The Amateur | Page 4

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. I see 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 WAS wanted. 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. She thinks
that he has been murdered, or that he is lying ill in some hospital. I told
her if any one could help her to find him you could. I had to say
something. She's very ill."
"To find her husband in London?" repeated Ford. "London is a large
town."
"She has photographs of him and she knows where he spends his time,"
pleaded the doctor. "He is a company promoter. It should be easy for
you."
"Maybe he doesn't want her to find him," said Ford. "Then it wouldn't
be so easy for me."
The old doctor sighed heavily. "I know," he murmured. "I thought of
that, too. And she is so very pretty."
"That was another thing I noticed," said Ford.

The doctor gave no heed.
"She must stop worrying," he exclaimed, "or she will have a mental
collapse. I have tried sedatives, but they don't touch her. I want to give
her courage. She is frightened. She's left a baby boy at home, and she's
fearful that something will happen to him, and she's frightened at being
at sea, frightened at being alone in London; it's pitiful." The old man
shook his head. "Pitiful! Will you talk to her now?" he asked.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Ford. "She doesn't want to tell the story of her
life to strange young men."
"But