w 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
wi