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.
