“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.
Rising on her elbow the young wife bent forward toward the photograph. “Does it say that there,” she asked doubtfully. “How did you guess that?”
In his role as chorus the ship’s doctor exclaimed with enthusiasm: “Didn’t I tell you? He’s wonderful.”
Ford cut him off impatiently. “You never saw a rail as high as that except around a racetrack,” he muttered. “And the badge in his buttonhole and the angle of the stand all show—”
He interrupted himself to address the widow. “This is an owner’s badge. What was the name of his stable?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. She regarded the young man with sudden uneasiness. “They only owned one horse, but I believe that gave them the privilege of—”
“I see,” exclaimed Ford. “Your husband is a bookmaker. But in London he is a promoter of companies.”
“So my friend tells me,” said Mrs. Ashton. “She’s just got back from London. Her husband told her that Harry, my husband, was always at the American bar in the Cecil or at the Salisbury or the Savoy.” The girl shook her head. “But a woman can’t go looking for a man there,” she protested. “That’s why I thought you—”
“That’ll be all right,” Ford assured her hurriedly. “It’s a coincidence, but it happens that my own work takes me to these hotels, and if your husband is there I will find him.” He returned the photographs.