le
gave Ford the sense of a genuine triumph, and when he turned to Ashton
to point out his wife to him he was thrilling with pride and
satisfaction. His triumph received a bewildering shock. Already Ashton
had discovered the presence of Mrs. Ashton. He was standing transfixed,
lost to his surroundings, devouring her with his eyes. And then, to the
amazement of Ford, his eyes filled with fear, doubt, and anger. Swiftly,
with the movement of a man ducking a blow, he turned and sprang up the
stairs and into the coat-room. Ford, bewildered and more conscious of
his surroundings, followed him less quickly, 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.

[Illustration: She was easily the prettiest and most striking-looking
woman in the room.]

"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