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 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 with, "you have been told you look like him, haven't you?"