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 passed the little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big, bungling dust had passed it, too. Nobody 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.