemerged from the dark rear of the hallway to the lighter part, any onewho had been present might have seen a cloudy red look in place of theblank expression with which he had left the room. "She gave me the deadfreeze-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 commondrawing-room, which was empty, to fasten his gloves. Unseen, he heardLarcher admitted, ushered back to the Kenby apartment, and welcomed bythe 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, intime to catch sight of the tall, erect figure of a man. This man knockedat the Kenby door, and, being bidden to enter, passed in and closed itafter him. 

"That young dude Turl, " mused Bagley, with scorn. "But she won't freezehim out, I'll bet. I've noticed he usually gets the glad hand, comparedto what I get. Davenport, who never had a thousand dollars of his own ata time!--and now this light-weight!--compared with _me_ I--I'd givethirty cents to know what sort of a reception this fellow does get. "

Meanwhile, before Turl's arrival, but after Larcher's, thecharacteristics of Mr. Bagley had undergone some analysis from Edna Hill. 

"And did you notice, " said that young lady, in conclusion, "how he simplycouldn't understand anybody's being interested in Davenport? BecauseDavenport was a poor man, who never went in for making money. Men of theBagley sort are always puzzled when anybody doesn't jump at the chance ofhaving their friendship. It staggers their intelligence to seeimpecunious Davenports--and Larchers--preferred to them. "

"Thank you, " said Larcher. "I didn't know you were so observant. Butit'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; sowhat can be more admirable or important than a successful exponent ofthat aim? They don't perceive that they, as a rule, are the dullest ofsociety, though most people court and flatter them on account of theirmoney. They never guess why it's almost impossible for a man to be amoney-grinder and good company at the same time. "

"Why is it?" asked Florence. 

"Because in giving himself up entirely to money-getting, he has toneglect so many things necessary to make a man attractive. But evenbefore that, the very nature that made him choose money-getting as thechief end of man was incapable of the finer qualities. There _are_charming rich men, but either they inherited their wealth, or made it insome high pursuit to which gain was only an incident, or they areexceptional cases. But of course Bagley isn't even a fair type of theregular money-grinder--he's a speculator in anything, and a boor comparedwith even the average financial operator. "

This sort of talk helped to beguile the nerves of the three young peoplewhile they waited for Turl to come. But as the hands of the clock nearedthe appointed minute, Edna's excitement returned, and Larcher foundhimself becoming fidgety. What Florence felt could not be divined, as shesat perfectly motionless, gazing into the fire. She had merely sent up arequest to know if Mr. Turl could call at half-past eight, and hadpromptly received the desired answer. 

In spite of Larcher's best efforts, a silence fell, which nobody was ableto break as the moment arrived, and so it lasted till steps were heard inthe hall, followed by a gentle rap on the door. Florence quickly rose andopened. Turl entered, with his customary subdued smile. 

Before he had time to notice anything unnatural in the greeting ofLarcher and Miss Hill, Florence had motioned him to one of the chairsnear the fire. It was the chair at the extreme right of the group, so fartoward a recess formed by the piano and a corner of the room that, whenthe others had resumed their seats, Turl was almost hemmed in by them andthe piano. Nearest him was Florence, next whom sat Edna, while Larcherfaced him from the other side of the fireplace. 

The silence of embarrassment was broken by the unsuspecting visitor, witha remark about the storm. Instead of answering in kind, Florence, withher eyes bearing upon his face, said gravely:

"I asked you here to speak of something else--a matter we are allinterested in, though I am far more interested than the others. I want toknow--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 beingstartled. For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry;then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, butfinally returned to hers. 

"Why do you ask me?" he said, quietly. "What have I to do with MurrayDavenport?"

Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically:

"You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, forone thing. "

"Oh, was I?"

"Yes. He showed me a letter signed by you, in your handwriting. It wasabout 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 wedo know that you visited the last place Murray Davenport was traced to inNew York. We have a great deal of evidence connecting you with him aboutthe time of his disappearance. We have so much that there would be no usein 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 witha 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 swiftthough quiet answer:

"It wasn't evil, I give you my word. "

"Then you admit you did have a part in his disappearance?" saidLarcher, quickly. 

"I may as well. Miss Kenby says you have evidence of it. You havebeen clever--or I have been stupid. --I'm sorry Davenport showed youmy letter. "

"Then, as your part was not evil, " pursued Florence, with ill-repressedeagerness, "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 toknow--the right of friend-ship--the right of love. I insist. I will nottake a refusal. "

Apprised, by her earnestness, of the determination that confronted him, Turl reflected. Plainly the situation was a most unpleasant one to him. Abrief movement showed that he would have liked to rise and pace thefloor, for the better thinking out of the question; or indeed escape fromthe room; but the impulse was checked at sight of the obstacles to hispassage. Florence gave him time enough to thresh matters out in his mind. He brought forth a sigh heavy with regret and discomfiture. Then, atlast, his face took on a hardness of resolve unusual to it, and he spokein a tone less than ordinarily conciliating:

"I have nothing now to do with Murray Davenport. I am in no wayaccountable for his actions or for anything that ever befell him. I havenothing to say of him. He has disappeared, we shall never see him again;he was an unhappy man, an unfortunate wretch; in his disappearance therewas nothing criminal, or guilty, or even unkind, on anybody's part. Thereis no good in reviving memories of him; let him be forgotten, as hedesired to be. I assure you, I swear to you, he will never reappear, --andthat no good whatever can come of investigating his disappearance. Lethim rest; put him out of your mind, and turn to the future. "

To his resolved tone, Florence replied with an outburst ofpassionate 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, weshall 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 tomake 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 thinkthat contingency is to be feared. Surmise is not proof, and only proof isto be feared. No; I don't think you would find the law able to make mespeak. Be reconciled to let the secret remain buried; it was what MurrayDavenport himself desired above all things. "

"Who authorized you to tell _me_ what Murray Davenport desired? He wouldhave desired what I desire, I assure you! You sha'n't put me off with aquiet, determined manner. We shall see whether the law can force you tospeak. 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 theaffairs of Murray Davenport. To me it would be an unhappy business, I doadmit. The man is best forgotten. "

"I'll not have you speak of him so! I love him! and I hold youanswerable to me for your knowledge of his disappearance. I'll find a wayto bring you to account!"

Her tearful vehemence brought a wave of tenderness to his face, a quiverto 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 willend her suspense, at least. She will be always unhappy till she knows. "

"She will grow out of that feeling, " said Turl, still watching hercompassionately, as she dried her eyes and endeavored to regain hercomposure. 

"No, she won't!" put in Edna Hill, warmly. "You don't know her. I mustsay, how any man with a spark of chivalry can sit there and refuse todivulge a few facts that would end a woman's torture of mind, which she'sbeen undergoing for months, is too much for me!"

Turl, in manifest perturbation, still gazed at Florence. She fixed hereyes, out of which all threat had passed, pleadingly upon him. 

"If you knew what it meant to me to grant your request, " said he, "youwouldn't make it. "

"It can't mean more to you than this uncertainty, this dark mystery, isto me, " said Florence, in a broken voice. 

