and was in consequence only in time to see Ashton, dragging his overcoat behind him, disappear into the court-yard.  He seized his own coat and raced in pursuit.  As he ran into the court-yard Ashton, in the Strand, was just closing the door of a taxicab, but before the chauffeur could free it from the surrounding traffic, Ford had dragged the door open, and leaped inside.  Ashton was huddled in the corner, panting, his face pale with alarm.

“What the devil ails you?” roared Ford.  “Are you trying to shake me?  You’ve got to come back.  You must speak to her.”

“Speak to her!” repeated Ashton.  His voice was sunk to a whisper.  The look of alarm in his face was confused with one grim and menacing.  “Did you know she was there?” he demanded softly.  “Did you take me there, knowing—?”

“Of course I knew,” protested Ford.  “She’s been looking for you—­”

His voice subsided in a squeak of amazement and pain.  Ashton’s left hand had shot out and swiftly seized his throat.  With the other he pressed an automatic revolver against Ford’s shirt front.

“I know she’s been looking for me,” the man whispered thickly.  “For two years she’s been looking for me.  I know all about her!  But, who in hell are you?”

Ford, gasping and gurgling, protested loyally.

“You are wrong!” he cried.  “She’s been at home waiting for you.  She thinks you have deserted her and your baby.  I tell you she loves you, you fool, she loves you!”

The fingers on his throat suddenly relaxed; the flaming eyes of Ashton, glaring into his, wavered and grew wide with amazement.

“Loves me,” he whispered.  “Who loves me?”

“Your wife,” protested Ford; “the girl at the Savoy, your wife.”

Again the fingers of Ashton pressed deep around his neck.

“That is not my wife,” he whispered.  His voice was unpleasantly cold and grim.  “That’s ‘Baby Belle,’ with her hair dyed, a detective lady of the Pinkertons, hired to find me.  And you know it.  Now, who are you?”

To permit him to reply Ashton released his hand, but at the same moment, in a sudden access of fear, dug the revolver deeper into the pit of Ford’s stomach.

“Quick!” he commanded.  “Never mind the girl.  Who are you?”

Ford collapsed against the cushioned corner of the cab.  “And she begged me to find you,” he roared, “because she loved you, because she wanted to believe in you!” He held his arms above his head.  “Go ahead and shoot!” he cried.  “You want to know who I am?” he demanded.  His voice rang with rage.  “I’m an amateur.  Just a natural born fool-amateur!  Go on and shoot!”

The gun in Ashton’s hand sank to his knee.  Between doubt and laughter his face was twisted in strange lines.  The cab was whirling through a narrow, unlit street leading to Covent Garden.  Opening the door Ashton called to the chauffeur, and then turned to Ford.