* * * * *

The finding of Harry Ashton was so simple that in its very simplicity it appeared spectacular.

On leaving Mrs. Ashton, Ford engaged rooms at the Hotel Cecil.  Before visiting his rooms he made his way to the American bar.  He did not go there seeking Harry Ashton.  His object was entirely self-centred.  His purpose was to drink to himself and to the lights of London.  But as though by appointment, the man he had promised to find was waiting for him.  As Ford entered the room, at a table facing the door sat Ashton.  There was no mistaking him.  He wore a mustache, but it was disguise.  He was the same good-natured, good-looking youth who, in the photograph from under a Panama hat, had smiled upon the world.  With a glad cry Ford rushed toward him.

“Fancy meeting you!” he exclaimed.

Mr. Ashton’s good-natured smile did not relax.  He merely shook his head.

“Afraid you have made a mistake,” he said.

The reporter regarded him blankly.  His face showed his disappointment.

“Aren’t you Charles W. Garrett, of New York?” he demanded.

“Not me,” said Mr. Ashton.

“But,” Ford insisted in hurt tones, as though he were being trifled with, “you have been told you look like him, haven’t you?”

Mr. Ashton’s good nature was unassailable.

“Sorry,” he declared, “never heard of him.”

Ford became garrulous, he could not believe two men could look so much alike.  It was a remarkable coincidence.  The stranger must certainly have a drink, the drink intended for his twin.  Ashton was bored, but accepted.  He was well acquainted with the easy good-fellowship of his countrymen.  The room in which he sat was a meeting-place for them.  He considered that they were always giving each other drinks, and not only were they always introducing themselves, but saying, “Shake hands with my friend, Mr. So-and-So.”  After five minutes they showed each other photographs of the children.  This one, though as loquacious as the others, seemed better dressed, more “wise”; he brought to the exile the atmosphere of his beloved Broadway, so Ashton drank to him pleasantly.

“My name is Sydney Carter,” he volunteered.

As a poker-player skims over the cards in his hand, Ford, in his mind’s eye, ran over the value of giving or not giving his right name.  He decided that Ashton would not have heard it and that, if he gave a false one, there was a chance that later Ashton might find out that he had done so.  Accordingly he said, “Mine is Austin Ford,” and seated himself at Ashton’s table.  Within ten minutes the man he had promised to pluck from among the eight million inhabitants of London was smiling sympathetically at his jests and buying a drink.