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The Amateur
by
“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–“
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.
“This was taken about a year ago?” inquired Ford. “Must have been,” he answered himself; “they haven’t raced at the Bay since then. This was taken in front of the club stand–probably for the Telegraph?” He lifted his eyes inquiringly.