The Mystery of Murray Davenport by Robert Neilson Stephens

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"Oh, I haven't been making any. I told him the mere fact, that's all. I'm
neither for him nor against him. I have no right to be against him--and
yet, when I think of poor Davenport, I can't bring myself to be for Turl,
much as I like him."

"All right. Be neutral, that's all I ask. How is Turl getting on with his
plan of going to work?"

"Oh, he has excellent chances. He's head and shoulders above the ruck of
black-and-white artists. He makes wonderfully good comics. He'll have no
trouble getting into the weeklies, to begin with."

"Is it settled yet, about that money of his in dispute?"

"I don't know. He hasn't spoken of it lately."

"He doesn't seem to care much. I'm going to do my little utmost to keep
Florence from avoiding him. I know how to manage. I'm going to reawaken
her interest in life in general, too. She's promised to go for a drive
with me to-morrow. Do you want to come along?"

"I jump at the chance--if there's room."

"There'll be a landau, with a pair. Aunt Clara won't come, because Mr.
Kenby's coming, and she doesn't love him a little bit."

"Neither do I, but for the sake of your society--"

"All right. I'll get the Kenbys first, and pick you up here on the way
to the park. You can take Mr. Kenby off our hands, and leave me free to
cheer up Florence."

This assignment regarding Mr. Kenby had a moderating effect on Larcher's
pleasure, both at that moment and during the drive itself. But he gave
himself up heroically to starting the elder man on favorite topics, and
listening to his discourse thereon. He was rewarded by seeing that Edna
was indeed successful in bringing a smile to her friend's face now and
then. Florence was drawn out of her abstracted air; she began to have
eyes for the scenes around her. It was a clear, cold, exhilarating
afternoon. In the winding driveways of the park, there seemed to be more
than the usual number of fine horses and pretty women, the latter in
handsome wraps and with cheeks radiant from the frosty air. Edna was
adroit enough not to prolong the drive to the stage of numbness and
melancholy. She had just ordered the coachman to drive home, when the
rear of the carriage suddenly sank a little and a wheel ground against
the side. Edna screamed, and the driver stopped the horses. People came
running up from the walks, and the words "broken axle" went round.

"We shall have to get out," said Larcher, leading the way. He instantly
helped Florence to alight, then Edna and Mr. Kenby.

"Oh, what a nuisance!" cried Edna. "We can't go home in this carriage, of
course."

"No, miss," said the driver, who had resigned his horses to a park
policeman, and was examining the break. "But you'll be able to pick up a
cab in the avenue yonder. I'll send for one if you say so."

"What a bore!" said Edna, vexatiously.

Several conveyances had halted, for the occupants to see what the trouble
was. From one of them--an automobile--a large, well-dressed man strode
over and greeted Larcher with the words:

"How are you? Had an accident?"

It was Mr. Bagley. Larcher briefly answered, "Broken axle."

"Well," said Edna, annoyed at being the centre of a crowd, "I suppose
we'd better walk over to Fifth Avenue and take a cab."

"You're quite welcome to the use of my automobile for your party," said
Bagley to Larcher, having swiftly inspected the members of that party.

As Edna, hearing this, glanced at Bagley with interest, and at Larcher
with inquiry, Larcher felt it was his cue to introduce the newcomer. He
did so, with no very good grace. At the name of Bagley, the girls
exchanged a look. Mr. Kenby's manner was gracious, as was natural toward
a man who owned an automobile and had an air of money.

"I'm sorry you've had this break-down," said Bagley, addressing the
party collectively. "Won't you do me the honor of using my car? You're
not likely to find an open carriage in this neighborhood."

"Thank you," said Edna Hill, chillily. "We can't think of putting you
out."

"Oh, you won't put _me_ out. There's nobody but me and the chauffeur. My
car holds six people. I can't allow you to go for a carriage when mine's
here waiting. It wouldn't be right. I can set you all down at your homes
without any trouble."

During this speech, Bagley's eyes had rested first on Edna, then on Mr.
Kenby, and finally, for a longer time, on Florence. At the end, they went
back to Mr. Kenby, as if putting the office of reply on him.

"Your kindness is most opportune, sir," said Mr. Kenby, mustering
cordiality enough to make up for the coldness of the others. "I'm not at
my best to-day, and if I had to walk any distance, or wait here in the
cold, I don't know what would happen."