"It was Davenport's wish that the matter should remain the closestsecret. You don't know how earnestly he wished that. "

"Surely Davenport's wishes can't be endangered through _my_ knowledge ofany secret, " Florence replied, with so much sad affection that Turl wasagain visibly moved. "But for the misunderstanding which kept us apart, he would not have had this secret from me. And to think!--he disappearedthe very day Mr. Larcher was to enlighten him. It was cruel! And now youwould keep from me the knowledge of what became of him. I have learnedtoo 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. Finallyhis 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 letme tell it in my own way, and you must promise--all three--never toreveal it; you'll find no reason in it for divulging it, and greatreason for keeping it secret. "

On that condition the promise was given, and Turl, having taken amoment's preliminary thought, began his account. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A STRANGE DESIGN

"Perhaps, " said Turl, addressing particularly Florence, "you know alreadywhat was Murray Davenport's state of mind during the months immediatelybefore his disappearance. Bad luck was said to attend him, and to fall onenterprises he became associated with. Whatever were the reasons, eitherinseparable from him, or special in each case, it's certain that hisaffairs did not thrive, with the exception of those in which he playedthe merely mechanical part of a drudge under the orders, and for theprofit, of Mr. Bagley. As for bad luck, the name was, in effect, equivalent to the thing itself, for it cut him out of many opportunitiesin the theatrical market, with people not above the superstitions oftheir guild; also it produced in him a discouragement, aself-depreciation, which kept the quality of his work down to the levelof hopeless hackery. For yielding to this influence; for stooping, in hisnecessity, to the service of Bagley, who had wronged him; for failing tofind a way out of the slough of mediocre production, poor pay, andcompany inferior to him in mind, he began to detest himself. 

"He had never been a conceited man, but he could not have helpedmeasuring his taste and intellect with those of average people, and hehad valued himself accordingly. Another circumstance had forced him tothink well of himself. On his trip to Europe he had met--I needn't saymore; but to have won the regard of a woman herself so admirable wasbound to elevate him in his own esteem. This event in his life had rousedhis ambition and filled him with hope. It had made him almost forget, orrather had braced him to battle confidently with, his demon of reputedbad luck. You can imagine the effect when the stimulus, the cause ofhope, the reason for striving, was--as he believed--withdrawn from him. He assumed that this calamity was due to your having learned about thesupposed shadow of bad luck, or at least about his habitual failure. Andwhile he did this injustice to you, Miss Kenby, he at the same time foundcause in himself for your apparent desertion. He felt he must beworthless and undeserving. As the pain of losing you, and the hope thatwent with you, was the keenest pain, the most staggering humiliation, hehad ever apparently owed to his unsuccess, his evil spirit of fanciedill-luck, and his personality itself, he now saw these in darker colorsthan ever before; he contemplated them more exclusively, he brooded onthem. 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 ofhimself. Life had got to be stale, flat, and unprofitable. Hisself-loathing, which steadily grew, would have become a maddening tortureif he hadn't found refuge in a stony apathy. Sometimes he relieved thisby an outburst of bitter or satirical self-exposure, when the mood foundanybody at hand for his confidences. But for the most part he lived in alethargic indifference, mechanically going through the form of earninghis living. 

"You may wonder why he took the trouble even to go through that form. Itmay have been partly because he lacked the instinct--or perhaps theinitiative--for active suicide, and was too proud to starve at theexpense or encumbrance of other people. But there was another cause, which of itself sufficed to keep him going. I may have said--or given theimpression--that he utterly despaired of ever getting anything worthhaving out of life. And so he would have, I dare say, but for thenot-entirely-quenchable spark of hope which youth keeps in reservesomewhere, and which in his case had one peculiar thing to sustain it. 

"That peculiar thing, on which his spark of hope kept alive, though itsexistence was hardly noticed by the man himself, was a certain idea whichhe had conceived, --he no longer knew when, nor in what mentalcircumstances. It was an idea at first vague; relegated to the cave ofthings for the time forgotten, to be occasionally brought forth byassociation. Sought or unsought, it came forth with a sudden newattractiveness some time after Murray Davenport's life and self had grownto look most dismal in his eyes. He began to turn it about, and developit. He was doing this, all the while fascinated by the idea, at the timeof Larcher's acquaintance with him, but doing it in so deep-down a regionof his mind that no one would have suspected what was beneath hislanguid, uncaring manner. He was perfecting his idea, which he hadadopted as a design of action for himself to realize, --perfecting it tothe smallest incidental detail. 

"This is what he had conceived: Man, as everybody knows, is more or lesscapable of voluntary self-illusion. By pretending to himself to believethat a thing is true--except where the physical condition is concerned, or where the case is complicated by other people's conduct--he can givehimself something of the pleasurable effect that would arise from itsreally being true. We see a play, and for the time make ourselves believethat the painted canvas is the Forest of Arden, that the painted man isOrlando, and the painted woman Rosalind. When we read Homer, we makeourselves believe in the Greek heroes and gods. We _know_ thesemake-believes are not realities, but we _feel_ that they are; we have thesensations that would be effected by their reality. Now thisself-deception can be carried to great lengths. We know how childrencontent themselves with imaginary playmates and possessions. As a gift, or a defect, we see remarkable cases of willing self-imposition. A manwill 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 ornot. Many people invent whole chapters to add to their past histories, and come finally to believe them. Even where the _knowing_ part of themind doesn't grant belief, the imagining part--and through it the feelingpart--does; and, as conduct and mood are governed by feeling, the effectof a self-imposed make-believe on one's behavior and disposition--onone's life, in short--may be much the same as that of actuality. Alldepends on the completeness and constancy with which the make-believe issupported. 

"Well, Davenport's idea was to invent for himself a new past history; notonly that, but a new identity: to imagine himself another man; and, asthat man, to begin life anew. As he should imagine, so he would feel andact, and, by continuing this course indefinitely, he would in timesufficiently believe himself that other man. To all intents and purposes, he would in time become that man. Even though at the bottom of his mindhe should always be formally aware of the facts, yet the force of hisimagination 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 oldMurray Davenport. His purpose was to get far away from the old self, theold recollections, the old environment, and all the old adversecircumstances. And this is what his mind was full of at the time whenyou, 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 pathsall their lives. A habitually lucky man, in short, with all thecheerfulness and urbanity that such a man ought to possess. Davenportbelieved that as such a man he would at least not be handicapped by thename or suspicion of ill-luck. 

"I needn't enumerate the details with which he rounded out this newpersonality he meant to adopt. And I'll not take time now to recite thehistory he invented to endow this new self with. You may be sure he madeit as happy a history as such a man would wish to look back on. Onecircumstance was necessary to observe in its construction. In throwingover his old self, he must throw over all its acquaintances, and all thesurroundings with which it had been closely intimate, --not cities andpublic resorts, of course, which both selves might be familiar with, butrooms he had lived in, and places too much associated with the oldidentity of Murray Davenport. Now the new man would naturally have mademany acquaintances in the course of his life. He would know people in theplaces where he had lived. Would he not keep up friendships with some ofthese people? Well, Davenport made it that the man had led a shiftinglife, had not remained long enough in one spot to give it a permanentclaim upon him. The scenes of his life were laid in places whichDavenport had visited but briefly; which he had agreeable recollectionsof, but would never visit again. All this was to avoid the necessity of atoo definite localizing of the man's past, and the difficulty about oldfriends never being reencountered. Henceforth, or on the man's beginningto have a real existence in the body of Davenport, more lastingassociations and friendships could be formed, and these could becherished as if they had merely supplanted former ones, until in time agood number could be accumulated for the memory to dwell on. 

