“I came to first,” went on Garrick, now busily looking about, as we were all recovered.  “I found that none of us was wounded, and so I guessed what had happened.  However, while we were unconscious the villain, whoever he was, succeeded in running his car out of the garage and getting away.  He locked the door after him, but I have managed to work it open again.”

Garrick was now examining the floor of the garage, turning the headlight of the machine as much as he could on successive parts of the floor.

“By George, Tom,” he exclaimed to me suddenly, “see those marks in the grease?  Do you recognize them by this time?  It is the same tire-mark again—­Warrington’s car—­without a doubt!”

Dillon had taken the photographs which Garrick had made several days before from the prints left by the side of the road in New Jersey, and was comparing them himself with the marks on the floor of the garage, while Garrick explained them to him hurriedly, as he had already done to me.

“We are getting closer to him, every time,’” remarked Garrick.  “Even if he did get away, we are on the trail and know that it is the right one.  He could not have been at the gambling joint, or he would never have called up.  Yet he must have known all about it.  This has turned out better than I expected.  I suppose you don’t feel so, but you must think so.”

It was difficult not to catch the contagion of Garrick’s enthusiasm.  Dillon grunted assent.

“This garage,” he put in, looking it over critically, “must act as a fence for stolen cars and parts of cars.  See, there over in the corner is the stuff for painting new license numbers.  Here’s enough material to rebuild a half dozen cars.  Yes, this is one of the places that ought to interest you and McBirney, Garrick.  I’ll bet the fellow who owns this place is one of those who’d engage to sell you a second-hand car of any make you wanted to name.  Then he’d go out on the street and hunt around until he got one.  Of course, we’ll find out his name, but I’ll wager that when we get the nominal owner we won’t be able to extract a thing from him in the way of actual facts.”

Garrick had continued his examination of the floor.  In a corner, near the back, he had picked up an empty shell of a cartridge.  He held it down in the light of the car, and examined it long and carefully.  As he turned it over and over he seemed to be carefully considering it.  Finally, he dropped it carefully into his inside vest pocket, as though it were a rare treasure.

“As I said at the start,” quoted Garrick, turning to me, “we might get a conviction merely on these cartridges.  Anyhow, our man has escaped from here.  You can be sure that he won’t come back—­ perhaps never—­certainly not at least for a long time, until he figures that this thing has completely blown over.”

“I’m going to keep my eye on the place, just the same,” stoutly insisted Dillon.