"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.
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