He raised the telegram.
"This is Simmons' description as he left Chicago last evening. He expects to arrive on the Western express to-night. He's looking for someone to meet him and take him to the headquarters of the Hennion gang."
Garth's face lightened.
"Has he a record?"
"A suspect, chiefly because he's tied up with that anarchist crowd out there—an analyst of explosives, a chemist, cursed by this hideous accident—dangerous as giant powder itself! That's why his mail's been watched, how they got onto this move. But they've no details for us. Maybe Simmons himself doesn't know what he's up against."
With a secretive air he opened a drawer and lifted out a tightly-woven gray cloth. It was pierced by two holes above and a long, narrow opening below. From its edges four elastic straps dangled.
"I had it made," he said, holding it out tentatively, "so that, perhaps, you might find out instead of Simmons."
Garth took the cloth and fitted it over his face. It left visible a small scar on his neck. The inspector pointed at this with a pleased, wondering smile.
"That scar peeping will fetch them. Put on a brown suit and you'll pass."
"Where," Garth asked, "does Simmons change cars?"
"I'll have the express stopped at the end of
