If poor Davenport's image remained as living as ever in Florence Kenby's heart, that was the only place in New York where it did remain so. With Larcher, it went the course of such images; occupied less and less of his thoughts, grew more and more vague. He no longer kept up any pretence of inquiry. He had ceased to call at police headquarters and on Mrs. Haze. That good woman had his address "in case anything turned up." She had rented Davenport's room to a new lodger; his hired piano had been removed by the owners, and his personal belongings had been packed away unclaimed by heir or creditor. For any trace of him that lingered on the scene of his toils and ponderings, the man might never have lived at all.
It was now the end of January. One afternoon Larcher, busy at his writing-table, was about to light up, as the day was fading, when he was surprised by two callers,--Edna Hill and her Aunt Clara.
"Well, this is jolly!" he cried, welcoming them with a glowing face.
"It's not half bad," said Edna, applying the expression to the room. "I don't believe so much comfort is good for a young man."
She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other.
"But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see," he replied, with a gesture toward the table.
"Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?" asked Edna. "Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, auntie?"
"Charming," said Aunt Clara, still panting. "You must miss an elevator in the house, Mr. Larcher."
"If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up."
"We're keeping you from your work, Tommy," said Edna, with sudden seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell.
"Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea made for you? Or will you take some wine?"
"I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb," suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a chair for himself.