The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 6

from the speaker's lips so naturally and

with perfect carelessness of what effect it might produce on a
stranger,--Larcher stepped into the room. The carpet, the wall-paper,
the upholstery of the arm-chair, the cover of the small iron bed in one
corner, that of the small upright piano in another, and that of the table
which stood between the two windows and evidently served as a desk,
were all of advanced age, but cleanliness and neatness prevailed. The
same was to be said of the man's attire, his coat being an old gray-black
garment of the square-cut "sack" or "lounge" shape. Books filled the
mantel, the flat top of a trunk, that of the piano, and much of the table,
which held also a drawing-board, pads of drawing and manuscript
paper, and the paraphernalia for executing upon both. Tacked on the
walls, and standing about on top of books and elsewhere, were
water-colors, drawings in half-tone, and pen-and-ink sketches, many
unfinished, besides a few photographs of celebrated paintings and
statues. But long before he had sought more than the most general
impression of these contents of the room, Larcher had bent all his
observation upon their possessor.
The man's face was thoughtful and melancholy, and handsome only by
these and kindred qualities. Long and fairly regular, with a nose
distinguished by a slight hump of the bridge, its single claim to beauty
of form was in the distinctness of its lines. The complexion was
colorless but clear, the face being all smooth shaven. The slightly
haggard eyes were gray, rather of a plain and honest than a brilliant
character, save for a tiny light that burned far in their depths. The
forehead was ample and smooth, as far as could be seen, for rather
longish brown hair hung over it, with a negligent, sullen effect. The
general expression was of an odd painwearied dismalness, curiously
warmed by the remnant of an unquenchable humor.
"This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself," said Larcher, handing
it.
"Mr. Rogers?" inquired Murray Davenport.
"Editor of the Avenue Magazine."
Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without
diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself
took a chair before the table.
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher," he said, conventionally; then, with
a change to informality, "I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers,

or any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any
offered me before."
"Oh, but I've seen some of your work," contradicted Larcher. "The
illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'"
"That wasn't offered me; I begged for it," said Davenport, quietly.
"Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you
were recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to
illustrate this stuff of mine," and Larcher brought forth the typewritten
manuscript from under his coat.
"It's so unprecedented," resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective
way of speaking. "I can scarcely help thinking there must be some
mistake."
"But you are the Murray Davenport that illustrated the 'Heart in Peril'
story?"
"Yes; I'm the only Murray Davenport I know of; but an offer of work to
_me_--"
"Oh, there's nothing extraordinary about that. Editors often seek out
new illustrators they hear of."
"Oh, I know all about that. You don't quite understand. I say, an offer
to _me_--an offer unsolicited, unsought, coming like money found, like
a gift from the gods. Such a thing belongs to what is commonly called
good luck. Now, good luck is a thing that never by any chance has
fallen to me before; never from the beginning of things to the present.
So, in spite of my senses, I'm naturally a bit incredulous in this case."
This was said with perfect seriousness, but without any feeling.
Larcher smiled. "Well, I hope your incredulity won't make you refuse
to do the pictures."
"Oh, no," returned Davenport, indolently. "I won't refuse. I'll accept the
commission with pleasure--a certain amount of pleasure, that is. There
was a time when I should have danced a break-down for joy, probably,
at this opportunity. But a piece of good luck, strange as it is to me,
doesn't matter now. Still, as it has visited me at last, I'll receive it
politely. In as much as I have plenty of time for this work, and as Mr.
Rogers seems to wish me to do it, I should be churlish if I declined.
The money too, is an object--I won't conceal that fact. To think of a
chance to earn a little money, coming my way without the slightest
effort on my part! You look substantial, Mr. Larcher, but I'm still

tempted to think this is all a dream."
Larcher laughed. "Well, as to effort," said he,