The two young men were soon bending over the book of engravings, which
lay on a table. Turl pointed out beauties of detail which Larcher had
never observed.
"You talk like an artist," said Larcher.
"I have dabbled a little," was the reply. "I believe I can draw, when put
to it."
"You ought to be put to it occasionally, then."
"I have sometimes thought of putting myself to it. Illustrating, I mean,
as a profession. One never knows when one may have to go to work for a
living. If one has a start when that time comes, so much the better."
"Perhaps I might be of some service to you. I know a few editors."
"Thank you very much. You mean you would ask them to give me work to
illustrate?"
"If you wished. Or sometimes the text and illustrations may be done
first, and then submitted together. A friend of mine had some success
with me that way; I wrote the stuff, he made the pictures, and the
combination took its chances. We did very well. My friend was Murray
Davenport, who disappeared. Perhaps you've heard of him."
"I think I read something in the papers," replied Turl. "He went to
South America or somewhere, didn't he?"
"A detective thinks so, but the case is a complete mystery," said
Larcher, making the mental note that, as Turl evidently had not known
Davenport, it could not be Davenport who had mentioned Turl. "Hasn't
Mr. Kenby or his daughter ever spoken of it to you?" added Larcher,
after a moment.
"No. Why should they?" asked the other, turning over a page of the
volume.
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