To each man the intention of the other was clear as the purpose of a fire-department’s run. One of them would file the first uncensored story of the great battle. Bingley had given up his chance to follow the Japanese army, and had set his stony face to freedom for this end--and England could not have horsed a man more unwhippable. Routledge, striding into the sunset, toward the place he had left his mounts, discovered with a smile that his pace was quickening, quickening. The character of the man just passed was an inspiration to rivalry. Moreover, from a newspaper standpoint, the issue at hand was big among dreams. The Great God, News, is a marvellous master. Would England or America be first to connect with Manchuria by wire? _World-News_ or _Thames_? If New York beat London, Dartmore would trace the story.... Dartmore had been a savage. Bingley had been a savage. Routledge laughed aloud. He had long since put away any resentment toward either of these men, but there was vim, and glow, in getting into the struggle again. He felt that he had earned his entry to this race. He had counted upon taking the chances of discovery. Already Bingley had seen him, and the word would go back; but the result of it would require time. He had long planned to close his own campaign for the year, even if the Japanese pushed on to Mukden. He would go deeper, past following, into China--even to the Leper Valley. It was a momentous incident to Routledge--this meeting with the “Horse-killer.” The quick, startled, sullen look on the face of Bingley--not a flicker of a smile, not even a scornful smile, to answer his own--had meant that Cardinegh, dead or alive, had not told. Bingley found the highway two miles west of the railroad, and spurred south in the darkness at the rate of about seven miles an hour. He meant to do six or seven hours of this before resting his mount.... Between twelve and one in the morning--and at most twenty miles to go! If there was anything left in his horse, after an hour’s rest, so much the better. Otherwise he could do it on foot, crossing the river above Fengmarong by six in the morning. This would leave two hours for the last two or three miles into Wangcheng. As for the other, without a mount, Bingley did not concede it to be within human possibility for him to reach the Chinese Eastern at any point to-morrow morning. Evidently Routledge had not planned to get away so soon. It would take eighteen hours at least to reach Wangcheng by the river, and Routledge, aiming westward, seemed to have this route in view.... With all his conjecturing, Bingley could find no peace of mind. Even if Routledge had not planned to reach travelled-lines to-morrow, would not the sight of a rival, with his speed signals out and whistling for right of way, stir him to competition? Such was his respect for the man who had passed on, that Bingley could not find serenity in judging the actions and acumen of Routledge by ordinary weights and measures.