By the time Luck reached the bank Miguel came loping back with the
news that the red machine had crossed the lower bridge and had turned up
toward Atrisco, that little Mexican hamlet which lies between the river and
the bluffs where the white sand of the desert spills over into the nearest
corrals and little pastures.
The others had learned definitely that Bill Holmes had manipulated the fake
camera while the bank was being robbed, and that the man with him, who bad
also driven the machine, was a certain chauffeur of colorless personality and
an unsavory reputation among other drivers; and that the number of the
automobile was a matter of conjecture, since three different men who were
positive they remembered it gave three different numbers.
In company with the sheriff they called upon the cashier, who was in bed with
his head bandaged and his nerves very much unstrung. He was much calmer,
however, than when he had hysterically accused Luck of betraying him into
putting the money out to be stolen. He admitted now that he was not at all
sure of the voice which talked with him over the phone; indeed, now when he
heard luck speak, he felt extremely doubtful of the similarity of that other
voice.
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