If you're really _sure_ it's all right--"
"_If_ I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had
asked somebody else! It isn't too late--"
Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand.
"Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve
you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can
handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say;
writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has
something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start
with?"
"No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly
good-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and takes
his meals at restaurants."
"Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There _might_
possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't
like to be looking up the wrong man."
"Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means.
But I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course _I_ never
saw him."
"There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a
writer and an artist and connected with theatres," said Larcher. "And it
isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a
thousand of a mistake in identity; but the most astonishing coincidences
do occur."
"He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember," added the young
lady.
"He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is.
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