II

On the afternoon of their arrival in London Ford convoyed Mrs. Ashton to an old-established private hotel in Craven Street.

“Here,” he explained, “you will be within a few hundred yards of the place in which your husband is said to spend his time.  I will be living in the same hotel.  If I find him you will know it in ten minutes.”

The widow gave a little gasp, whether of excitement or of happiness Ford could not determine.

“Whatever happens,” she begged, “will you let me hear from you sometimes?  You are the only person I know in London—­and—­it’s so big it frightens me.  I don’t want to be a burden,” she went on eagerly, “but if I can feel you are within call—­”

“What you need,” said Ford heartily, “is less of the doctor’s nerve tonic and sleeping draughts, and a little innocent diversion.  To-night I am going to take you to the Savoy to supper.”

Mrs. Ashton exclaimed delightedly, and then was filled with misgivings.

“I have nothing to wear,” she protested, “and over here, in the evening, the women dress so well.  I have a dinner gown,” she exclaimed, “but it’s black.  Would that do?”

Ford assured her nothing could be better.  He had a man’s vanity in liking a woman with whom he was seen in public to be pretty and smartly dressed, and he felt sure that in black the blond beauty of Mrs. Ashton would appear to advantage.  They arranged to meet at eleven on the promenade leading to the Savoy supper-room, and parted with mutual satisfaction at the prospect.

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 no 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.”