Achilles's eye gleamed--down the street, a little way off, a car was wheeling out from the curb--gathering speed.

Achilles's eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd--and came back.

The man in the white cap by the curb was swearing softly. He leaped with two steps, from the panting car to the stall and began gathering up oranges. "Here--" he said. Then he wheeled--and saw the Greek fruit-dealer flashing off in a car--_his_ car. "Here--you!" he shouted.

But Achilles gave no heed--and the boy, urging him on from behind, turned with swift smile--"He take your car--" he said, "he need that car!"

But the white-capped man pounced upon him and shook him by the shoulder--watching his car that was threading fast in the crowded traffic. He dropped the boy, and his hand reached up, signalling wildly for police--a city service car sprang from the ground, it seemed. The white-capped man leaped in and they were off--honking the crowd... heavy drays moved from before them with slow, eternal wheel--the white cap swore softly and leaned forward and urged... and the dark, Greek head bobbed far ahead--along in the crowd--the big, grey racer gathering speed beneath. Achilles was not thinking of the pursuit, yelling behind him--he had no thoughts--only two eyes that held a car far in the distance, and two hands that gripped the wheel and drove hard, and prayed grimly. If his eye lost that car! It was turning now--far ahead and his eye marked the place and held it--fixed. His car jolted and b.u.mped. Men swore and made way before him, and noted the hatless head, and looked behind--and saw the police car--and yelled aloud. But no one saw him in time, and he was not stopped. He had reached the corner where the car disappeared from sight, and he leaned forward, with careful turn, peering around the corner. They were there--yes! He drove faster--and the great, ugly car lifted itself and flung forward and settled to long sliding gait. The car ahead turned again in the whirling traffic--and turned again. But Achilles's eye did not lose its track...

and they were out in the open at last--the plain stretching before them--no turn to left or right--and the machine Achilles drove had no equal in the country. But Achilles did not know his machine. Good or bad, it must serve him and keep his men in sight--but not too near--not to frighten them! They had turned now and were glancing back and they spoke quickly. Then they looked again--at the flying and hatless head--and saw suddenly, on behind it, the service car leap softly around the corner into the white road. They looked again--and laughed. They turned and dropped the matter. "Some d.a.m.n fool with a stolen car."

XXVI

AND RACES FOR THE CLUE

Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars held their level way--three little racing dots in the big, clear place.

They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that swept the ground and rose to the low swale and pa.s.sed beyond. Only the long free line of dust marked their flight under the sun.

The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They had lost interest in the race pressing behind--most anxiously, they had lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent wish, that the two cars driving behind them should pa.s.s them in a swirl of dust--and pa.s.s on out of sight--toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. They were only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. If they drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming--not to race with escaping fugitives and excited police. They had no wish to race with excited police--fervently they had no wish for it--and they slackened speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pa.s.s them--and his police with him--before they reached a little, white, peaceful house that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look behind at justice pursuing its prey... they had lost all interest in justice and in the race. Presently, when justice should pa.s.s them, on full-spreading wing, they would look up with casual glance, and note its flight over the far line--out of sight in the distant west. But now they did not know of its existence.

And Achilles, pressing fast, had a quick, clear sense of mystery--something that brooded ahead--on the shining plain and the little, white house and the car before him slackening speed. _Why_ should it slow down?--what was up? Cautiously he held his car, slowing its waving gleam to the pace ahead and darting a swift glance behind, over his shoulder, at the great service car that leaped and gained on him lap by lap. It would overtake him soon--and he _must_ not pa.s.s the car ahead--not till he saw what they were up to. Would they pa.s.s that little white house--on the plain--or would they turn in there? The wind hummed in his ears--his hair flew--and his hand held tense to the wheel--slowing it cautiously, inch by inch--slackening a little--slackening again with quick-flung, flashing glance behind--and a watchful eye on the road ahead... and on the little white house drawing near on the plain. It was a race now between his quick mind and that car ahead and the little white house. He must not overtake them till the little house was reached. The car behind must not touch him--not till the house came up. There was a wood ahead, in the distance--his mind flew and circled the wood--and came back. They had reached the little house asleep in the sun. They were pa.s.sing it, neck and neck, and the car beside him swerved a little and slackened speed--and dived in at the white gate. Achilles shot past--the free road ahead. The machine under him gathered speed and opened out and laughed and leaped to the road and lay down in the thick dust, spreading itself ahead. He could gain the wood. He should escape--and the clue was fast.

Behind him, the service car thundered by the little house asleep. But the police did not glance that way--nor did the big, white-capped man glance that way. _His_ eyes were fixed on the racer ahead--dwindling to a speck in its cloud of dust. He pushed up his visor and laughed aloud.

"Give it up!" he said genially, "give it up!--you can't catch _that_ car!--I know my own car, I guess!" He laughed again. "We shall find it somewhere along the road--when he is through with it!"

But the face beside him, turning in the clouding dust, had a keen look and the car kept its unbroken speed, and the plain flashed by. "He's in too big a hurry--" said the driver sternly. "I want a look at that man!

He knows too much."

Too much! The heart of Achilles sang again--all the heart of him woke up and laughed to the miles. He had found his clue--he had pa.s.sed the little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big, bungling dust had pa.s.sed it, too. n.o.body knew--but him... and he should escape--over the long road... with the big machine, under him, pounding away.