"But quite as necessary as providing a history and associations for thenew self, it was to banish those of the old self. If the new man shouldfind himself greeted as Murray Davenport by somebody who knew the latter, a rude shock would be administered to the self-delusion so carefullycultivated. And this might happen at any time. It would be easy enough toavoid the old Murray Davenport's haunts, but he might go very far andstill be in hourly risk of running against one of the old MurrayDavenport's acquaintances. But even this was a small matter to theconstant certainty of his being recognized as the old Murray Davenport byhimself. Every time he looked into a mirror, or passed a plate-glasswindow, there would be the old face and form to mock his attempt atmental transformation with the reminder of his physical identity. Even if he could avoid being confronted many times a day by thereflected face of Murray Davenport, he must yet be continually broughtback to his inseparability from that person by the familiar effect of theface on the glances of other people, --for you know that different facesevoke different looks from observers, and the look that one man isaccustomed to meet in the eyes of people who notice him is not preciselythe same as that another man is accustomed to meet there. To come to thepoint, Murray Davenport saw that to make his change of identity reallysuccessful, to avoid a thousand interruptions to his self-delusion, tomake himself another man in the world's eyes and his own, and all themore so in his own through finding himself so in the world's, he musttransform himself physically--in face and figure--beyond the recognitionof his closest friend--beyond the recognition even of himself. How was itto be done?

"Do you think he was mad in setting himself at once to solve the problemas if its solution were a matter of course? Wait and see. 

"In the old fairy tales, such transformations were easily accomplished bythe touch of a wand or the incantation of a wizard. In a newer sort offairy tale, we have seen them produced by marvellous drugs. In real lifethere have been supposed changes of identity, or rather cases of dualidentity, the subject alternating from one to another as he shifts fromone to another set of memories. These shifts are not voluntary, nor issuch a duality of memory and habit to be possessed at will. As Davenportwasn't a 'subject' of this sort by caprice of nature, and as, even if hehad been, he couldn't have chosen his new identity to suit himself, orensured its permanency, he had to resort to the deliberate exercise ofimagination and wilful self-deception I have described. Now even in thosecases of dual personality, though there is doubtless some change infacial expression, there is not an actual physical transformation such asDavenport's purpose required. As he had to use deliberate means to workthe mental change, so he must do to accomplish the physical one. He mustresort to that which in real life takes the place of fairy wands, themagic of witches, and the drugs of romance, --he must employ Science andthe physical means it afforded. 

"Earlier in life he had studied medicine and surgery. Though he had neverarrived at the practice of these, he had retained a scientific interestin them, and had kept fairly well informed of new experiments. Hisgeneral reading, too, had been wide, and he had rambled upon many curiousodds and ends of information. He thus knew something of methods employedby criminals to alter their facial appearance so as to avoid recognition:not merely such obvious and unreliable devices as raising or removingbeards, changing the arrangement and color of hair, and fattening orthinning the face by dietary means, --devices that won't fool a closeacquaintance for half a minute, --not merely these, but the practice oftampering with the facial muscles by means of the knife, so as to alterthe very hang of the face itself. There is in particular a certainmuscle, the cutting of which, and allowing the skin to heal over thewound, makes a very great alteration of outward effect. The result ofthis operation, however, is not an improvement in looks, and asDavenport's object was to fabricate a pleasant, attractive countenance, he could not resort to it without modifications, and, besides that, hemeant to achieve a far more thorough transformation than it wouldproduce. But the knowledge of this operation was something to start with. It was partly to combat such devices of criminals, that Bertilloninvented his celebrated system of identification by measurements. Aslight study of that system gave Davenport valuable hints. He wasreminded by Bertillon's own words, of what he already knew, that the skinof the face--the entire skin of three layers, that is, not merely theoutside covering--may be compared to a curtain, and the underlyingmuscles to the cords by which it is drawn aside. The constant drawing ofthese cords, you know, produces in time the facial wrinkles, alwaysperpendicular to the muscles causing them. If you sever a number of thesecords, you alter the entire drape of the curtain. It was for Davenport tolearn what severances would produce, not the disagreeable effect of theoperation known to criminals, but a result altogether pleasing. He was todiscover and perform a whole complex set of operations instead of thesingle operation of the criminals; and each operation must be of adelicacy that would ensure the desired general effect of all. And thiswould be but a small part of his task. 

"He was aware of what is being done for the improvement of badly-formednoses, crooked mouths, and such defects, by what its practitioners call'plastic surgery, ' or 'facial' or 'feature surgery. ' From the 'beautyshops, ' then, as the newspapers call them, he got the idea of changinghis nose by cutting and folding back the skin, surgically eliminatingthe hump, and rearranging the skin over the altered bridge so as toproduce perfect straightness when healed. From the same source came thehint of cutting permanent dimples in his cheeks, --a detail that fellin admirably with his design of an agreeable countenance. The dimpleswould be, in fact, but skilfully made scars, cut so as to last. Whatare commonly known as scars, if artistically wrought, could be made toserve the purpose, too, of slight furrows in parts of the face wheresuch furrows would aid his plan, --at the ends of his lips, forinstance, where a quizzical upturning of the corners of the mouth couldbe imitated by means of them; and at other places where lines of mirthform in good-humored faces. Fortunately, his own face was free fromwrinkles, perhaps because of the indifference his melancholy had takenrefuge in. It was, indeed, a good face to build on, as actors say inregard to make-up. 

"But changing the general shape of the face--the general drape of thecurtain--and the form of the prominent features, would not begin tosuffice for the complete alteration that Davenport intended. The hairarrangement, the arch of the eyebrows, the color of the eyes, thecomplexion, each must play its part in the business. He had worn his hairrather carelessly over his forehead, and plentiful at the back of thehead and about the ears. Its line of implantation at the forehead wasusually concealed by the hair itself. By brushing it well back, andhaving it cut in a new fashion, he could materially change theappearance of his forehead; and by keeping it closely trimmed behind, hecould do as much for the apparent shape of his head at the rear. If theforehead needed still more change, the line of implantation could bealtered by removing hairs with tweezers; and the same painful butpossible means must be used to affect the curvature of the eyebrows. Byremoving hairs from the tops of the ends, and from the bottom of themiddle, he would be able to raise the arch of each eyebrow noticeably. This removal, along with the clearing of hair from the forehead, andthinning the eyelashes by plucking out, would contribute to anotherdesirable effect. Davenport's eyes were what are commonly called gray. Inthe course of his study of Bertillon, he came upon the reminder that--touse the Frenchman's own words--'the gray eye of the average person isgenerally only a blue one with a more or less yellowish tinge, whichappears gray solely on account of the shadow cast by the eyebrows, etc. 'Now, the thinning of the eyebrows and lashes, and the clearing of theforehead of its hanging locks, must considerably decrease that shadow. The resultant change in the apparent hue of the eyes would be helped bysomething else, which I shall come to later. The use of the tweezers onthe eyebrows was doubly important, for, as Bertillon says, 'no part ofthe face contributes a more important share to the general expression ofthe physiognomy, seen from in front, than the eyebrow. ' The complexionwould be easy to deal with. His way of life--midnight hours, abstemiousness, languid habits--had produced bloodless cheeks. A summarydosing with tonic drugs, particularly with iron, and a reformation ofdiet, would soon bestow a healthy tinge, which exercise, air, properfood, and rational living would not only preserve but intensify. 

