It was all well enough for him to argue that his debt to Bland had been paid when he brought him to Los Angeles, and that Bland could have no just complaint if Johnny declined to continue the partnership longer.  Bland, he told himself, would have quit him cold any time some other chance looked better.  It was Johnny’s plane, and Johnny had a right to do as he pleased with it.

For all that, Johnny rode to the S.P. depot feeling like a criminal trying to escape.  He took his luggage and sneaked into the waiting room, sought an inconspicuous place and waited, his whole head and shoulders hidden behind a newspaper which he was not reading.  Cliff Lowell could have found nothing to criticize in Johnny’s manner of screening his presence there; though he would probably have been surprised at Johnny’s reason for doing so.  Johnny himself was surprised, bewildered even.  That he, who had lorded over Bland with such patronizing contempt, should actually be afraid of meeting the little runt!

A stream of hurrying people, distinguished from others by their seeking glances and haste and luggage, warned him presently that he would be expected outside.  He picked up his belongings and joined the procession, but he came very near missing Cliff altogether.  He was looking for the dark-red roadster that had eaten up distance so greedily between Inglewood and the city, and he did not see it.  He was standing dismayed, a slim, perturbed young fellow in khaki, with a grip in one hand and a canvas gun case in the other, when some one touched him on the arm.  He needed the second glance to tell him it was Cliff, and even then it was the smooth, bored voice that convinced him.  Cliff wore a motor coat that covered him from chin to heels, a leather cap pulled down over his ears, and driving goggles as concealing as a mask.  He led the way to a touring car that looked like any other touring car—­except to a man who could know the meaning of that high, long, ventilated hood and the heavy axles and wheels, and the general air of power and endurance, that marked it a thoroughbred among cars.  The tonneau, Johnny saw as he climbed in, was packed tight with what looked like a camp outfit.  His own baggage was crowded in somehow, and the side curtains, buttoned down tight, hid the load from passers-by.  Cliff pulled his coat close around his legs, climbed in, set his heel on the starter.

A pulsing beat, smooth, hushed, and powerful, answered.  Cliff pulled the gear lever, eased in the clutch, and they slid quietly away down the street for two blocks, swung to the left and began to pick up speed through the thinning business district that dwindled presently to suburban small dwellings.

“Put on that coat and the goggles, old man,” Cliff directed, his eyes on the lookback mirror, searching the highway behind them.  “We’ve got an all-night drive, and it will be cold later on, so the coat will serve two purposes.  It’s hard to identify a man in a passing automobile if he’s wearing a motor coat and goggles.  You couldn’t swear to your twin brother going by.”