Ahead of them the red light of the rear lamp swerved and vanished.
“Hell,” groaned the driver, and working his hands one over the other like a strenuous pianist, he whipped the car round an “S” curve into a straight, round another curve, and caught the distant twinkling of the red light again.
“They’re moving away,” cried the detective, now by Clement’s side.
“They know the ground, hang ’em,” said Clement.
“There’s the outfit,” stabbed the driver. “You look. Don’t wanter pile her up....”
Clement imitated the action he had just seen the driver indulge in. He bent low down so that he could catch faintly the black silhouette of the earth against the fainter darkness of the sky. He saw merely masses of dark shades on shadow—fantastic, indeterminable shades—rocks, no doubt.... Then ... yes, there was the tall, square shoulder of a mine building, the frail fret of derrick against the dark, and the humped mound of slack.
“I see it,” he cried. “That’s the place, for a certainty.”
“Seems so,” growled the driver. He swore deeply. He had lost the tail light. He was laboring round another cruel bend. He straightened out. “Where in creation....” he began, searching for the red light.
“There!” cried the detective.