"But merely changing the face, and the apparent shape of the head, wouldnot 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 whenseen from behind. In that case he would not be secure against thedisillusioning shock of self-recognition on seeing his body reflected insome distant glass; or of being greeted as Murray Davenport by someformer acquaintance coming up behind him. His secret itself might beendangered, if some particularly curious and discerning person should goin for solving the problem of this bodily resemblance to Murray Davenportin a man facially dissimilar. The change in bodily appearance, gait, andso forth, would be as simple to effect as it was necessary. Hitherto hehad leaned forward a little, and walked rather loosely. A pair of thestrongest shoulder-braces would draw back his shoulders, give himtightness and straightness, increase the apparent width of his frame, alter the swing of his arms, and entail--without effort on his part--achange in his attitude when standing, his gait in walking, his way ofplacing his feet and holding his head at all times. The consequentthrowing back of the head would be a factor in the facial alteration, too: it would further decrease the shadow on the eyes, and consequentlyfurther affect their color. And not only that, for you must have noticedthe great difference in appearance in a face as it is inclined forward orthrown back, --as one looks down along it, or up along it. This accountsfor the failure of so many photographs to look like the people they'retaken of, --a stupid photographer makes people hold up their faces, to geta stronger light, who are accustomed ordinarily to carry their facesslightly averted. 

"You understand, of course, that only his entire _appearance_ would haveto be changed; not any of his measurements. His friends must be unable torecognize 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 theBertillon system; so his measurements could remain unaffected withoutthe least harm to his plan. Neither would he have to do anything to hishands; it is remarkable how small an impression the members of the bodymake on the memory. This is shown over and over again in attempts toidentify bodies injured so that recognition by the face is impossible. Apart from the face, it's only the effect of the whole body, and thatrather in attitude and gait than in shape, which suggests the identity tothe observer's eye; and of course the suggestion stops there if not borneout by the face. But if Davenport's hands might go unchanged, he decidedthat his handwriting should not. It was a slovenly, scratchy degenerationof the once popular Italian script, and out of keeping with the newcharacter he was to possess. The round, erect English calligraphy taughtin most primary schools is easily picked up at any age, with a littlecare and practice; so he chose that, and found that by writing small hecould soon acquire an even, elegant hand. He would need only to gocarefully until habituated to the new style, with which he might defyeven the handwriting experts, for it's a maxim of theirs that a man whowould disguise his handwriting always tries to make it look like that ofan uneducated person. 

"There would still remain the voice to be made over, --quite as importanta matter as the face. In fact, the voice will often contradict anidentification which the eyes would swear to, in cases of remarkableresemblance; or it will reveal an identity which some eyes would fail tonotice, where time has changed appearances. Thanks to some out-of-the-wayknowledge Davenport had picked up in the theoretic study of music andelocution, he felt confident to deal with the voice difficulty. I'll cometo that later, when I arrive at the performance of all these operationswhich he was studying out; for of course he didn't make the slightestbeginning on the actual transformation until his plan was complete andevery 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, soimportant to the welfare of his new self, Davenport saw the necessity ofa perfect design before the first actual touch. He could not eraseerrors, or paint them over, as an artist does. He couldn't rub outmisplaced lines and try again, as an actor can in 'making up. ' He hadlearned a good deal about theatrical make-up, by the way, in his contactwith the stage. His plan was to use first the materials employed byactors, until he should succeed in producing a countenance to hisliking; and then, by surgical means, to make real and permanent the shamand transient effects of paint-stick and pencil. He would violentlycompel nature to register the disguise and maintain it. 

"He was favored in one essential matter--that of a place in which toperform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal atleisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation wouldspoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lockhimself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, andremain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that wouldprobably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be moreunder 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 uninhabitedsolitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to aliving soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. Hecouldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigationswould be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by theintrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed toyou, Larcher, --one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to theold Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for hisdesign, --that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on thewater-front. 

"He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained hispermission to use the room for making sketches of the river during hisabsence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be keptaway in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--andyou, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of youtwo could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of thataccess. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had beenthere. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, itwouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenportcould take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothingwhatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He needonly wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr. Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned thatthe shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the oldman busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He wasnow 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 Davenportcould have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order toconfide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence, and, rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport wentand received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot ofmoney, in bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placedthe next day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather inpassively letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as towhether he would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that eveningof anything but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on themorrow. As not an hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessaryfor the healing of the operations, he would either have to despatchBagley's business very quickly or neglect it altogether. In the lattercase, what about the money in his hands? The sum was nearly equal tothat 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 aboutto undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. Itreally appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poeticjustice; had deliberately planned a restitution; had determined tobefriend the new man as it had afflicted the old. For the new man wouldhave to begin existence with a very small cash balance, unless heaccepted this donation from chance. If there were any wrong in acceptingit, that wrong would not be the new man's; it would be the bygone MurrayDavenport's; but Murray Davenport was morally entitled to that much--andmore--of Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach oftrust; but Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and commonhumanity. Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred timesmore 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 aboutto lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting thequestion of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made himinvite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrivedto introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteeron the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. Asfor your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and youreventual 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 thenew man. During that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse ofcommunicativeness--such a desire for a moment's relief from hislong-maintained secrecy--that he was on the verge of confiding hisproject to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; andyou had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations. 

"He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as fewbelongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides theBagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result ofhis collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a fewinstruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set ofshaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought theday before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to theirfate. He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn'thelp feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a newtenant accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act. 

"He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines oftonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healingpreparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel. His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed asfor travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward, whereas a trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put outof sight. Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put intowrapping-paper. His second visit was to a department store, where he gotthe linen and other articles he would need during his seclusion, --sheets, towels, handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. Heprovided himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear inimmediately after his transformation, until he could be supplied byregular tailors, haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes, everything, --particularly shoulder braces; he put those on when he cameto be fitted with the suit and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the oldDavenport'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 tocling to. From the department store he went to some other shops in theneighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in hispockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of themoney again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing thefunds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the billsthemselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His nextimportant call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He hadgot up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large partof the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that hewas buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcelshere made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he wentout, hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and wasdriven to the department store. The things he had bought there were puton the cab seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, andhad his parcels from there stowed inside the cab, which they almostfilled up. But he managed to make room for himself, and ordered the manto drive to and along South Street until told to stop. It was now quitedark, and he thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory ofthe exact place if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by beingmentioned and looked for. 

