There was a sound like the whir of a rising partridge, and ahead of him from where it had been hidden, a gray touring-car leaped into the highway.

The stranger was at the wheel.

Throwing behind it a cloud of dust, the car raced toward Greenwich.

Jimmie had time to note only that it bore a Connecticut State license; that in the wheel-ruts the tires printed little V's, like arrow-heads.
For a week Jimmie saw nothing of the spy, but for many hot and dusty miles he stalked arrow-heads.

They lured him north, they lured him south, they were stamped in soft asphalt, in mud, dust, and fresh-spread tarvia.