As a poker-player skims over the cards in his hand, Ford, in his mind's
eye, ran over the value of giving or not giving his right name. He
decided that Ashton would not have heard it and that, if he gave a false
one, there was a chance that later Ashton might find out that he had
done so. Accordingly he said, "Mine is Austin Ford," and seated himself
at Ashton's table. Within ten minutes the man he had promised to
pluck from among the eight million inhabitants of London was smiling
sympathetically at his jests and buying a drink.

On the steamer Ford had rehearsed the story with which, should he meet
Ashton, he would introduce himself. It was one arranged to fit with his
theory that Ashton was a crook. If Ashton were a crook Ford argued
that to at once ingratiate himself in his good graces he also must be
a crook. His plan was to invite Ashton to co-operate with him in some
scheme that was openly dishonest. By so doing he hoped apparently to
place himself at Ashton's mercy. He believed if he could persuade Ashton
he was more of a rascal than Ashton himself, and an exceedingly
stupid rascal, any distrust the bookmaker might feel toward him would
disappear. He made his advances so openly, and apparently showed his
hand so carelessly, that, from being bored, Ashton became puzzled,
then interested; and when Ford insisted he should dine with him, he
considered it so necessary to find out who the youth might be who was
forcing himself upon him that he accepted the invitation.

They adjourned to dress and an hour later, at Ford's suggestion, they
met at the Carlton. There Ford ordered a dinner calculated to lull his
newly made friend into a mood suited to confidence, but which had on
Ashton exactly the opposite effect. Merely for the pleasure of his
company, utter strangers were not in the habit of treating him to
strawberries in February, and vintage champagne; and, in consequence, in