"However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, whenMr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no greatinterest in the locality, --it was a cold night, and he was doubtlessthinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying hisparcels into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying thecabman. As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving histhings up to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the doorlocked, and the gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eyefell on Bagley's money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to useit 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 hadcome for. No one had seen him take possession of the room; no eye butthe cabman's had followed him to the hallway below, and the cabman wouldprobably think he was merely housing his goods there till he should goaboard some vessel in the morning. 

"A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It wasthe healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room waswell enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused thegas-stove to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep thecoal-stove in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too greata problem. As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its lightcouldn't reach the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield forthe keyhole. For water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to abath-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-roomonly at night, taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had firstbeen puzzled by the laundry problem, but it proved very simple. Hiscostume during his time of concealment was limited to pajamas andslippers. Of handkerchiefs he had provided a large stock. When the towelsand 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 newphysiognomy with the make-up pencils. By noon he was ready to lay asidethe pencils and substitute instruments of more lasting effect. Don'tfear, 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 workhe was elated with the results he could already foresee upon the healingof the cuts. Such pain as there was, he had braced himself to endure. Theworst of it came when he exchanged knives for tweezers, and attacked hiseyebrows. This was really a tedious business, and he was glad to findthat he could produce a sufficient increase of curve without going thefull length of his design. In his necessary intervals of rest, hepractised 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 faras the facial operations were concerned, but attend to their healing. Hethen 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 ofconcealment, it was, --he had a little experience that produced quite asdisturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he cameacross the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in theafternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, asusual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in andout. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by aknock. He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fearthe knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heardagain, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them asyours, Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days thatthey might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned. Later, in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many littlealarms at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as peoplewent to and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after hehad begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he madewas 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 theslightest intimation of a step on the stairs. 

"The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard manyfeet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If ithad been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuoussort of growl, difficult to place or identify. 

"You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than theirpossessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of Americanvoices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, wespeak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middlenotes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice isnaturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases isto glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had donethis. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading versealoud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in theslang phrase, 'all there. ' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way ofbringing the lower voice into predominance; of making it become thehabitual voice, to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one cando this in time by studied practice, but the constant watchfulness isirksome and may lapse at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and forall, so that the quick unconscious response to the mind's order to speakwould be from the lower voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud'sdictionary, opened it at U, and recited one after another all the wordsbeginning with that letter as pronounced in 'under. ' This he did throughthe whole list, again and again, hour after hour, monotonously, in thelower register of his voice. He went through this practice every day, with the result that his deeper notes were brought into such activity asto make them supplant the higher voice entirely. Pronunciation hassomething to do with voice effect, and, besides, his completetransformation required some change in that on its own account. This waseasy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of imitating dialects, foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier in life he hadnaturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, which issomewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in hisassociation with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed intothe slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only toreturn to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as inother 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 cuthis own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in theold fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the endof that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could doabout it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longestlocks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After thefirst two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention eachday. 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 hisface was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise, using chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenicimplements. He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave theutmost care to their composition from the preserved foods at hisdisposal. He slept from nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed noartificial light. For pure air, he kept a window open all night, beingwell wrapped up, but in the daytime he didn't risk leaving open more thanthe cracks above and below the sashes, for fear some observant personmight suspect a lodger in the room. Sometimes he read, renewing anacquaintance which the new man he was beginning to be must naturally havemade, in earlier days, with Scott's novels. He had necessarily designedthat the new man should possess the same literature and general knowledgeas the bygone Davenport had possessed. For already, as soon as thegeneral effect of the operations began to emerge from bandages andtemporary discoloration, he had begun to consider Davenport asbygone, --as a man who had come to that place one evening, remained abrief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving behind him his clothes andsundry 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 inthe room during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of abarber. The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove, starting it with the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feedingit first with Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and otherinflammable things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He madeone 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 madeup Mr. Bud's bed, restored the room to its original appearance in everyrespect, and waited for night. As soon as access to the bath-room wassafe, he made his final toilet, as far as that house was concerned, andput on his new clothes for the first time. About three o'clock in themorning, when the street was entirely deserted, he lugged hisbundle--containing the unburnable things--down the stairs and across thestreet, and dropped it into the river. Even if the things were everfound, they were such as might come from a vessel, and wouldn't pointeither to Murray Davenport or to Mr. Bud's room. 

"He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his newsensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a marketrestaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop--one of those thatopen in time for early-rising customers--and had his hair cut in thedesired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought asupply 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 bagand baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, hecalled at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, herecalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind thebooks on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, butin 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 insidepocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effectsof this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quiteirresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhilebefore going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, wasonly increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked verytempting. To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down onthe bed, with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed. 

"He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, andthe lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on thefloor and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; hethen sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed downthe cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left theroom for the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to thefoot of the stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One ofthem happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had alreadyseen their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked hisstars for the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Budand Larcher. "

Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florenceand Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was nowcomplete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have tomake, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeedwas Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder sharedwith him, could not be guessed. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

AFTER THE DISCLOSURE

The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less oftenthan the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was nogreat stupidity in her remark to Turl:

"But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through thathallway 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 acertain doubt: "But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from youbefore he--before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the nightbefore he disappeared--it was signed Francis Turl. "

Turl smiled. "Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer'scharacter. He wondered if you would hit on anything like the characterhe had constructed out of his imagination. He had already begunpractical experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally someof that practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What couldbetter mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old thanletters between the two? Such letters would imply a certain briefacquaintance, which might serve a turn if some knowledge of MurrayDavenport's affairs ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. Thishas already happened in the matter of the money, for example. The name, too, was selected long before the disappearance. That explains theletter you saw. I didn't dare tell this earlier in the story, --I fearedto reveal too suddenly what had become of Murray Davenport. It was bestto break it as I have, was it not?"

He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made aninvoluntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with somethingalmost like repulsion. 

"It's so strange, " she said, in a hushed voice. "I can't believe it. Idon'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, --tointerrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done toperfect 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'llsupport the illusion. "

"Of course, " replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's leadto follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mindwas yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewilderedaversion in her look. 

"I had meant to leave New York, " he went on, watching her with cautiousanxiety, "in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of thefriends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into thestreet that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fellinto a strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say aboutDavenport. This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since thedisappearance, so I was pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that. Also, I wondered whether he would detect any trace of my long occupancyof his room. I found I'd forgot to bring out the cover taken from thebankbills. Suppose that were seen, and you recognized it, what theorieswould you form? For the sake of my purpose I ought to have put curiosityaside, 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 theretill you and Mr. Bud should come out. I knew he would accompany youdown-stairs for a good-night drink in the saloon when you left. Theslightest remark would give me some insight into your general views ofthe affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came down together. I stoodwell out of your way in the darkness as you passed. And you can imaginewhat 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 tolearn that 'the young lady'--so Mr. Bud called her--had been true, afterall! 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 beensomething going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I--thatDavenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought outthings that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but theend of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' wasdeeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw herfrequently. 

