The Mystery of Murray Davenport | Page 2

next room.
She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for indoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility in the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thing compared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon her with a serenity which, taking her sex also into consideration, made it much less noticeable.
"Well, this is a pleasure!" he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet her.
"Hello, Tom!" she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. "You needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We have at least an hour to ourselves."
"An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at this time of year. When I got your telegram--"
"I suppose you were surprised. To think of being in New York in August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a cab. 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 down and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if you'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 share them. How thoughtful of you!"
She poured a glass of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly across at his hostess.
"There's something I want you to do for me," she answered, sitting composedly 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 I should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or less--that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do with 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?--going about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be easy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know him."
"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 getting along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he fares."
"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 out about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you hesitate, and hem and haw--" She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the shoulders.
"You might tell me the reasons, dear," he said, humbly.
"I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this information got, and, if you're willing to do 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,