Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and Distributed Proofreaders THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT _A Story of New York at the Present Day_ By Robert Neilson Stephens 1903 Works of Robert Neilson Stephens An Enemy to the King The Continental Dragoon The Road to Paris A Gentleman Player Philip Winwood Captain Ravenshaw The Mystery of Murray Davenport [Illustration: “'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A “JONAH” IS?'”] CONTENTS I. MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN II. ONE OUT OF SUITS WITH FORTUNE III. A READY-MONEY MAN IV. AN UNPROFITABLE CHILD V. A LODGING BY THE RIVER VI. THE NAME OF ONE TURL COMES UP VII. MYSTERY BEGINS VIII. MR. LARCHER INQUIRES IX. MR. BUD'S DARK HALLWAY X. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE XI. FLORENCE DECLARES HER ALLEGIANCE XII. LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER XIII. MR. TURL WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL XIV. A STRANGE DESIGN XV. TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED XVI. AFTER THE DISCLOSURE XVII. BAGLEY SHINES OUT XVIII. FLORENCE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS “'DO YOU KNOW WHAT A “JONAH” IS?'” “THE PLAY BECAME THE PROPERTY OF BAGLEY” “'I'M AFRAID IT'S A CASE OF MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE'” “'YOU'RE QUITE WELCOME TO THE USE OF MY AUTOMOBILE'” “TURL, HAVING TAKEN A MOMENT'S PRELIMINARY THOUGHT, BEGAN HIS ACCOUNT” “'GOOD EVENING, MR. MURRAY DAVENPORT! HOW ABOUT MY BUNCH OF MONEY?'” THE MYSTERY OF MURRAY DAVENPORT CHAPTER I. MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the basement, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited though home was to a second-story “bed sitting-room” in a house of “furnished rooms to let” on a crosstown street traversing the part of New York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon sat good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, and made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and a negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram.