He shook his head doggedly, and with squared shoulders leaned back in his chair.

“If it only breaks right for me,” he declared, “I’ll settle down in one of those ‘Own-your-own-homes,’ forty-five minutes from Broadway, and never leave the wife and the baby.”

The words almost brought Ford to his feet.  He had forgotten the wife and the baby.  He endeavored to explain his surprise by a sudden assumption of incredulity.

“Fancy you married!” he exclaimed.

“Married!” protested Ashton.  “I’m married to the finest little lady that ever wore skirts, and in thirty-seven days I’ll see her again.  Thirty-seven days,” he repeated impatiently.  “Gee!  That’s a hell of a long time!”

Ford studied the young man with increased interest.  That he was speaking sincerely, from the heart, there seemed no possible doubt.

Ashton frowned and his face clouded.  “I’ve not been able to treat her just right,” he volunteered.  “If she wrote me, the letters might give them a clew, and I don’t write her because I don’t want her to know all my troubles until they’re over.  But I know,” he added, “that five minutes’ talk will set it all right.  That is, if she still feels about me the way I feel about her.”

The man crushed his cigar in his fingers and threw the pieces on the floor.  “That’s what’s been the worst!” he exclaimed bitterly.  “Not hearing, not knowing.  It’s been hell!”

His eyes as he raised them were filled with suffering, deep and genuine.

Ford rose suddenly.  “Let’s go down to the Savoy for supper,” he said.

“Supper!” growled Ashton.  “What’s the use of supper?  Do you suppose cold chicken and a sardine can keep me from thinking?”

Ford placed his hand on the other’s shoulder.

“You come with me,” he said kindly.  “I’m going to do you a favor.  I’m going to bring you a piece of luck.  Don’t ask me any questions,” he commanded hurriedly.  “Just take my word for it.”

They had sat so late over their cigars that when they reached the restaurant on the Embankment the supper-room was already partly filled, and the corridors and lounge were brilliantly lit and gay with well-dressed women.  Ashton regarded the scene with gloomy eyes.  Since he had spoken of his wife he had remained silent, chewing savagely on a fresh cigar.  But Ford was grandly excited.  He did not know exactly what he intended to do.  He was prepared to let events direct themselves, but of two things he was assured:  Mrs. Ashton loved her husband, and her husband loved her.  As the god in the car who was to bring them together, he felt a delightful responsibility.