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Updated: June 26, 2025
He's proud of them." Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent for a moment; then rose, with the words: "Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit garden. When shall I see you again?"
But there was nothing addressed to Larcher or anybody else. "It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon," remarked the landlady. "It certainly does." Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on leaving the house the next morning.
Such was Larcher's mental observation in the moment's silence that followed, a silence broken by a low cry from Florence Kenby. "Oh, if anything has happened to him!" The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time he was without speech for a reassuring word.
Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel.
Larcher, who had admired the professional mysteriousness shown in withholding the names of the stores for the mere sake of reserving something to secrecy, was now wondering how the detective knew that the man he had traced was Murray Davenport. He gave voice to his wonder. "By the description, of course," replied Mr. Lafferty, with disgust at Larcher's inferiority of intelligence.
Feeling somewhat foolish, Larcher feigned an interest in the show of books for a few seconds, and then went his way, leaving the young man before the window. Larcher presently looked back; the young man was still there, still gazing at the books. Apparently he was not taking further note of Larcher's movements.
Borthrop Trumbull had a kindly liquid in his veins; he was an admirer by nature, and would have liked to have the universe under his hammer, feeling that it would go at a higher figure for his recommendation. Meanwhile Mrs. Larcher's drawing-room furniture was enough for him.
He lapsed into that reticence which, as it was his manner during most of the time, made his strange seasons of communicativeness the more remarkable. A few days passed before another such talkative mood came on in Larcher's presence. It was a drizzling, cheerless night. Larcher had been to a dinner in Madison Avenue, and he thus found himself not far from Davenport's abode.
This was the end of Larcher's odd experience; he did not again have reason to suppose himself followed. The third time Larcher called to see Miss Kenby after this, he had not been seated five minutes when there came a gentle knock at the door. Florence rose and opened it.
For some seconds he regarded Florence with a steady inquiry; then his questioning gaze passed to Edna's face and Larcher's, but finally returned to hers. "Why do you ask me?" he said, quietly. "What have I to do with Murray Davenport?" Florence turned to Larcher, who thereupon put in, almost apologetically: "You were in correspondence with him before his disappearance, for one thing."
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