Ford had no intention of fighting.  He went straight up to the bar, it is true, but that was because he saw that Sam was at that moment unoccupied, save with a large lump of gum.  Being at the bar, he drank a glass of whisky; not of deliberate intent, but merely from force of habit.  Once down, however, the familiar glow of it through his being was exceedingly grateful, and he took another for good measure.

“H’lo, Ford,” Sam bethought him to say, after he had gravely taken mental note of each separate scar of battle, and had shifted his cud to the other side of his mouth, and had squeezed it meditatively between his teeth.  “Feel as rocky as you look?”

“Possibly.”  Ford’s eyes forbade further personalities.  “I’m out after information, Sam, and if you’ve got any you aren’t using, I’d advise you to pass it over; I can use a lot, this morning.  Were you sober, night before last?”

Sam chewed solemnly while he considered.  “Tolerable sober, yes,” he decided at last.  “Sober enough to tend to business; why?”

With his empty glass Ford wrote invisible scrolls upon the bar.  “I—­did you happen to see—­my—­the lady I married?” He had been embarrassed at first, but when he finished he was glaring a challenge which shifted the disquiet to Sam’s manner.

“No.  I was tendin’ bar all evenin’—­and she didn’t come in here.”

Ford glanced behind him at the sound of the door opening, saw that it was only Bill, and leaned over the bar for greater secrecy, lowering his voice as well.

“Did you happen to hear who she was?”

Sam stared and shook his head.

“Don’t you know anything about her at all—­where she came from—­and why, and where she went?”

Sam backed involuntarily.  Ford’s tone made it a crime either to know these things or to be guilty of ignorance; which, Sam could not determine.  Sam was of the sleek, oily-haired type of young men, with pimples and pale eyes and a predilection for gum and gossip.  He was afraid of Ford and he showed it.

“That’s just what (no offense, Ford—­I ain’t responsible) that’s what everybody’s wondering.  Nobody seems to know.  They kinda hoped you’d explain—­”

“Sure!” Ford’s tone was growing extremely ominous.  “I’ll explain a lot of things—­if I hear any gabbling going on about my affairs.”  He was seized then with an uncomfortable feeling that the words were mere puerile blustering and turned away from the bar in disgust.

In disgust he pulled open the door, flinched before the blast of wind and snow which smote him full in the face and blinded him, and went out again into the storm.  The hotel porch was a bleak place, with snow six inches deep and icy boards upon which a man might easily slip and break a bone or two, and with a whine overhead as the wind sucked under the roof.  Ford stood there so long that his feet began to tingle.  He was not thinking; he was merely feeling the feeble struggles of a newborn desire to be something and do something worth while—­a desire which manifested itself chiefly in bitterness against himself as he was, and in a mental nausea against the life he had been content to live.