XXVII

THE LITTLE WHITE HOUSE

In an angle of the wood the dust-covered policeman and the white-capped man came upon the racer, turned a little from the road, and waiting their arrival. It had a stolid, helpless look--with its nose buried deep in underbrush and the hind wheels tilted a little in air. Once might almost fancy it gave a little, subdued hiccough, as they approached.

The white-capped man bent above it and ran a quick hand along the side, and leaped to the vacant seat. The beast beneath gave a little snort and withdrew its nose and pranced playfully at the underbrush and backed away, feeling for firm ground behind. The man at the wheel pressed hard, leaning--with quick jerk--and wheels gripped ground and trundled in the road. It stopped beside the service car and the two men gazed doubtfully at the wood. Dusty leaves trembled at them in the light air, and beckoned to them--little twigs laced across and shut them out. Anywhere in the dark coolness of the wood, the Greek lurked, hiding away. They could not trace him--and the wood reached far into the dusk. He was undoubtedly armed. Only a desperate man would have made a dash like that--for life. Better go back to town for reinforcements and send the word of his escape along the line. He would not get far--on foot! They gave another glance at the wood and loosed their cars to the road, gliding smoothly off. The wood behind them, under its cover of dust, gave no sign of watching eyes; and the sun, travelling toward the west, cast their long, clean shadows ahead as they went. In the low light, the little, white house in the distance had a rosy, moody look. As they drew nearer, little pink details flashed out. An old man behind the picket fence looked up, and straightened himself, and gazed--under a shading hand. Then he came along the driveway and stood in the white gate, waiting their approach. He had a red, guileless face and white hair. The face held a look of childish interest as they drew up. "You got him?" he asked.

The service man shook his head, jerking his thumb at the racer that came behind. "Got the car," he said. "He got off--took to the woods."

"That so?" The old man came out to the road and looked with curious eyes at the big racing-machine coming up. "What'd he do?" he asked.

"He stole my machine," said the white-capped man quickly. He was holding the wheel with a careful touch.

The old man looked at him with shrewd, smiling eyes--chewing at some invisible cud. The service man nodded to him, "There'll be a reward out for him, Jimmie--keep a watch out. You may have a chance at it. He's hiding somewhere over there." He motioned toward the distant wood.

The old man turned a slow eye toward the west. "I don't own no telescope," he said quaintly. He shifted the cud a little, and gazed at the plain around them--far as the eye could see, it stretched on every side. Only the little, white house stood comfortably in its midst--open to the eye of heaven. It was a rambling, one story and a half house, with no windows above the ground floor--except at the rear, where one window, under a small peak, faced the north. Beyond the house, in that direction, lay lines of market garden--and beyond the garden the wide plain. Two men, at work in the garden, hoed with long, easy strokes that lengthened in the slanting light. The service man looked at them with casual eye. "Got good help this year?" he asked.

The old man faced about, and his eye regarded them mildly. "Putty good,"

he said, "they're my sister's boys. She died this last year--along in April--and they come on to help. Yes, they work putty good."

"They drove in ahead of us, didn't they?" asked the service man, with sudden thought.

The old man smiled drily. "Didn't know's you see 'em. You were so occupied. Yes--they'd been in to sell the early potatoes. I've got a putty good crop this year--early potatoes. They went in to make a price on 'em. We'll get seventy-five if we take 'em in to-morrow--and they asked what to do--and I told 'em they better dig." He chuckled slowly.

The service man smiled. "You keep 'em moving, don't you, Jimmie!" He glanced at the house. "Any trade? Got a license this year?"

The old man shook his head. "Bone dry," he said, chewing slowly. "Them cars knocked _me_ out!" He came and stood by the racer, running his hand along it with childish touch.

The service man watched him with detached smile. The old man's silly shrewdness amused him. He suspected him of a cask or two in the cellar.

In the days of bicycles the old man had driven a lively trade; but with the long-reaching cars, his business dribbled away, and he had slipped back from whiskey to potatoes. He was a little disgruntled at events, and would talk socialism by the hour to anyone who would listen. But he was a harmless old soul. The service man glanced at the sun. It had dipped suddenly, and the plain grew dusky black. The distant figures hoeing against the plain were lost to sight. "Hallo!" said the service man quickly, "we must get on--" He looked again, shrewdly, toward the old man in the dusk. "You couldn't find a drop of anything, handy--to give away--Jimmie?" he suggested.

The old man tottered a slow smile at him and moved toward the house.

He came back with a long-necked bottle grasped tight, and a couple of gla.s.ses that he filled in the dimness.

The service man held up his gla.s.s with quick gesture--"Here's to you, Jimmie!" he said, throwing back his head. "May you live long, and prosper!" He gulped it down.

The old man's toothless smile received the empty gla.s.ses; and when the two machines had trundled away in the dimness, it stood looking after them--the deep smile of guileless, crafty old age--that suffers and waits--and clutches its morsel at last and fastens on it--without joy, and without shame.

XXVIII

INSIDE THE LITTLE HOUSE

The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened--a low, peevish whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them.

Presently the call repeated itself--three wavering notes--and they shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house.

The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. "What was it?"

asked one of the figures quickly.

The old man chuckled. "Stole a racer--that's about all _they_ knew--_you_ got off easy!" He was peering toward them.

The larger of the two figures straightened itself. "I am sick of it--I tell you!--my back's broke!" He moved himself in the dusk, stretching out his great arms and looking about him vaguely.

The old man eyed him shrewdly. "You're earning a good pile," he said.

"Yes, one-seventy-five a day!" The man laughed a little.

The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk.

"Supper ready?" he asked.