"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.
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