sleuth. His interest was in crime. Not in crimes committed in passion or
inspired by drink, but in such offences against law and society as
are perpetrated with nice intelligence. The murderer, the burglar, the
strong-arm men who, in side streets, waylay respectable citizens did not
appeal to him. The man he studied, pursued, and exposed was the cashier
who evolved a new method of covering up his peculations, the dishonest
president of an insurance company, the confidence man who used no
concealed weapon other than his wit. Toward the criminals he pursued
young Ford felt no personal animosity. He harassed them as he would
have shot a hawk killing chickens. Not because he disliked the hawk,
but because the battle was unequal, and because he felt sorry for the
chickens.

Had you called Austin Ford an amateur detective he would have been
greatly annoyed. He argued that his position was similar to that of
the dramatic critic. The dramatic critic warned the public against bad
plays; Ford warned it against bad men. Having done that, he left it to
the public to determine whether the bad man should thrive or perish.

When the managing editor told him of his appointment to London, Ford had
protested that his work lay in New York; that of London and the English,
except as a tourist and sight-seer, he knew nothing.

"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