He started at once for the automobile, and there was nothing for the
girls to do, short of prudery or haughtiness, but follow him; nor for
Larcher to do but follow the girls.

Bagley sat in front with the chauffeur, but, as the car flew along, he
turned half round to keep up a shouting conversation with Mr. Kenby. His
glance went far enough to take in Florence, who shared the rear seat with
Edna. The spirits of the girls rose in response to the swift motion, and
Edna had so far recovered her merriment by the time her house was
reached, as to be sorry to get down. The party was to have had tea in her
flat; but Mr. Kenby decided he would rather go directly home by
automobile than wait and proceed otherwise. So he left Florence to
the escort of Larcher, and remained as Mr. Bagley's sole passenger.

"That was _the_ Mr. Bagley, was it?" asked Florence, as the three young
people turned into the house.

"Yes," said Larcher. "I ought to have got rid of him, I suppose. But
Edna's look was so imperative."

"I didn't know who he was, then," put in Edna.

"But after all, there was no harm in using his automobile."

"Why, he as much as accused Murray Davenport of absconding with his
money," said Florence, with a reproachful look at Edna.

"Oh, well, he couldn't understand, dear. He only knew that the money and
the man were missing. He could think of only one explanation,--men like
that are so unimaginative and businesslike. He's a bold, coarse-looking
creature. We sha'n't see anything more of him."

"I trust not," said Larcher; "but he's one of the pushful sort. He
doesn't know when he's snubbed. He thinks money will admit a man
anywhere. I'm sorry he turned up at that moment."

"So am I," said Florence, and added, explanatorily, "you know how ready
my father is to make new acquaintances, without stopping to consider."

That her apprehension was right, in this case, was shown three days
later, when Edna, calling and finding her alone, saw a bunch of great
red roses in a vase on the table.

"Oh, what beauties!" cried Edna.

"Mr. Bagley sent them," replied Florence, quickly, with a helpless,
perplexed air. "Father invited him to call."

"H'm! Why didn't you send them back?"

"I thought of it, but I didn't want to make so much of the matter. And
then there'd have been a scene with father. Of course, anybody may send
flowers to anybody. I might throw them away, but I haven't the heart to
treat flowers badly. _They_ can't help it."

"Does Mr. Bagley improve on acquaintance?"

"I never met such a combination of crudeness and self-assurance. Father
says it's men of that sort that become millionaires. If it is, I can
understand why American millionaires are looked down on in other
countries."

"It's not because of their millions, it's because of their manners,"
said Edna. "But what would you expect of men who consider money-making
the greatest thing in the world? I'm awfully sorry if you have to be
afflicted with any more visits from Mr. Bagley."

"I'll see him as rarely as I can. I should hate him for the injuries he
did Murray, even if he were possible otherwise."

When Edna saw Larcher, the next time he called at the flat, she first
sent him into a mood of self-blame by telling what had resulted from
the introduction of Bagley. Then, when she had sufficiently enjoyed his
verbal self-chastisement, she suddenly brought him around by saying:

"Well, to tell the truth, I'm not sorry for the way things have turned
out. If she has to see much of Bagley, she can't help comparing him with
the other man they see much of,--I mean Turl, not you. The more she
loathes Bagley, the more she'll look with relief to Turl. His good
qualities will stand out by contrast. Her father will want her to
tolerate Bagley. The old man probably thinks it isn't too late, after
all, to try for a rich son-in-law. Now that Davenport is out of the way,
he'll be at his old games again. He's sure to prefer Bagley, because
Turl makes no secret about his money being uncertain. And the best thing
for Turl is to have Mr. Kenby favor Bagley. Do you see?"

"Yes. But are you sure you're right in taking up Turl's cause so
heartily? We know so little of him, really. He's a very new acquaintance,
after all."

"Oh, you suspicious wretch! As if anybody couldn't see he was all right
by just looking at him! And I thought you liked him!"

"So I do; and when I'm in his company I can't doubt that he's the best
fellow in the world. But sometimes, when he's not present, I remember--"

"Well, what? What do you remember?"

"Oh, nothing,--only that appearances are sometimes deceptive, and that
sort of thing."

