“Don’t think,” he protested violently, “it’s you she’s interested in.  All she sees in you is what you can do for her.  Can you see that?”

“Any one as clever at seeing things as I am,” returned the reporter, “cannot help but see that.”

Later, as Ford was walking on the upper deck, Mrs. Ashton came toward him, beating her way against the wind.  Without a trace of coquetry or self-consciousness, and with a sigh of content, she laid her hand on his arm.

“When I don’t see you,” she exclaimed as simply as a child, “I feel so frightened.  When I see you I know all will come right.  Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asked.  “And do you mind if every now and then I ask you to tell me again it will all come right?”

For the three days following Mrs. Ashton and Ford were constantly together.  Or, at least, Mrs. Ashton was constantly with Ford.  She told him that when she sat in her cabin the old fears returned to her, and in these moments of panic she searched the ship for him.

The doctor protested that he was growing jealous.

“I’m not so greatly to be envied,” suggested Ford. “‘Harry’ at meals three times a day and on deck all the rest of the day becomes monotonous.  On a closer acquaintance with Harry he seems to be a decent sort of a young man; at least he seems to have been at one time very much in love with her.”

“Well,” sighed the doctor sentimentally, “she is certainly very much in love with Harry.”

Ford shook his head non-committingly.  “I don’t know her story,” he said.  “Don’t want to know it.”

The ship was in the channel, on her way to Cherbourg, and running as smoothly as a clock.  From the shore friendly lights told them they were nearing their journey’s end; that the land was on every side.  Seated on a steamer-chair next to his in the semi-darkness of the deck, Mrs. Ashton began to talk nervously and eagerly.

“Now that we are so near,” she murmured, “I have got to tell you something.  If you did not know I would feel I had not been fair.  You might think that when you were doing so much for me I should have been more honest.”

She drew a long breath.  “It’s so hard,” she said.

“Wait,” commanded Ford.  “Is it going to help me to find him?”

“No.”

“Then don’t tell me.”

His tone caused the girl to start.  She leaned toward him and peered into his face.  His eyes, as he looked back to her, were kind and comprehending.

“You mean,” said the amateur detective, “that your husband has deserted you.  That if it were not for the baby you would not try to find him.  Is that it?”

Mrs. Ashton breathed quickly and turned her face away.

“Yes,” she whispered.  “That is it.”

There was a long pause.  When she faced him again the fact that there was no longer a secret between them seemed to give her courage.

“Maybe,” she said, “you can understand.  Maybe you can tell me what it means.  I have thought and thought.  I have gone over it and over it until when I go back to it my head aches.  I have done nothing else but think, and I can’t make it seem better.  I can’t find any excuse.  I have had no one to talk to, no one I could tell.  I have thought maybe a man could understand.”  She raised her eyes appealingly.