"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.
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