But, if there was, nobody need wonder at it.
The newcomer could not realize how permanently and entirely another image
filled her heart. It would be for him to find that out--if his feelings
indeed concerned themselves with her--when those feelings should take
hope and dare expression. Meanwhile it was nobody's place to warn him.
If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's
heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With
Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his
thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of
inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze.
That good woman had his address "in case anything turned up." She had
rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed
by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed
by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of
his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all.
It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his
writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was
surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara.
"Well, this is jolly!" he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face.
"It's not half bad," said Edna, applying the expression to the room. "I
don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man."
She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs
before the fire.
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