"Stop right here," cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and
pulling him into a seat. "You are commandeered."
"What for?" asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile.
"Dinner first, and then--"
"All right. Do you give me _carte blanche_ with the bill of fare? May I
roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?"
"None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals,
station-houses, morgue, _et cetera_. There's a man missing. You've made
those rounds before."
"Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and
again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to
him in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest."
"I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening--"
"Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have
search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's
the latest victim of the strenuous life?"
"Murray Davenport!"
"What! is he occurring again?"
Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two
made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing
inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have
ever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the
experience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure
from a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, the
rebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless
information from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingled
hope and dread of coming upon the object of the search at the next place,
the recurring feeling that the whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose
chase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few features
of the disheartening business.
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