Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars held their level way—three little racing¹ dots in the big, clear place. They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that swept the ground and rose to the low swale and passed beyond. Only the long free line of dust marked their flight under the sun.  
The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They had lost interest in the race pressing behind—most anxiously, they had lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent² wish, that the two cars driving behind them should pass them in a swirl³ of dust—and pass on out of sight—toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. They were only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. If they drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming—not to race with escaping fugitives⁴ and excited police. They had no wish to race with excited police—fervently they had no wish for it—and they slackened speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pass them—and his police with him—before they reached a little, white, peaceful house that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look behind at justice pursuing its prey⁵... they had lost all interest in justice and in the race. Presently, when justice should pass them, on full-spreading wing, they would look up with casual glance, and note its flight over the far line—out of sight in the distant west. But now they did not know of its existence.
 
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 darting⁶ 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—s............