The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 4

young
men with halos of hair, flowing ties, and critical faces had seen in Paris
in their days of art study. Larcher made his way through the crowd in
the front room to that in the back, acknowledging many salutations.
The last of these came from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose
round, humorous face was made additionally benevolent by spectacles,

and whose forward bend of the shoulders might be the consequence of
studious pursuits, or of much leaning over café-tables, or of both.
"Hello, Barry Tompkins!" said Larcher. "I've been looking for you."
Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their
meeting were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut
manner:
"You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius." Whereat he looked
around and chuckled afresh.
Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low:
"You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man
named Murray Davenport?"
"I believe there is such a man--an illustrator. Is that the one you mean?"
"I suppose so. Where can I find him?"
"I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of
his work--in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think."
"I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence,
by the way."
"All right. Have you looked in the directory?"
"Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are
some things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting
acquainted with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So
the trouble is to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead
up to a pretty close acquaintance."
"No trouble in that," said Tompkins, decidedly. "Look here. He's an
illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives,
call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. That
will begin an acquaintance."
"And terminate it, too, don't you think? Would any self-respecting
illustrator take a commission from an obscure writer, with no certainty
of his work ever appearing?"
"Well, then, the next time you have anything accepted for publication,
get to the editor as fast as you can, and recommend this Davenport to
do the illustrations."
"Wouldn't the editor consider that rather presumptuous?"
"Perhaps he would; but there's an editor or two who wouldn't consider
it presumptuous if I did it. Suppose it happened to be one of those
editors, you could call on some pretext about a possible error in the

manuscript. I could call with you, and suggest this Davenport as
illustrator in a way both natural and convincing. Then I'd get the editor
to make you the bearer of his offer and the manuscript; and even if
Davenport refused the job,--which he wouldn't,--you'd have an
opportunity to pave the way for intimacy by your conspicuous charms
of mind and manner."
"Be easy, Barry. That looks like a practical scheme; but suppose he
turned out to be a bad illustrator?"
"I don't think he would. He must be fairly good, or I shouldn't have
remembered his name. I'll look through the files of back numbers in my
room to-night, till I find some of his work, so I can recommend him
intelligently. Meanwhile, is there any editor who has something of
yours in hand just now?"
"Why, yes," said Larcher, brightening, "I got a notice of acceptance
to-day from the _Avenue Magazine_, of a thing about the rivers of New
York City in the old days. It simply cries aloud for illustration."
"That's all right, then. Rogers mayn't have given it out yet for
illustration. We'll call on him to-morrow. He'll be glad to see me; he'll
think I've come to pay him ten dollars I owe him. Suppose we go now
and tackle the old magazines in my room, to see what my praises of Mr.
Davenport shall rest on. As we go, we'll look the gentleman up in the
directory at the drug-store--unless you'd prefer to tarry here at the
banquet of wit and beauty." Mr. Tompkins chuckled again as he waved
a hand over the scene, which, despite his ridicule of the pose and
conceit it largely represented, he had come by force of circumstances
regularly to inhabit.
Mr. Larcher, though he found the place congenial enough, was rather
for the pursuit of his own affair. Before leaving the house, Tompkins
led the way up a flight of stairs to a little office wherein sat the foreign
old woman who conducted this tavern of the muses. He thought that
she, who was on chaffing and money-lending terms with so much talent
in the shape of her customers, might know of Murray