"But your letter may have miscarried,--something of that sort."
"I made allowance for that, and wrote another letter, which I registered. She got that all right, for the receipt came back, signed by her father. But no answer ever came from her, and I was a bit too proud to continue a one-sided correspondence. So ended that chapter in the harrowing history of Murray Davenport.--She was a fine young woman, as the world judges; she reminded me, in some ways, of Scott's heroines."
"Ah! that's why you took kindly to the old fellow by the river. You remember his library--made up entirely of Scott?"
"Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of living did."
"I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless."
"I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short spell,' as he calls it."
"You still keep in touch with him?" asked Larcher, in surprise.
"Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable--allowing me the use of his room to sketch in."
"Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window. 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?"
"Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't find me here."
"I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I shall have them day after to-morrow. Let's see--I'm engaged for that day. How will the next day suit you?"
"All right. Come the next day if you like."
"That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch together."
"One o'clock on Friday then. Good night!"
At the door, Larcher turned for a moment in passing out, and saw Davenport standing by the table, looking after him. What was the inscrutable expression--half amusement, half friendliness and self-accusing regret--which faintly relieved for a moment the indifference of the man's face?