“Bagley's money,” said he, sitting down before the table. “I'm to place it for him to-morrow. This sudden call to Chicago prevents his carrying out personally some plans he had formed. So he entrusts the business to the reliable Davenport.”
“When I walked home with you, I had no idea I was in the company of so much money,” said Larcher, who had taken a chair near his friend.
“I don't suppose there's another man in New York to-night with so much ready money on his person,” said Davenport, smiling. “These are large bills, you know. Ironical, isn't it? Think of Murray Davenport walking about with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket.”
“Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were—” Larcher checked himself.
“Yes,” said Davenport, unmoved. “Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could make it go far—exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat it as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?”
He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this up, and handed it to Larcher, saying:
“You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you make of this man's character?”
Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise, round hand:
“MY DEAR DAVENPORT:—I will meet you at the place and time you suggest. We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our different ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, still less. Yours truly,