w 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--"

Mrs. Ashton turned upon him, her eyes wide with wonder. "But _my_
husband," she protested, "is not a criminal!"

"My dear lady!" the doctor cried. "I did not mean that, of course not. I
meant, if Mr. Ford can find men who don't wish to be found, how easy for
him to find a man who--" He turned helplessly to Ford. "You tell her,"
he begged.

Ford sat down on a steamer trunk that protruded from beneath the berth,
and, turning to the widow, gave her the full benefit of his working
smile. It was confiding, helpless, appealing. It showed a trustfulness
in the person to whom it was addressed that caused that individual to
believe Ford needed protection from a wicked world.

"Doctor Sparrow tells me," began Ford timidly, "you have lost your
husband's address; that you will let me try to find him. If I can help
in any way I should be glad."

The young girl regarded him, apparently, with disappointment. It was as
though Doctor Sparrow had led her to expect a man full of years and
authority, a man upon whom she could lean; not a youth whose smile
seemed to beg one not to scold him. She gave Ford three photographs,
bound together with a string.

"When Doctor Sparrow told me you could help me I got out these," she
said.

Ford jotted down a mental note to the effect that she "got them out."
That is, she did not keep them where she could always look at them. That
she was not used to look at them was evident by the fact that they were
bound together.

The first photograph showed three men standing in an open place and
leaning on a railing. One of them was smiling toward the photographer.
He was a good-looking young man of about thirty years of age, well fed,
well dressed, and apparently well satisfied with the world and himself.
Ford's own smile had disappeared. His eyes were alert and interested.

"The one with the Panama hat pulled down over his eyes is your husband?"
he asked.

"Yes," assented the widow. Her tone showed slight surprise.

"T