"We are getting closer to him, every time,'" remarked Garrick.
"Even if he did get away, we are on the trail and know that it is
the right one. He could not have been at the gambling joint, or he
would never have called up. Yet he must have known all about it.
This has turned out better than I expected. I suppose you don't
feel so, but you must think so."

It was difficult not to catch the contagion of Garrick's
enthusiasm. Dillon grunted assent.

"This garage," he put in, looking it over critically, "must act as
a fence for stolen cars and parts of cars. See, there over in the
corner is the stuff for painting new license numbers. Here's
enough material to rebuild a half dozen cars. Yes, this is one of
the places that ought to interest you and McBirney, Garrick. I'll
bet the fellow who owns this place is one of those who'd engage to
sell you a second-hand car of any make you wanted to name. Then
he'd go out on the street and hunt around until he got one. Of
course, we'll find out his name, but I'll wager that when we get
the nominal owner we won't be able to extract a thing from him in
the way of actual facts."

Garrick had continued his examination of the floor. In a corner,
near the back, he had picked up an empty shell of a cartridge. He
held it down in the light of the car, and examined it long and
carefully. As he turned it over and over he seemed to be carefully
considering it. Finally, he dropped it carefully into his inside
vest pocket, as though it were a rare treasure.