"I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. HadI--had Davenport--(the distinction between the two was just then moredifficult to preserve)--mistakenly imagined himself deprived of thatwhich was of more value than anything else in life? had he--I--inthrowing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyondrecovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of mysoul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's lastcrudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could Iremain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfullycarried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering thehappiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! Icouldn't give it up. But the great design--should all that skill andlabor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't beundone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and thecoveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if thetransformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved atleast. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, therewas no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to theold unlucky name and history!--it was asking too much!

"Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile thealternatives--to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the happiness. Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should remain, andshould play to win the happiness for himself. I would change my planssomewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do was tofind you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit ofseeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch thehouses 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 cameto keep an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himselfin with a door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room Istill occupy, and managed very easily to throw myself in your father'sway. 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 thirdperson would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, thecreditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But thecreditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather thanthought, 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 thirdperson. Even so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems againstnature. As Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly MurrayDavenport's claims, perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing whatmy course would ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim tocertain money was in dispute--that a decision might deprive me of it. Ididn't explain, of course, that the decision would be my own. If themoney goes back to Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. Imade up my mind not to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport hadbeen; to rely entirely on the one which seemed to promise most. I have tothank you, Larcher, for having caused me to learn what that was, in myformer iden--in the person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old andnew selves will still overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense ofbeing Francis Turl as much as you might imagine; and the lapses willnecessarily be fewer and fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fallback on my ability as an artist in black and white. But my work should beof a different line from that which Murray Davenport had followed--notonly to prevent recognition of the style, but to accord with my newoutlook--with Francis Turl's outlook--on the world. That is why my workhas dealt with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comicsketches, and shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decidedagainst keeping the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming insoon. What I received--what Davenport received for illustrating yourarticles, Larcher, though it made him richer than he had often foundhimself, had been pretty well used up incidentally to the transformationand my subsequent emergence to the world. So I resorted to you tofacilitate my introduction to the market. When I met you here one day, Iexpressed a wish that I might run across a copy of the BoydellShakespeare Gallery. I knew--it was another piece of my inheritedinformation from Davenport--that you had that book. In that way I drew aninvitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that began resulted as Idesired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful to you from thebottom of my heart. "

"The pleasure has been mine, I assure you, " replied Larcher, with asmile. 

"And the profit mine, " said Turl. "The check for those first threesketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn'tbeen alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me--Francis Turl wasborn to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagleymoney would unlock a good store of the sweets of life. "

He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found noanswer there--nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how toregard 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 willunderstand now--Florence"--his voice faltered as he uttered thename--"why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said whatI did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway thatnight: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. Whathad caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I darednot--as Turl--inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but itwasn't for me--Turl--to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, now wasthat you would forget Davenport--that the way would be free for thenewcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old love, I wasboth touched and baffled--touched infinitely at your loyalty to MurrayDavenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis Turl. I shouldhave thought less of you--loved you less--if you had so soon given up theunfortunate man who had passed; and yet my dearest hopes depended on yourgiving him up. I even urged you to forget him; assured you he would neverreappear, and begged you to set your back to the past. Though yourrefusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked you for it--thanked you inbehalf of the old self, the old memories which had again become dear tome. 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 myhappiness lay in doing so; and yet for that constancy I loved you morethan ever, and if you had fallen from it, I should have been woundedwhile I was made happy. All the time, however, my will held out againsttelling you the secret. I feared the illusion must lose something if itcame short of being absolute reality to any one--even you. I'm afraid Icouldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any divulgence thatmight lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate self. It seemedbetter to wait till time should become my ally against my rival in yourheart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival--the oldMurray Davenport--was installed there; when I saw how much yousuffered--how much you would still suffer--from uncertainty about hisfate, 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 onmy 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. Youare not the same. I can see now that you are he--in spite of all yourskill, 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 amFrancis Turl--"

"And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me, " she answered. "Oh, I seenow! Murray Davenport is indeed lost--more lost than ever. Your designhas been all too successful. "

"It was _his_ design, remember, " pleaded Turl. "And I am the result ofit--the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. Surelyall that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, severedfrom the unhappy, and made fortunate. "

"But what was it in him that I loved?" she asked, looking at Turl as ifin search of something missing. 

He could only say: "If you reject me, he is stultified. His plancontemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you sofar 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 lovetransmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport survivesin me--and I'm willing that he should. "

Again she vainly asked: "What was it in him that I loved--that I stilllove when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray Davenport Iknew, but--"

"But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if Iwished to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myselfis impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, thereturn would be mental only, and even mentally it would never becomplete. You say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it youloved in him? Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, ifyou doom me to unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for myunhappiness. " He smiled despondently. 

"I don't know, " she said. "It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or evenby thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It'sso strange as yet. We must wait. " She rose, rather weakly, and supportedherself with the back of a chair. "When I'm ready for you to call, I'llsend you a message. "

There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, andLarcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and ratherembarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to thecompany of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once theeffect 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 MurrayDavenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize forthe trouble, --as his representative, you know, --and thank you for thekindness. "

"Don't mention either, " said Larcher, cordially. "I take it from yourtone, " said Turl, smiling, "that my story doesn't alter the friendlyrelations between us. "

"Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for thesake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do fora conception like yours--so original and bold--to come to failure. Areyou going to turn in now?"

"Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worthbeing out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat. "

He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came faceto face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold--a bulky manwith overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was alook of vengeful triumph. 

"Just the fellow I was lookin' for, " said this person to Turl. "Goodevening, 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 gamefor 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'lljust have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me mymoney back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what'sleft 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 seemedperfectly 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 gothrough; it's not like your _ill_usion, as you call it--and very illyou'll be--"

"How do you know I call it that?" asked Turl, quickly. "I never spoke ofhaving 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, withrecovered insolence. 

"It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thickone, you must have had your ear to the keyhole. "

"Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely I'vegot the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and sportsmanlike"--Bagley's eyes gleamed facetiously--"to let you know before I notify thepolice. But if you can disappear again before I do that, it'll be amighty quick disappearance. "

He started for the hall, to leave the house. 

Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. "You'll have a simpletask proving that I am Murray Davenport. "

"We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation wellenough to convince the authorities. "

"They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous--andthe story is so probable. "

"You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though Icouldn'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'thave to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking isnecessary, 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 havingheard 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 testimonyof witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. Whatdo 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 andMurray 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 onlysay, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, ofhis own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn foramusement? No. "

"I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of, " putin Larcher, "if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can takea holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some othercity, if necessary. "

"There are others, --the ladies in there, who heard the story, " saidBagley, lightly. 

"One of them didn't know Murray Davenport, " said Turl, "and the other--Ishould be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of thewitness-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 showingyou 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 hasmanaged to convince _me_, little as I could hear of it; and I'm notexactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that--"

"It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of thetraits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that senseto any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager youcan't tell it so as to convince a lawyer. "

"How much will you wager?" said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spiritlighting 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 Ishouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyerwere accessible at this hour. "

He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as arequest to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quitesure 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 nearSixth 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 fromhis pocket and handing it to Larcher. 

