“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. 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.