The Mystery of Murray Davenport Part 18

"A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery," said Larcher, making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known Davenport, it could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. "Hasn't Mr. Kenby or his daughter ever spoken of it to you?" added Larcher, after a moment.

"No. Why should they?" asked the other, turning over a page of the volume.

"They knew him. Miss Kenby is very unhappy over his disappearance."

Did a curious look come over Mr. Turl's face for an instant, as he carefully regarded the picture before him? If it did, it pa.s.sed.

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

"Yes. But what makes it worse, there was a curious misunderstanding on his part, which would have been removed if he hadn't disappeared. That aggravates her unhappiness."

"I'm sorry for her. But time wears away unhappiness of that sort."

"I hope it will in this case--if it doesn't turn it to joy by bringing Davenport back."

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

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

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

"And entertain," said Turl, with a smile, as the bottles and other things were placed on a little round table at his elbow. "Here's variety of choice. I think I'll take some of that red wine, whatever it is, and a sandwich. I require a wet day for whisky. Your quarters here put me out of conceit with my own."

"Why, you live in a good house," said Larcher, helping himself in turn.

"Good enough, as they go; what the newspapers would call a 'fas.h.i.+onable boarding-house.' Imagine a fas.h.i.+onable boarding-house!" He smiled. "But my own portion of the house is limited in s.p.a.ce. In fact, at present I come under the head of hall-bedroom young men. I know the hall-bedroom has supplanted the attic chamber of an earlier generation of budding geniuses; but I prefer comfort to romance."

"How did you happen to go to that house?"

"I saw its advertis.e.m.e.nt in the 'boarders wanted' column. I liked the neighborhood. It's the old Knickerbocker neighborhood, you know. Not much of the old Knickerbocker atmosphere left. It's my first experience as a 'boarder' in New York. I think, on the whole, I prefer to be a 'roomer'

and 'eat out.' I have been a 'paying guest' in London, but fared better there as a mere 'lodger.'"

"You're not English, are you?"

"No. Good American, but of a roving habit. American in blood and political principles; but not willing to narrow my life down to the resources of any one country. I was born in New York, in fact, but of course before the era of sky-sc.r.a.pers, mult.i.tudinous noises, and perpetual building operations."

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

"Very probably. When I was ten years old, my father's business took us to England; he was put in charge of the London branch. I was sent to a private school at Folkestone, where I got the small Latin, and no Greek at all, that I boast of. Do you know Folkestone? The wind on the cliffs, the pine-trees down their slopes, the vessels in the channel, the faint coast of France in clear weather? I was to have gone from there to one of the universities, but my mother died, and my father soon after,--the only sorrows I've ever had,--and I decided, on my own, to cut the university career, and jump into the study of pictorial art. Since then, I've always done as I liked."

"You don't seem to have made any great mistakes."

"No. I've never gone hunting trouble. Unlike most people who are doomed to uneventful happiness, I don't sigh for adventure."

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

"Entirely. Cast always in smooth and agreeable lines. I studied first in a London studio, then in Paris; travelled in various parts of Europe and the United States; lived in London and New York; and there you are. I've never had to work, so far. But the money my father left me has gone--I spent the princ.i.p.al because I had other expectations. And now this other little fortune, that I meant to use frugally, is in dispute. I may be deprived of it by a decision to be given shortly. In that case, I shall have to earn my mutton chops like many a better man."

"You seem to take the prospect very cheerfully."

"Oh, I shall be fortunate. Good fortune is my destiny. Things come my way. My wants are few. I make friends easily. I have to make them easily, or I shouldn't make any, changing my place so often. A new place, new friends. Even when I go back to an old place, I rather form new friends.h.i.+ps that chance throws in my way, than hunt up the old ones.

I must confess I find new friends the more interesting, the more suited to my new wants. Old friends so often disappoint on revisitation. You change, they don't; or they change, you don't; or they change, and you change, but not in the same ways. The Jones of yesterday and the Brown of yesterday were eminently fitted to be friends; but the Jones of to-day and the Brown of to-day are different men, through different experiences, and don't harmonize. Why clog the present with the past?"

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

CHAPTER XI.

FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE

During the next few weeks, Larcher saw much of Mr. Turl. The Kenbys, living under the same roof, saw even more of him. It was thus inevitable that Edna Hill should be added to his list of new acquaintances. She declared him "nice," and was not above trying to make Larcher a little jealous. But Turl, beyond the amiability which he had for everybody, was not of a coming-on disposition. Sometimes Larcher fancied there was the slightest addition of tenderness to that amiability when Turl regarded, or spoke to, Florence Kenby. But, if there was, n.o.body need wonder at it.

The newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelings indeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should take hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was n.o.body's place to warn him.

If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze.

That good woman had his address "in case anything turned up." She had rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all.

It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara.

"Well, this is jolly!" he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face.

"It's not half bad," said Edna, applying the expression to the room. "I don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man."

She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other.

"But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see," he replied, with a gesture toward the table.

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

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

"If it would a.s.sure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there was one. You can't imagine how refres.h.i.+ng it is, in the midst of the lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up."

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

"Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea made for you? Or will you take some wine?"

"No, thanks; we've just had tea."

"I think a gla.s.s of wine would be good for me after that climb,"

suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a chair for himself.

"I just came in to tell you what I've discovered," said Edna. "Mr. Turl is in love with Florence Kenby!"

"How do you know?" asked Larcher.