“You were sure to find me in the haunts of genius.” Whereat he looked around and chuckled afresh.
Larcher crowded a chair to Mr. Tompkins's elbow, and spoke low:
“You know everybody in newspaper circles. Do you know a man named Murray Davenport?”
“I believe there is such a man—an illustrator. Is that the one you mean?”
“I suppose so. Where can I find him?”
“I give it up. I don't know anything about him. I've only seen some of his work—in one of the ten-cent magazines, I think.”
“I've got to find him, and make his acquaintance. This is in confidence, by the way.”
“All right. Have you looked in the directory?”
“Not yet. The trouble isn't so much to find where he lives; there are some things I want to find out about him, that'll require my getting acquainted with him, without his knowing I have any such purpose. So the trouble is to get introduced to him on terms that can naturally lead up to a pretty close acquaintance.”
“No trouble in that,” said Tompkins, decidedly. “Look here. He's an illustrator, I know that much. As soon as you find out where he lives, call with one of your manuscripts and ask him if he'll illustrate it. That will begin an acquaintance.”