Garrick had pulled out copies of the photographs he had made of the tire marks that had been left at the scene of the finding of the unfortunate Rena Taylor’s body, and was busy comparing them with the marks that were before him.

“Of course,” Garrick muttered to me, “if the anti-skid marks of the tires were different, it would have proved nothing, just as in the other case where we looked for the tire prints.  But here, too, a glance shows that at least it is the same make of tires.”

He continued his comparison.  It did not take me long to surmise what he was doing.  He was taking the two sets of marks and, inch by inch, going over them, checking up the little round metal insertions that were placed in this style of tire to give it a firmer grip.

“Here’s one missing, there’s another,” he cried excitedly.  “By Jove, it can’t be mere coincidence.  There’s one that is worn—­ another broken.  They correspond.  Yes, that must be the same car, in each case.  And if it was the stolen car, then it was Warrington’s own car that was used in pursuing him and in almost making away with him!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE EXPLANATION

We had not noticed a car which had stopped just past us and Garrick was surprised at hearing his own name called.

We looked up from contemplating the discovery he had made in the road, to see Miss Winslow waving to us.  She had motored down from Tuxedo immediately after receiving the message over the telephone, and with her keen eye had picked out both the place of the accident and ourselves studying it.

As we approached, I could see that she was much more pale than usual.  Evidently her anxiety for Warrington was thoroughly genuine.  The slanderous letter had not shaken her faith in him, yet.

She had left her car and was walking back along the road with us toward the broken fence.  Garrick had been talking to her earnestly and now, having introduced her to Dr. Mead, the doctor and he decided to climb down to inspect the wrecked car itself in the ravine below.

Miss Winslow cast a quick look from the broken fence down at the torn and twisted wreckage of the car and gave a suppressed little cry and shudder.

“How is Mortimer?” she asked of me eagerly, for I had agreed to stay with her while the others went down the slope.  “I mean how is he really?  Is he likely to be better soon, as Mr. Garrick said over the telephone?” she appealed.

“Surely—­absolutely,” I assured her, knowing that if Garrick had said that he had meant it.  “Miss Winslow, believe me, neither Mr. Garrick nor Dr. Mead is concealing anything.  It is pretty bad, of course.  Such things are always bad.  But it might be far worse.  And besides, the worst now has passed.”

Garrick had already promised to accompany her over to Dr. Mead’s after he had made his examination of the wrecked car to confirm what the doctor had already observed.  It took several minutes for them to satisfy themselves and meanwhile Violet Winslow, already highly unstrung by the news from Garrick, waited more and more nervously.