“To find her husband in London?” repeated Ford.  “London is a large town.”

“She has photographs of him and she knows where he spends his time,” pleaded the doctor.  “He is a company promoter.  It should be easy for you.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want her to find him,” said Ford.  “Then it wouldn’t be so easy for me.”

The old doctor sighed heavily.  “I know,” he murmured.  “I thought of that, too.  And she is so very pretty.”

“That was another thing I noticed,” said Ford.

The doctor gave no heed.

“She must stop worrying,” he exclaimed, “or she will have a mental collapse.  I have tried sedatives, but they don’t touch her.  I want to give her courage.  She is frightened.  She’s left a baby boy at home, and she’s fearful that something will happen to him, and she’s frightened at being at sea, frightened at being alone in London; it’s pitiful.”  The old man shook his head.  “Pitiful!  Will you talk to her now?” he asked.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Ford.  “She doesn’t want to tell the story of her life to strange young men.”

“But it was she suggested it,” cried the doctor.  “She asked me if you were Austin Ford, the great detective.”

Ford snorted scornfully.  “She did not!” he protested.  His tone was that of a man who hopes to be contradicted.

“But she did,” insisted the doctor, “and I told her your specialty was tracing persons.  Her face lightened at once; it gave her hope.  She will listen to you.  Speak very gently and kindly and confidently.  Say you are sure you can find him.”

“Where is the lady now?” asked Ford.

Doctor Sparrow scrambled eagerly to his feet.  “She cannot leave her cabin,” he answered.

The widow, as Ford and Doctor Sparrow still thought of her, was lying on the sofa that ran the length of the state-room, parallel with the lower berth.  She was fully dressed, except that instead of her bodice she wore a kimono that left her throat and arms bare.  She had been sleeping, and when their entrance awoke her, her blue eyes regarded them uncomprehendingly.  Ford, hidden from her by the doctor, observed that not only was she very pretty, but that she was absurdly young, and that the drowsy smile she turned upon the old man before she noted the presence of Ford was as innocent as that of a baby.  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant, her yellow curls had become loosened and were spread upon the pillow.  When she saw Ford she caught the kimono so closely around her throat that she choked.  Had the doctor not pushed her down she would have stood.

“I thought,” she stammered, “he was an old man.”

The doctor, misunderstanding, hastened to reassure her.  “Mr. Ford is old in experience,” he said soothingly.  “He has had remarkable success.  Why, he found a criminal once just because the man wore a collar.  And he found Walsh, the burglar, and Phillips, the forger, and a gang of counterfeiters—­”