The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 3

me a service, you'll get it, and not ask
any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment."
"Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts to--
prying into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather intrusive,
private detective sort of business."
"Oh, but you don't know the reason--the object in view. Somebody's
happiness depends on it,--perhaps more than one person's; I may tell
you that much."

"Whose happiness?"
"It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't my happiness, you
may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in doing
this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you should be
inquisitive beyond that."
"You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you
ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to
think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and
question--"
"Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this
particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were?
Upon my word, you don't flatter me!"
"Don't be angry, dear. If you're really sure it's all right--"
"If I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had
asked somebody else! It isn't too late--"
Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand.
"Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve
you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance
can handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport,
you say; writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and
has something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to
start with?"
"No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly
good-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and
takes his meals at restaurants."
"Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There might
possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I
shouldn't like to be looking up the wrong man."
"Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means.
But I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course I never
saw him."
"There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who
was a writer and an artist and connected with theatres," said Larcher.
"And it isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one
chance in a thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing
coincidences do occur."
"He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember," added the

young lady.
"He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want
this report?"
"As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his
circumstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and
when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to
Easthampton to-morrow, you know."
A few minutes after the end of another half-hour, Mr. Larcher put up
his umbrella to the rain again, and made his way back to Sixth Avenue
and a car. Pleasurable reflections upon the half-hour, and the additional
minutes, occupied his mind for awhile, but gave way at last to
consideration of the Murray Davenport business, and the strangeness
thereof, which lay chiefly in Edna Hill's desire for such intimate news
about a man she had never seen. Whose happiness could depend on
getting that news? What, in fine, was the secret of the affair? Larcher
could only give it up, and think upon means for the early
accomplishment of his part in the matter. He had decided to begin
immediately, for his first inquiries would be made of men who kept late
hours, and with whose midnight haunts he was acquainted.
He stayed in the car till he had entered the region below Fourteenth
Street. Getting out, he walked a short distance and into a basement,
where he exchanged rain and darkness for bright gaslight, an
atmosphere of tobacco smoke mixed with the smell of food and cheap
wine, and the noisy talk of a numerous company sitting--for the most
part--at long tables whereon were the traces of a _table d'hôte_ dinner.
Coffee and claret were still present, not only in cups, bottles, and
glasses, but also on the table-cloths. The men were of all ages, but
youth preponderated and had the most to say and the loudest manner of
saying it. The ladies were, as to the majority, unattractive in appearance,
nasal in voice, and unabashed in manner. The assemblage was, in short,
a specimen of self-styled, self-conscious Bohemia; a far-off,
much-adulterated imitation of the sort of thing that some of the