"And don't you remember turning around and saying to me: 'I'm a poor
married man, but you can't notice the scar,' or something like that?"
The agent was plainly interested and desirous of rendering any
assistance possible, and also rather diffident about discussing so
delicate a matter with a man like Ford.
Ford drummed his fingers impatiently upon the shelf outside the ticket
window. "I don't remember a darned thing about it," he confessed glumly.
"I can't say I enjoy running all around town trying to find out who it
was I married, and why I married her, and where she went afterwards, but
that's just the kinda fix I'm in, Lew. I don't suppose she came here and
did it just for fun--and I can't figure out any other reason, unless she
was plumb loco. From all I can gather, she was a nice girl, and it seems
she thought I was Frank Ford Cameron--which I am not!" He laughed, as a
man will laugh sometimes when he is neither pleased nor amused.
"I might ask McCreery--he's conductor on Fourteen. He might remember
where she wanted to go," the agent suggested hesitatingly. "And say!
What's the matter with going up to Garbin and looking up the record? She
had to get the license there, and they'd have her name, age, place of
residence, and--and whether she's white or black.
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