In assuming that Bagley's advent on the scene would make Florence more
appreciative of Turl's society, Edna was right. Such, indeed, was the
immediate effect. Mr. Kenby himself, though his first impression that
Turl was a young man of assured fortune had been removed by the young
man's own story, still encouraged his visits on the brilliant theory
that Bagley, if he had intentions, would be stimulated by the presence
of a rival. As Bagley's visits continued, it fell out that he and Turl
eventually met in the drawing-room of the Kenbys, some days after Edna
Hill's last recorded talk with Larcher. But, though they met, few words
were wasted between them. Bagley, after a searching stare, dismissed the
younger man as of no consequence, because lacking the signs of a
money-grabber; and the younger man, having shown a moment's curiosity,
dropped Bagley as beneath interest for possessing those signs. Bagley
tried to outstay Turl; but Turl had the advantage of later arrival and
of perfect control of temper. Bagley took his departure, therefore, with
the dry voice and set face of one who has difficulty in holding his
wrath. Perceiving that something was amiss, Mr. Kenby made a pretext to
accompany Bagley a part of his way, with the design of leaving him in a
better humor. In magnifying his newly discovered Bagley, Mr. Kenby
committed the blunder of taking too little account of Turl; and thus
Turl found himself suddenly alone with Florence.

The short afternoon was already losing its light, and the glow of the
fire was having its hour of supremacy before it should in turn take
second place to gaslight. For a few moments Florence was silent, looking
absently out of the window and across the wintry twilight to the rear
profile of the Gothic church beyond the back gardens. Turl watched her
face, with a softened, wistful, perplexed look on his own. The ticking
of the clock on the mantel grew very loud.

Suddenly Turl spoke, in the quietest, gentlest manner.

"You must not be unhappy."

She turned, with a look of surprise, a look that asked him how he knew
her heart.

"I know it from your face, your demeanor all the time, whatever you're
doing," he said.

"If you mean that I seem grave," she replied, with a faint smile, "it's
only my way. I've always been a serious person."

"But your gravity wasn't formerly tinged with sorrow; it had no touch of
brooding anxiety."

"How do you know?" she asked, wonderingly.

"I can see that your unhappiness is recent in its cause. Besides, I have
heard the cause mentioned." There was an odd expression for a moment on
his face, an odd wavering in his voice.

"Then you can't wonder that I'm unhappy, if you know the cause."

"But I can tell you that you oughtn't to be unhappy. No one ought to
be, when the cause belongs to the past,--unless there's reason for
self-reproach, and there's no such reason with you. We oughtn't to
carry the past along with us; we oughtn't to be ridden by it, oppressed
by it. We should put it where it belongs,--behind us. We should sweep
the old sorrows out of our hearts, to make room there for any happiness
the present may offer. Believe me, I'm right. We allow the past too
great a claim upon us. The present has the true, legitimate claim. You
needn't be unhappy. You can forget. Try to forget. You rob
yourself,--you rob others."

She gazed at him silently; then answered, in a colder tone: "But you
don't understand. With me it isn't a matter of grieving over the past.
It's a matter of--of absence."

"I think," he said, so very gently that the most sensitive heart could
not have taken offence, "it is of the past. Forgive me; but I think you
do wrong to cherish any hopes. I think you'd best resign yourself to
believe that all is of the past; and then try to forget."

"How do you know?" she cried, turning pale.

Again that odd look on his face, accompanied this time by a single
twitching of the lips and a momentary reflection of her own pallor.

"One can see how much you cared for him," was his reply, sadly uttered.

"Cared for him? I still care for him! How do you know he is of the past?
What makes you say that?"

"I only--look at the probabilities of the case, as others do, more calmly
than you. I feel sure he will never come back, never be heard of again in
New York. I think you ought to accustom yourself to that view; your whole
life will be darkened if you don't."

"Well, I'll not take that view. I'll be faithful to him forever. I
believe I shall hear from him yet. If not, if my life is to be darkened
by being true to him, by hoping to meet him again, let it be darkened!
I'll never give him up! Never!"

Pain showed on Turl's countenance. "You mustn't doom yourself--you
mustn't waste your life," he protested.

"Why not, if I choose? What is it to you?"

He waited a moment; then answered, simply, "I love you."

The naturalness of his announcement, as the only and complete reply to
her question, forbade resentment. Yet her face turned scarlet, and when
she spoke, after a few moments, it was with a cold finality.

