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. “I’m going back to take supper with ‘Baby Belle’!” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Amateur, by Richard Harding Davis