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The young men left the coat-room and came down the short flight of steps that leads to the wide lounge of the restaurant. Ford slightly in advance, searching with his eyes for Mrs Ashton, found her seated alone in the lounge, evidently waiting for him. At the first glance she was hardly be recognized. Her low-cut dinner gown of black satin that clung to her like a wet bath robe was the last word of the new fashion; and since Ford had seen her her blond hair had been arranged by an artist. Her appearance was smart, elegant, daring. She was easily the prettiest and most striking-looking woman in the room, and for an instant Ford stood gazing at her, trying to find in the self-possessed young woman the deserted wife of the steamer. She did not see Ford. Her eyes were following the progress down the hall of a woman, and her profile was toward him.

The thought of the happiness he was about to bring to two young people 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.

“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.

“You get off here!” he commanded. “Maybe you’re a ‘Pink,’ maybe you’re a good fellow. I think you’re a good fellow, but I’m not taking any chances. Get out!”

Ford scrambled to the street, and as the taxicab again butted itself forward, Ashton leaned far through the window. “Good-by, son,” he called. “Send me a picture-postal card to Paris. For I am off to Maxim’s,” he cried, “and you can go to–“

“Not at all!” shouted the amateur detective indignantly. “I’m going back to take supper with ‘Baby Belle’!”