WN A GRAY MASK

Garth, in response to the unforeseen summons, hurried along the hallway
and opened the inspector's door. As he faced the rugged figure behind
the desk, and gazed into those eyes whose somnolence concealed a
perpetual vigil, his heart quickened.

He had been assigned to the detective bureau less than six months. That
brief period, however, had revealed a thousand eccentricities of his
chief. The pudgy hand beating a tattoo on the table desk, the lips
working at each other thirstily, the doubt that slipped from behind the
veil of the sleepy eyes, were all like largely printed letters to
Garth--letters that spelled delicate work for him, possibly an
exceptional danger.

"Where were you going, Garth?"

"Home. That is--"

Garth hesitated and cleared his throat.

"First--I thought I might drop in on Nora for a minute."

With a quick gesture the inspector brushed the mention of his daughter
aside. Abruptly he verified Garth's hazard.

"How much do you love your life?"

The inspector's voice possessed the growling quality of an animal. A
warning rather than an aggressive roar, it issued from a throat remotely
surviving behind great masses of flesh. Garth had rarely heard it
raised, nor, for that matter, had it ever deceived him as to the other's
amiability and gentleness of soul. Its present tone of apologetic regret
startled him.

"On the whole I value my life rather highly just now," he answered,
trying to smile.

"Then turn this down and nothing said," the inspector went on. "It's
volunteer's work. No gilt-edged prophecies. It's touch and go whether
whoever tackles it eats bacon and eggs to-morrow morning."

"What's the job?" Garth asked.

The inspector glanced up.

"You've heard of that fellow without a face?"

Garth stared until he thought he understood.

"One of those Bellevue cases? Awful burns?"

The heavy head shook impatiently.

"No. This fellow Simmons in Chicago--several years ago
now--experimenting with some new explosive in a laboratory. He got his
arm up in time to save his eyes."

"Seems to me I remember," Garth began.

"Worn a gray mask ever since," the inspector said.

He drew a telegram from a pile of papers at his elbow, spread it on the
writing-pad, and tapped it with his thick forefinger. Garth wondered
what was coming. A feeling of uneasiness compelled him to lower his eyes
before the other's steady gaze. There was something uncanny about this
thought of a ma