“Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'.”
“Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since I've known him. Where the deuce?” He shut his eyes, and made a strong effort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at the signature. “Yes, sir! Francis Turl—that was the name. And who do you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very handwriting?”
“Give it up.”
“Murray Davenport.”
“Yuh don't say.”
“Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about a meeting between the two. Now I wonder—was that an old note, and had the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, the next day Davenport disappeared.”
“H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway Davenport was seen goin' into.”
“But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there was a meeting after Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there in search of Davenport—or for some other purpose connected with him.”
“H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?”
“Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.—And then his following me about!—Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed him several times apparently on my track. And when I did make his acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in love with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her father had taken him up. His going there to live looks like another queer thing.”