The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street. But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady.
“Perhaps he left a note for me on the table,” said Larcher. “I have the freedom of his room, you know.”
“Go up and see, then. I'll go with you.”
The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever. None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing addressed to Larcher or anybody else.
“It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon,” remarked the landlady.
“It certainly does.” Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer. He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but something checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a way that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly wished to keep it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything.
“Of course,” said Larcher, “he might have met with an accident.”
“I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache.”
“And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd meant to stay away so long?”
“Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he met me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in advance.”