Since that moment his wife had never seen him nor heard from him.

On the day of her marriage young Mrs. Ashton had written to her father, asking him to give her his good wishes and pardon.  He refused both.  As she had feared, he did not consider that for a bank clerk a gambler made a desirable son-in-law; and the letters he wrote his daughter were so bitter that in reply she informed him he had forced her to choose between her family and her husband, and that she chose her husband.  In consequence, when she found herself deserted she felt she could not return to her people.  She remained in Saratoga.  There she moved into cheap lodgings, and in order that the two thousand dollars Ashton had left with her might be saved for his child, she had learned to type-write, and after four months had been able to support herself.  Within the last month a girl friend, who had known both Ashton and herself before they were married, had written her that her husband was living in London.  For the sake of her son she had at once determined to make an effort to seek him out.

“The son, nonsense!” exclaimed the doctor, when Ford retold the story.  “She is not crossing the ocean because she is worried about the future of her son.  She seeks her own happiness.  The woman is in love with her husband.”

Ford shook his head.

“I don’t know!” he objected.  “She’s so extravagant in her praise of Harry that it seems unreal.  It sounds insincere.  Then, again, when I swear I will find him she shows a delight that you might describe as savage, almost vindictive.  As though, if I did find Harry, the first thing she would do would be to stick a knife in him.”

“Maybe,” volunteered the doctor sadly, “she has heard there is a woman in the case.  Maybe she is the one she’s thinking of sticking the knife into?”

“Well,” declared the reporter, “if she doesn’t stop looking savage every time I promise to find Harry I won’t find Harry.  Why should I act the part of Fate, anyway?  How do I know that Harry hasn’t got a wife in London and several in the States?  How do we know he didn’t leave his country for his country’s good?  That’s what it looks like to me.  How can we tell what confronted him the day he went down to the hotel desk to change his rooms and, instead, got into his touring-car and beat the speed limit to Canada.  Whom did he meet in the hotel corridor?  A woman with a perfectly good marriage certificate, or a detective with a perfectly good warrant?  Or did Harry find out that his bride had a devil of a temper of her own, and that for him marriage was a failure?  The widow is certainly a very charming young woman, but there may be two sides to this.”

“You are a cynic, sir,” protested the doctor.

“That may be,” growled the reporter, “but I am not a private detective agency, or a matrimonial bureau, and before I hear myself saying, ’Bless you, my children!’ both of these young people will have to show me why they should not be kept asunder.”