With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could
make it go far--exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a
congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am
I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat
it as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?"
He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them
in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying
there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this
up, and handed it to Larcher, saying:
"You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you
make of this man's character?"
Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise,
round hand:
"MY DEAR DAVENPORT:--I will meet you at the place and time you suggest.
We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our different
ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, still less.
Yours truly,
"FRANCIS TURL."
"Francis Turl," repeated Larcher. "I never heard the name before."
"No, I suppose you never have," replied Davenport, dryly. "But what
character would you infer from his penmanship?"
"Well,--I don't know." Put to the test, Larcher was at a loss. "An
educated person, I should think; even scholarly, perhaps. Fastidious,
steady, exact, reserved,--that's about all."
"Not very much," said Davenport, taking back the sheet. "You merely
describe the handwriting itself.
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