Park swore as he started running up the trail after the car, the driver’s head now plainly in sight as he leaned out and watched the road. A good fifteen miles an hour he was making in reverse; and unless a car came down the cañon and stopped him as Park had been halted, for the simple reason that he could not turn out, Bill Jonathan seemed in a fair way of making his escape. “The damn fool! He can’t get far with them leg irons on!” Park grunted, coming to a stop where the roadster had stood. “That’s what I get for being so damn soft hearted! I told you he was a bad hombre, Doctor Abington!” CHAPTER II--SYMBOLS OF MYSTERY Abington walked forward a few steps, stooped and picked up his cigarette case from the hot sand of the trail. “Spencer founded his whole philosophy on the premise that there is a soul of goodness even in things evil,” he observed with the little hidden smile tucked into the corners of his black-bearded lips. “Your man has made off with your car, but he very thoughtfully returned my cigarette case--not altogether empty, either. Not knowing I have a full carton in the car, he has left us a cigarette apiece; which proves the soul of goodness within the evil. Will you have a smoke, sheriff?” “Might as well, I guess,” Park grumbled, his eyes on the departing car. “This is a hell of a note! Doctor Abington, what we’ve got to do is make it in to Mina and get word out to the different towns before Bill can make Tonopah or Goldfield. “Thunder! Who’d ever think he’d try to pull off a stunt like that? I was going to take the irons off his legs, but I kinda had a hunch not to. Never dreamed he’d pull out with the car while his legs was shackled; did you?” “I’m afraid my mind was quite taken up with my own problem.” Abington confessed in a slightly apologetic tone. “I’m not accustomed to chasing live men, you know. It’s the dead ones I’m interested in, and the longer they’ve been dead the better. “Nevertheless, sheriff, I realize your predicament. If there’s a long-distance telephone in Mina you can intercept the fellow at Tonopah, I should think.” He was thoughtfully turning the cigarette case over in his fingers as if his habit was to admire its glossy brown leather and the silver filigree. Now he slipped it into his pocket and turned to retrace his steps. “I suppose we ought to get the old boat headed down the trail, sheriff. Your prisoner went off with your canteen, you know, so we’ll have to pet my motor along as best we can. But she’ll roll down the cañon in neutral, and then we’ll drive it as far as we can--which may not be far. “At the turnout, down the road here, I’ll get the car headed in the other direction, and it wouldn’t surprise me if we beat your man in, after all. Will he have gas enough to take him to Tonopah?”