"I belong to the absent--entirely and forever. Nothing can change my
hope; or make me forget or want to forget."

Turl looked at her with the mixture of tenderness and perplexity which
he had shown before; but this time it was more poignant.

"I see I must wait," he said, quietly.

There was a touch of anger in her tone as she retorted, with an impatient
laugh, "It will be a long time of waiting."

He sighed deeply; then bade her good afternoon in his usual courteous
manner, and left her alone. When the door had closed, her eyes followed
him in imagination, with a frown of beginning dislike.

CHAPTER XII.

LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER

Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher,
incidentally to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of
an hour in a gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor,
whose name was not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the
stairs, he met the other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just
directed to Larcher's room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer
and outgoer passed each other; but, the servant at that instant lighting
the gas, Turl glanced around for a better look, and encountered the
other's glance at the same time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl
for a scarce perceptible instant, the other for a moment longer. Then
Turl passed out, the servant having run to open the door; and the new
visitor went on up the stairs.

The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either
bored or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously.
But when a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black
clothes appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling.

"Why, Mr. Bud! This _is_ a pleasant surprise!"

Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into
heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat
and be comfortable before the fire. "I thought, as you'd gev me your
address, you wouldn't object--" Mr. Bud began with a beaming countenance;
but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. "Say--I met a young man
down-stairs, goin' out."

"Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young
man, smartly dressed."

"That's him. What name did you say?"

"Turl."

"Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's
funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as
if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But
I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that
same place."

"We often have that feeling--of precisely the same thing having happened
a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' There's a
scientific theory--"

"Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm
dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny
thing is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like
you are in this."

"Well, that's interesting," said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once
seemed to be haunting his footsteps.

"I've got it!" cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. "D'yuh mind that night you
came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?--and we went up an'
searched my room fur a trace?"

"And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes."

"Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out,
an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now
down-stairs."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o'
the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times
him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a
good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh,
that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?"

"Turl--T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?"

"Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new
lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers
knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that
evening. So what the dickens _was_ he doin' there?"

"It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been
some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed
to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow--here are some
comic sketches he brought me this afternoon." Larcher got the drawings
from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. "I don't know how good these
are; I haven't examined them yet."

The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the
name, "F. Turl."

"Oh, has he signed this lot?" asked Larcher. "I told him he ought to.
Let's see what his signature looks like." He glanced at the corner of the
sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: "By George, I've seen that name!--and
written just like that!"

"Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'."

"Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since
I've known him. Where the deuce?" He shut his eyes, and made a strong
effort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at
the signature. "Yes, sir! _Francis_ Turl--that was the name. And who do
you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very
handwriting?"

"Give it up."

"Murray Davenport."

"Yuh don't say."

"Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me
to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about
a meeting between the two. Now I wonder--was that an old note, and had
the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see,
the next day Davenport disappeared."

"H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway
Davenport was seen goin' into."

"But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there
was a meeting _after_ Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have
been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur
there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there
in search of Davenport--or for some other purpose connected with him."

"H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?"

"Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with
Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet
he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.--And then
his following me about!--Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed him
several times apparently on my track. And when I _did_ make his
acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in
love with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her
father had taken him up. His going there to live looks like another
queer thing."

"There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I
guess he's wuth studyin'."

"I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in
chronological order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting
to occur between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place
Murray Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he
shadows the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few
more days he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's
sweetheart lives, and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when
Davenport is mentioned, lets it be assumed that he didn't know the man."

"And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr.
Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make
out o' all that?"

"To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and
Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do
_you_ make out of it?"

"That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl
to the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin'
too big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance.
This Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as
you c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin'
in the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game."

"You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll
be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course,
where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair
object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me."

"If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all
you know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her
interest in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp
eyes fur anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to
live, you say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to
study him in. She might find out considerable."

"That's true," said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna
would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view.
But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not
prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He
resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after
first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna.

"Between you an' the young lady," Mr. Bud went on, "you may discover
enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about
Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They
may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's
confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid
o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had
anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to
knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance.
The thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver
up what he knows."

Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive.
Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man
declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and
finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel
like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town
car, with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had
turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard.
His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised
himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal
way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of
suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her
former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence
straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the
instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about.
Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day;
she would send a cab for her, to make sure.

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