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 pass the car ahead—­not till he saw what they were up to.  Would they pass 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 passing 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 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.