ose 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