For an instant the face of the bookmaker grew a shade less red and his eyes searched those of Ford in a quick agony of suspicion. Ford continued to smile steadily at him, and Ashton breathed with relief.
“I’ll take a chance with you,” he said, “and if you are as bad a detective as you are a sport I needn’t worry.”
They both laughed, and, with sudden mutual liking, each raised his glass and nodded.
“But they haven’t got me yet,” continued Ashton, “and unless they get me in the next thirty days I’m free. So you needn’t think that I’ll help you. It’s ‘never again’ for me. The first time, that was the fault of the crowd I ran with; the second time, that would be MY fault. And there ain’t going to be any second time.”
He shook his head doggedly, and with squared shoulders leaned back in his chair.
“If it only breaks right for me,” he declared, “I’ll settle down in one of those ‘Own-your own-homes,’ forty-five minutes from Broadway, and never leave the wife and the baby.”
The words almost brought Ford to his feet. He had forgotten the wife and the baby. He endeavored to explain his surprise by a sudden assumption of incredulity.
“Fancy you married!” he exclaimed.
“Married!” protested Ashton. “I’m married to the finest little lady that ever wore skirts, and in thirty-seven days I’ll see her again. Thirty-seven days,” he repeated impatiently. “Gee! That’s a hell of a long time!”
Ford studied the young man with increased interest. That he was speaking sincerely, from the heart, there seemed no possible doubt.