while a third had the clothing and the air of a tramp. The fourth, with his dapper tailoring and ferret-like face, was more familiar to the expert in crime.
These, however, Garth passed over quickly for the fifth, perhaps because, with the detective's extra sense, he foresaw there a special and unintelligible menace.
This man brought his huge, handsome figure forward and leaned heavily on the table. His close-cropped hair, dampened by the heat, curled about a bronzed forehead from beneath which inquisitorial and threatening eyes challenged.
The slender man, who clearly was the leader, crossed the room.
"Seeing ghosts, George?" he asked. "Or maybe you're anxious for a glimpse of what Simmons hasn't got any more. Why not show him the big event, Simmons?"
His laugh, scarcely audible, was like the wrath of a gigantic sneer.
Garth's hand crept to his pocket and closed over his revolver. George drew back.
"Look yourself, Slim, and it ought to be done."
The other swung on him angrily.
"Do you think I'm bringing him here without checking him up. He doesn't have to take his mask off to show you a scar. The lot of you look like sudden wealth for a nerve specialist. Sit down. We'll get to business."
He swung on Simmons.
"I know how you feel about that. Now, listen.
