The last of these came from a middle-sized man in the thirties, whose
round, humorous face was made additionally benevolent by spectacles, and
whose forward bend of the shoulders might be the consequence of studious
pursuits, or of much leaning over cafe-tables, or of both.

"Hello, Barry Tompkins!" said Larcher. "I've been looking for you."

Mr. Tompkins received him with a grin and a chuckle, as if their meeting
were a great piece of fun, and replied in a brisk and clean-cut manner:

"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?"