painwearied dismalness, curiously warmed by the remnant of an
unquenchable humor.

"This letter from Mr. Rogers will explain itself," said Larcher, handing
it.

"Mr. Rogers?" inquired Murray Davenport.

"Editor of the _Avenue Magazine_."

Looking surprised, Davenport opened and read the letter; then, without
diminution of his surprise, he asked Larcher to sit down, and himself
took a chair before the table.

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Larcher," he said, conventionally; then, with
a change to informality, "I'm rather mystified to know why Mr. Rogers,
or any editor, for that matter, should offer work to me. I never had any
offered me before."

"Oh, but I've seen some of your work," contradicted Larcher. "The
illustrations to a story called 'A Heart in Peril.'"

"That wasn't offered me; I begged for it," said Davenport, quietly.

"Well, in any case, it was seen and admired, and consequently you were
recommended to Mr. Rogers, who thought you might like to illustrate this
stuff of mine," and Larcher brought forth the typewritten manuscript from
under his coat.

"It's so unprecedented," resumed Davenport, in his leisurely, reflective