“It’s like this,” he said.  “Several years ago I made a bad break and, about a year later, they got on to me and I had to cut and run.  In a month the law of limitation lets me loose and I can go back.  And you can bet I’m going back.  I will be on the bowsprit of the first boat.  I’ve had all I want of the ‘fugitive-from-justice’ game, thank you, and I have taken good care to keep a clean bill of health so that I won’t have to play it again.  They’ve been trying to get me for several years—­especially the Pinkertons.  They have chased me all over Europe.  Chased me with all kinds of men; sometimes with women; they’ve tried everything except blood-hounds.  At first I thought you were a ‘Pink,’ that’s why—­”

“I!” interrupted Ford, exploding derisively.  “That’s good!  That’s one on you.”  He ceased laughing and regarded Ashton kindly.  “How do you know I’m not?” he asked.

For an instant the face of the bookmaker grew a shade less red and his eyes searched those of Ford in a quick agony of suspicion.  Ford continued to smile steadily at him, and Ashton breathed with relief.

“I’ll take a chance with you,” he said, “and if you are as bad a detective as you are a sport I needn’t worry.”

They both laughed, and, with sudden mutual liking, each raised his glass and nodded.

“But they haven’t got me yet,” continued Ashton, “and unless they get me in the next thirty days I’m free.  So you needn’t think that I’ll help you.  It’s ‘never again’ for me.  The first time, that was the fault of the crowd I ran with; the second time, that would be my fault.  And there ain’t going to be any second time.”

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.”