“I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or less—that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do with theatres.”
“I never heard of him. But,” said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, “there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers.”
“I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?—going about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be easy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know him.”
“Oh, am I to do that?” Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper.
“Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he fares.”
“Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man,” said Larcher, somewhat poutingly.
“Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man,” she said, with lofty coolness. “But there are reasons why I must find out about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you hesitate, and hem and haw—” She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the shoulders.
“You might tell me the reasons, dear,” he said, humbly.
“I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this information got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get it, and not ask any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment.”
“Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts to—prying into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather intrusive, private detective sort of business.”