"Oh, hell! What do I care, anyway?" Revulsion seized Ford harshly. "I
guess I can stand it if she can. She came here and married me--it isn't
my funeral any more than it is hers. If she wants to be so darned
mysterious about it, she can go plumb--to--New York!" There were a few
decent traits in Ford Campbell; one was his respect for women, a respect
which would not permit him to swear about this wife of his, however
exasperating her behavior.

"That's the sensible way to look at it, of course," assented the agent,
who made it a point to agree always with a man of Ford's size and
caliber, on the theory that amiability means popularity, and that
placation is better than plasters. "You sure ought to let her do the
hunting--and the worrying, too. You aren't to blame if she married you
unawares. She did it all on her own hook--and she must have known what
she was up against."

"No, she didn't," flared Ford unexpectedly. "She made a mistake, and I
wanted to point it out to her and help her out of it if I could. She
took me for some one else, and I was just drunk enough to think it was a
joke, I suppose, and let it go that way. I don't believe she found out
she tied up to the wrong man. It's entirely my fault, for being drunk."

"Well, putting it that way, you're right about it," agreed the adaptable
Lew. "Of course, if you hadn't been--"

"If whisky's going to let a fellow in for things like this, it's time to
cut it out altogether." Ford was looking at the agent attentively.

"That's right," assented the other unsuspectingly. "Whisky is sure
giving you the worst of it all around. You ought to climb on the