"I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins, " said Bagley. "He'd do all right. Butif he's a friend of Davenport's--"

"He isn't a friend, " corrected Larcher. "He met him once or twice in mycompany for a few minutes at a time. "

"But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport'sfriend, " rejoined Bagley to Larcher. 

"I hadn't thought of that, " said Turl. "I only meant I was willing toundergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you toldthe story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be someother 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 placeyou mean. "

Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. Whenhe returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. Thesnowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; butthe 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 whereLarcher had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's firstorders about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door toenter, the burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast tothe snowy night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway ledthem into this scene, --the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talkingpeople, who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles andglasses. An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. Onewould have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words forthe general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noisewas but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of threeor four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possibleunder 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 grinningcountenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions. 

"Let's go over to him, " said Bagley, abruptly. "I see there's roomthere. "

Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. Thelatter merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeedleaped suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly notyet in Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all wasfriendly between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why shouldTompkins, supposing he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion, conceal the fact?

Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairsby 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 samemirthful grin--as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting werean occasion for chuckling at it--for both. 

"I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport, " remarked Bagley toLarcher, 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 aquick-sighted man, " said Bagley. 

"I beg pardon?" said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one ofhis 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 hisvoice. "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 futureas somebody I've met to-night. " Whereat he grinned benignly at Turl, whoacknowledged with a courteous "Thank you. "

"You never forget a face, " said Bagley, "and yet you don't remember thisone. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, andlook close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, anddon't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down overthe forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don'tmake out your old acquaintance--and my old friend--Murray Davenport. "

Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally--with awondering inquiry--at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry. 

"Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious, " said he. "He declares I amthe Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks youought to be able to identify me as that person. "

"If you gentlemen are working up a joke, " replied Tompkins, "I hope Ishall 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. Nowlet's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing hisappearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so asalmost to defy recognition?"

"I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defyrecognition by _me_. So much for your general question. As to thisgentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can onlywonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work. "

Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he saidto Larcher: "I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I wasa bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night. "

"Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduceyou, " suggested Turl. 

"You want a lawyer?" said Tompkins. "There are three or four here. Overthere's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, Isuppose, --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 thehabits of criminals. "

"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyeslighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity ofignorance. 

"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 atonce without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet'sconcerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way. "

Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legalcriminologist--a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely grayhair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression--and, having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagleywas not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear. 

"Doctor, I've wanted to meet you, " he began, "to speak about a remarkablecase that comes right in your line. I'd like to tell you the story, justas I know it, and get your opinion on it. "

The criminologist evinced a polite but not enthusiastic willingness tohear, and at once took an attitude of grave attention, which he keptduring the entire recital, his face never changing; his gaze sometimesturned 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 soreon himself. Now being the sort of man he was, understand, he took themost remarkable notion you ever heard of. " And Bagley gave what Larcherhad inwardly to admit was a very clear and plausible account of the wholetransaction. As the tale advanced, the medico-legal expert's eyesaffected the table less and Bagley's countenance more. By and by theyoccasionally sought Larcher's with something of same inquiry that thoseof Barry Tompkins had shown. But the courteous attention, the carefulheeding of every word, was maintained to the end of the story. 

"And now, sir, " said Bagley, triumphantly, "I'd like to ask what youthink of that?"

The criminologist gave a final look at Bagley, questioning for the lasttime his seriousness, and then answered, with cold decisiveness: "It'simpossible. "

"But I know it to be true!" blurted Bagley. 

"Some little transformation might be accomplished in the way youdescribe, " said the medico-legal man. "But not such as would insureagainst recognition by an observant acquaintance for any appreciablelength 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, withoutany boastfulness. 

"And you know what these facial surgeons do?"

"Certainly. A friend of mine has written the only really scientificmonograph 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, forexample, whom you cite as having once met your friend and then failed torecognize him, would recognize him in ten seconds after anytransformation within possibility. If he failed to recognize the man youtake to be your friend transformed, make up your mind the man issomebody else. "

Bagley drew a deep sigh, curtly thanked the criminologist, and rose, saying to Larcher: "Well, you better turn over the stakes to yourfriend, 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 thesame. Truth is mighty and will prevail. "

Before Bagley could make his way out, however, Turl, who had beenwatching him, managed to get to his side. Larcher, waving a good-night toBarry Tompkins, followed the two from the room. In the hall, he handedthe stakes to Turl. 

"Oh, yes, you win all right enough, " admitted Bagley. "My fun willcome later. "

"I trust you'll see the funny side of it, " replied Turl, accompanying himforth to the snowy street. "You haven't laughed much at the littleforetaste of the incredulity that awaits you. "

"Never you mind. I'll make them believe me, before I'm through. " He hadturned toward Sixth Avenue. Turl and Larcher stuck close to him. 

"You'll have them suggesting rest-cures for the mind, and that sort ofthing, " 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, glaringat Turl. "Somebody that knows it's you. I heard her say that much. "

"Stop a moment, Mr. Bagley. " Turl enforced obedience by stepping infront of the man and facing him. The three stood still, at the corner, while an elevated train rumbled along overhead. "I don't think youreally mean that. I don't think that, as an American, you would reallysubject 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 tomake 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 thicka door, except by the most careful attention--at the keyhole. You wouldhave to tell my lawyer why you were listening at the keyhole--at thekeyhole of that lady's parlor. I can see you now, in my mind's eye, attempting to answer that question--with the reporters eagerly awaitingyour reply to publish it to the town. "

Bagley, still glaring hard, did some silent imagining on his own part. Atlast he growled:

"If I do agree to settle this matter on the quiet, how much of that moneyhave you got left?"

"If you mean the money you placed in Murray Davenport's hands before hedisappeared, I've never heard that any of it has been spent. But isn't itthe case that Davenport considered himself morally entitled to thatamount 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, ofcourse, 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 entitledto it. Ordinary law's good enough for me. I just wanted to show youwhere you stand, you not bein' Davenport, even if he had a right tothat 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, Ican cause your affairs to be thoroughly looked into, " retorted Bagley. 

"But you can't establish that connection, any more than you can convinceanybody that I'm Murray Davenport. "

Bagley was fiercely silent, taking in a deep breath for the cooling ofhis 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, Imight as well call you. I know the game's against me, and Turl you shallbe from now on, for all I've ever got to say. I did swear this evening tomake it hot for you, but I'm not as hot myself now as I was at thatmoment. 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 ofit would never touch me. But no man can ever say he's done me out of thatmuch money, no matter how smart he is. So I'll have that back, if I'vegot to spend all the rest of my pile to get it. One way or another, I'llmanage to produce evidence connecting you with Murray Davenport at thetime 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 restorationwould 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 whenyou pay it over, --say two thousand, as a sort of testimonial of myregard, " said Bagley, good-naturedly. 

