Too late. In an instant the pursuer was upon him and had caught at his coat collar.
But Harry was not the man to give up at the first attack. Quick as lightning, he drew forth a revolver from his breast pocket, and, hastily cocking it, turned to confront his assailant.
One look was enough.
"Ashby!" he cried.
"You scoundrel!" cried Ashby, in a fury. "Scoundrel! villain! traitor!"
CHAPTER XXXIII. — IN WHICH THERE IS A VERY PRETTY QUARREL.
In order to account for the strange and shockingly rude language of Ashby, which must be as astonishing to the reader as it was to Harry, it will be necessary to go back a little.
You see, then, my dears, immediately after Harry's flight, Ashby also had hurried away, and had reached his own room without further adventure. He now began to think that he had acted with mad folly and recklessness; yet at the same time he could not bring himself to regret it at all. He had seen Dolores, and that was enough, and the hunger of his heart was satisfied, for the present at least.