He couldn't lock
himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and
remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would
probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more
under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort,
in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat,
water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited
solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a
living soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. He
couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigations
would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by the
intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed to
you, Larcher,--one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to the
old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for his
design,--that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on the
water-front.
"He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his
permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his
absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept
away in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--and
you, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you
two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that
access.
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