When we slid down to the Victorville garage and stopped for gas, the Cadillac slid by.

The driver in the panama gave us one glance through his colored glasses, but I felt, somehow, that the glance was sufficiently comprehensive to fix us firmly in his memory.

I inquired at the garage concerning Casey Ryan, taking it for granted he would be driving a Ford.

A man of that description had stopped at the garage for gas that forenoon, the boy told me.

About nine o'clock, I learned from further questioning.
"Well-sir, that gives him five hours the start," the Little Woman remarked, as she eased in the clutch and slid around the corner into the highway to Barstow.