It was February off the Banks, and so thick was the weather that, on the upper decks, one could have driven a sleigh.Inside the smoking-room Austin Ford, as securely sheltered from the blizzard as though he had been sitting in front of a wood fire at his club, ordered hot gin for himself and the ship's doctor.The ship's doctor had gone below on another "hurry call" from the widow.At the first luncheon on board the widow had sat on the right of Doctor Sparrow, with Austin Ford facing her.But since then, except to the doctor, she had been invisible.So, at frequent intervals, the ill health of the widow had deprived Ford of the society of the doctor.That it deprived him, also, of the society of the widow did not concern him.HER life had not been spent upon ocean liners; she could not remember when state-rooms were named after the States of the Union.She could not tell him of shipwrecks and salvage, of smugglers and of the modern pirates who found their victims in the smoking-room.
Ford was on his way to England to act as the London correspondent of the New York Republic.For three years on that most sensational of the New York dailies he had been the star man, the chief muckraker, the chief sleuth.His interest was in crime.Not in crimes committed in passion or inspired by drink, but in such offences against law and society as are perpetrated with nice intelligence.The murderer, the burglar, the strong-arm men who, in side streets, waylay respectable citizens did not appeal to him.
The man he studied, pursued, and exposed was the cashier who evolved a new method of covering up his peculations, the dishonest president of an insurance company, the confidence man who used no concealed weapon other than his wit.Toward the criminals he pursued young Ford felt no personal animosity.He harassed them as he would have shot a hawk killing chickens.Not because he disliked the hawk, but because the battle was unequal, and because he felt sorry for the chickens.
Had you called Austin Ford an amateur detective he would have been greatly annoyed.He argued that his position was similar to that of the dramatic critic.The dramatic critic warned the public against bad plays; Ford warned it against bad men.Having done that, he left it to the public to determine whether the bad man should thrive or perish.
When the managing editor told him of his appointment to London, Ford had protested that his work lay in New York; that of London and the English, except as a tourist and sight-seer, he knew nothing.
"That's just why we are sending you," explained the managing editor."Our readers are ignorant.To make them read about London you've got to tell them about themselves in London.They like to know who's been presented at court, about the American girls who have married dukes; and which ones opened a bazaar, and which one opened a hat shop, and which is getting a divorce.Don't send us anything concerning suffragettes and Dreadnaughts.Just send us stuff about Americans.If you take your meals in the Carlton grill-room and drink at the Cecil you can pick up more good stories than we can print.You will find lots of your friends over there.
Some of those girls who married dukes," he suggested, "know you, don't they?""Not since they married dukes," said Ford.
"Well, anyway, all your other friends will be there," continued the managing editor encouragingly."Now that they have shut up the tracks here all the con men have gone to London.They say an American can't take a drink at the Salisbury without his fellow-countrymen having a fight as to which one will sell him a gold brick."Ford's eyes lightened in pleasurable anticipation.
"Look them over," urged the managing editor, "and send us a special.Call it 'The American Invasion.' Don't you see a story in it?""It will be the first one I send you," said Ford.The ship's doctor returned from his visit below decks and sank into the leather cushion close to Ford's elbow.For a few moments the older man sipped doubtfully at his gin and water, and, as though perplexed, rubbed his hand over his bald and shining head."I told her to talk to you," he said fretfully.
"Her? Who?" inquired Ford."Oh, the widow?""You were right about that," said Doctor Sparrow; "she is not a widow."The reporter smiled complacently.
"Do you know why I thought not?" he demanded."Because all the time she was at luncheon she kept turning over her wedding-ring as though she was not used to it.It was a new ring, too.I told you then she was not a widow.""Do you always notice things like that?" asked the doctor.
"Not on purpose," said the amateur detective; "I can't help it.Isee ten things where other people see only one; just as some men run ten times as fast as other men.We have tried it out often at the office; put all sorts of junk under a newspaper, lifted the newspaper for five seconds, and then each man wrote down what he had seen.Out of twenty things I would remember seventeen.The next best guess would be about nine.Once I saw a man lift his coat collar to hide his face.It was in the Grand Central Station.
I stopped him, and told him he was wanted.Turned out he WASwanted.It was Goldberg, making his getaway to Canada.""It is a gift," said the doctor.
"No, it's a nuisance," laughed the reporter."I see so many things I don't want to see.I see that people are wearing clothes that are not made for them.I see when women are lying to me.I can see when men are on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and whether it is drink or debt or morphine--"The doctor snorted triumphantly.
"You did not see that the widow was on the verge of a breakdown!""No," returned the reporter."Is she? I'm sorry.""If you're sorry," urged the doctor eagerly, you'll help her.She is going to London alone to find her husband.He has disappeared.