"Thank you very much. You mean to be generous; but I couldn't accepta dollar as a gift, from the man who wouldn't pay Murray Davenportas a right. "

"Would you accept the two thousand, then, as Murray Davenport'sright, --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 youwhat I'll do with you. I'll toss up for that money, --the whole amount. Ifyou win, keep it, and I'll shut up. But if I win, you turn it over andnever 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 thatDavenport's right is open to settlement. "

"Well, at least you'll admit that you and I don't agree about it. Youcan't deny there's a difference of opinion between us. If you want tosettle that difference once and for ever, inside of a minute, here's yourchance. It's just cases like this that the dice are good for. There's asaloon over on that corner. Will you come?"

"All right, " said Turl. And the three strode diagonally acrossSixth Avenue. 

"Gimme a box of dice, " said Bagley to the man behind the bar, when theyhad 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 cutapiece, 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. Bagleycut, and showed a six. 

"The money's yours, " said Bagley. "And now, gentlemen, what'll you haveto drink?"

The drinks were ordered, and taken in silence. "There's only one thingI'd like to ask, " said Bagley thereupon. "That keyhole business--itneedn't go any further, I s'pose?"

"I give you my word, " said Turl. Larcher added his, whereupon Bagleybade the barkeeper telephone for a four-wheeler, and would have takenthem to their homes in it. But they preferred a walk, and left himwaiting for his cab. 

"Well!" exclaimed Larcher, as soon as he was out of the saloon. "Icongratulate you! I feared Bagley would give trouble. But how easily hecame around!"

"You forget how fortunate I am, " said Turl, smiling. "Poor Davenportcould 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, andlooked 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 thewonderfully clear air of New York, the snow-covered streets dazzled theeyes. 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 whitegardens from Florence's parlor window. "Certainly, on a day like this, itdoesn't seem natural for one to cling to the past. It's a day forbeginning over again, if ever there are such days. " Her words hadallusion to the subject on which the two girls had talked late into thenight. 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 incidentof 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 preventedfrom keeping the engagement to go sleighing. As Florence had forgotten togive her father Mr. Bagley's verbal message, this note had brought her infor a quantity of paternal complaint sufficient for the venting of theill-humor due to his having stayed up too late, and taken too muchchampagne the night before. But now Mr. Kenby had gone out, wrapped upand overshod, to try the effect of fresh air on his headache, and ofshop-windows and pretty women on his spirits. Florence, however, hadstill held off from the all-important topic, until Edna was driven tointroduce 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 thesame man. "

"But I can't make myself regard him as the same. And he doesn't regardhimself so. "

"But in that case the other man has vanished. It's precisely as if hewere dead. No, it's even worse, for there isn't as much trace of him asthere would be of a man that had died. What's the use of being faithfulto such an utterly non-existent person? Why, there isn't even a grave, toput flowers on;--or an unknown mound in a distant country, for theimagination 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 whenshe becomes Mrs. Number Two?"

"She changes the character of them; buries them out of sight; kills themwith neglect. Yes, she is false to them. "

"But your case isn't even like that. In these peculiar circumstances theold memories will blend with the new. --And, dear me! he is such a niceman! I don't see how the other could have been nicer. You couldn't findanybody more congenial in tastes and manners, I'm sure. "

"I can't make you understand, dear. Suppose Tom Larcher went away for atime, and came back so completely different that you couldn't see the oldTom Larcher in him at all. And suppose he didn't even consider himselfthe 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 cameback such a charming fellow as Turl, and if he loved me as much as Turlloves you, I could soon manage to drop the old Tom out of my mind. But ofcourse, you know, in my heart of hearts, I wouldn't forget for a momentthat he really was the old Tom. "

The talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. The servant gave thename 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 Iwished you to call. "

He was wistful, but resolute. "I know it, " he said. "But love doesn'tstand on ceremony; lovers are importunate; they come withoutbidding. --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 thesleighs go by. "

In another second, the door slammed, and Turl was alone with Florence. Hetook a hesitating step toward her. 

"It's useless, " she said, raising her hand as a barrier between them. "Ican't think of you as the same. I can't see _him_ in you. I should haveto do that before I could offer you his place. All that I can love nowis the memory of him. "

"Listen, " said Turl, without moving. "I have thought it over. For yoursake, 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, willbring back the old expression. I will resume the old name, the old set ofmemories, the old sense of personality. I said last night that aresumption 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 becomplete, and must reveal itself more or less on the surface. And the oldlove, --surely where the feeling is the same, its outer showing can't beutterly new and strange. "

He spoke with a more pleading and reverent note than he had yet usedsince 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 akind with sadness than with pleasure. It was the smile of a man deeplysensible of sorrow--of Murray Davenport, --not that of one versed in goodfortune alone--not that which a potent imagination had made habitual toFrancis Turl. 

She gave herself to his arms, and for a time neither spoke. It was shewho 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, thepride of conceiving and accomplishing it, the labor and pain, kept itdear to me. But now that I am sure of you, I can resign it without amurmur. From the moment when I decided to sacrifice it, it has beennothing 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 shallbe true to it--I will help you in it, strengthen you in it! I needed onlyto see the old Murray Davenport appear in you one moment. Hereafter youshall be Francis Turl, the happy and fortunate! But you and I will haveour secret--before the world you shall be Francis Turl--but to me youshall be Murray Davenport, too--Murray Davenport hidden away in FrancisTurl. To me alone, for the sake of the old memories. It will be anothertie between us, this secret, something that is solely ours, deep in ourhearts, as the knowledge of your old self would always have been deep inyours if you hadn't told me. Think how much better it is that I sharethis 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 coldtreatment of Murray Davenport, the unlucky, " said Turl, smiling. "Itshall be as you say, sweetheart. There can be no doubt about my goodfortune. It puts even the old proverb out. With me it is lucky in love aswell as at cards. "

"What do you mean, dear?"

"The Bagley money--"

"Ah, that money. Listen, dear. Now that I have some right to speak, youmust return that money. I don't dispute your moral claim to it--suchthings 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 freewill 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 hategambling, but the situation was exceptional. He hoped that, once thematter was settled by the cards, he should never hear a word about itagain. 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 allalong. 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 themoney by anybody. I tell you all this, dear, in justice to the man; andso, exit Bagley. As I said, my secret--_our_ secret--is safe with him. Soit is, of course, with Miss Hill and Larcher. Nobody else knows it, though others besides you three may have suspected that I had somethingto do with the disappearance. "

"Only Mr. Bud. "

"Larcher can explain away Mr. Bud's suspicions. Larcher has been a goodfriend. I can never be grateful enough--"

A knock at the door cut his speech short, and the servant announcedLarcher himself. It had been arranged that he should call for Edna'sorders. That young lady had just intercepted him in the hall, to preventhis breaking in upon what might be occurring between Turl and Miss Kenby. But Florence, holding the door open, called out to Edna and Larcher tocome in. Something in her voice and look conveyed news to them both, andthey came swiftly. Edna kissed Florence half a dozen times, while Larcherwas shaking hands with Turl; then waltzed across to the piano, and for amoment drowned the outside noises--the jingle of sleigh-bells, and theshouts of children snowballing in the sunshine--with the still morejoyous notes of a celebrated march by Mendelssohn. 

THE END.