"Twenty thousand! Why, that's just the amount you were--" Larcher checked
himself.

"Yes," said Davenport, unmoved. "Just the amount of Bagley's wealth that
morally belongs to me, not considering interest. I could use it, too, to
very good advantage. With my skill in the art of frugal living, I could
make it go far--exceedingly far. I could realize that plan of a
congenial life, which I told you of one night here. There it is; here am
I; and if right prevailed, it would be mine. Yet if I ventured to treat
it as mine, I should land in a cell. Isn't it a silly world?"

He languidly replaced the bills between the notebook covers, and put them
in the drawer. As he did so, his glance fell on a sheet of paper lying
there. With a curious, half-mirthful expression on his face, he took this
up, and handed it to Larcher, saying:

"You told me once you could judge character by handwriting. What do you
make of this man's character?"

Larcher read the following note, which was written in a small, precise,
round hand:

"MY DEAR DAVENPORT:--I will meet you at the place and time you suggest.
We can then, I trust, come to a final settlement, and go our different
ways. Till then I have no desire to see you; and afterward, still less.
Yours truly,

"FRANCIS TURL."

"Francis Turl," repeated Larcher. "I never heard the name before."