The Gray Mask. Camp Wadsworth

Garth's shoulder.

      "Watch out for yourself," he faltered. "I don't want another Kridel case on my conscience."

      The name dampened Garth's enthusiasm. He had never known Joe Kridel who, a year ago, had been the ascending star of the bureau. But the manner of the young man's death was depressingly familiar to him – found stabbed through the heart in a private house whose dwellers had heard no alarm. The key to that puzzle had never been discovered. Even the inspector had harbored the nature of Kridel's assignment that night of his murder.

      "I hate," the inspector continued, that note of regret in his voice again, "to give a man I like such an ugly risk."

      This reached Garth as definite encouragement to words which he had restrained for some time with difficulty. To loose them, now, however, would be, in a way, unfair to his chief; would, in every sense, form no fitting prelude to his formidable and dangerous task. He contented himself, therefore, with an unsatisfactory compromise.

      "If I've time I may drop in for a chat with Nora after all."

      "But you won't alarm her with this?"

      "Certainly not."

      The inspector was very friendly.

      "You know I wouldn't be surprised if Nora had taken kind of a fancy for you herself."

      Garth's face reddened. He turned away.

      The inspector sighed.

      "Oh, well. There's plenty of time to think of that when you bring yourself back – alive."

      Before making his arrangements Garth called at the inspector's flat. This was, in fact, a preparation. Without seeing Nora he felt he would not be armed to enter these unfair lists with death.

      He found her by the window in the sitting room. She looked, he thought, more Latin than usual, although the black clothes she habitually wore accentuated her dark hair and flashing eyes, the olive complexion and regular features she had inherited from her Italian mother.

      She smiled up at Garth, and, as always in face of that smile, he recalled the unexplored neutral ground where their minds had never really met. This impression had unquestionably retarded the development of their relations. It had until now held their emotions in the leash of friendship. Garth had no idea of snapping that cord at his entrance, but Nora's proximity and the suddenness of an unexpected gesture distilled logic and fairness for the moment's irresistible intoxication.

      Their hands, reaching for the book she had dropped, met. The quick contact was galvanic to Garth. An unconquerable impulse possessed him. If he was to risk death that night it was folly to shirk life to-day. So his hand closed over hers while he sought for words.

      After a moment he became aware of the impassivity of her fingers within his violent grasp. He saw grave trouble and an unanswerable doubt extinguish the excitement in her eyes. A premonition reached him. He fought against it desperately. His voice swayed a little.

      "Don't look at me like that, Nora. You're going to marry me."

      She shook her head. All at once there were tears in her eyes. Her hand lightly brushed her black skirt.

      "Jim, you've often asked me why I wear these dark clothes. Now you make me tell you. I can trust you? Because no one knows unless my father guesses."

      He nodded. She spoke with an effort.

      "For the man I was going to marry, Jim. You see he – he died."

      Garth arose and turned to the window. He leaned there, staring at the busy street, listening to its jarring discords. Among the children at play one boy, unkempt and filthy, stood braced against a railing, crying at the top of his lungs. In his abandonment to disappointment Garth accepted the picture as typical of his life – a crying out for the unattainable, a surrender to despair. The night's work lost its terror. Its issue became a matter of callous indifference.

      Then her hand was on his arm, drawing him around so that he saw her face, which had lost its colour, and the growing doubt in her eyes.

      "Try to understand, Jim. I think I scarcely do myself. I only know it hurts to see you unhappy. Six months ago when you first came I never dreamed a man could make even that much difference to me again."

      Without warning the colour rushed back to her face. She clenched her hands. The determination in her tone was overwhelming.

      "Is that inconstancy to him? Don't think that. I'm not inconstant. I wouldn't be that."

      Garth waved his hand helplessly.

      "What difference – Never mind, Nora. It's finished."

      "But you – It's so unfair. And I want you for my friend."

      She sat down, hiding her face.

      "Later – I don't know. How can I tell? How can anybody?"

      Garth saw her shoulders commence to shake. This emotion fired a tiny hope, yet it angered him that she should suffer, too.

      "Stop that," he said roughly. "It isn't worth it to you. I'm sorry I spoke. I ought to have had better sense, but I'm going out of town to-day on a job – "

      He paused. He turned back to the window.

      "That's why I spoke, because – because I may be away a very long time."

      She controlled herself.

      "How long, Jim?"

      "God knows."

      "Where? West?"

      He shook his head.

      "Up the state. It's just as well now. I've got to go. I ought to be getting ready."

      She arose. She spoke wistfully.

      "Then good-by, Jim. And you'll try to understand? Maybe you'll come to see me just the same when you get back?"

      He swallowed hard, forcing back his craving for abandonment, for revelation.

      "When I get back," he said.

      CHAPTER II

      IT OPENS NORA'S EYES

      Garth waited at the end of the bridge above Garrison. At eight o'clock it was dark, but the river, glass-like between the rugged hills, retained a pallid light. At a short distance two men smoked and chatted. They had withdrawn themselves in response to Garth's moodiness. He fancied they discussed him as one already dead.

      A whistle shrieked. The hills rumbled. Flinging their cigars in the water, the men rejoined Garth. He slipped the mask from his pocket, and secreted his features behind its gray protection.

      The train dashed across the bridge, sparks grinding from its wheels. When it stopped, panting sullenly, the two men sprang aboard.

      Garth flattened himself against the side of the car and watched them reappear, leading a third who wore a grey mask above a plain brown suit. He heard a croaking, unnatural voice issue from behind the mask.

      "Didn't look for you so soon, friends."

      Excitement drove the melancholy from Garth's brain. The undertaking had begun reassuringly. Simmons had no suspicion that he was in the hands of the police. Garth noticed also as he entered the car that the passengers were not aware of the substitution. He resented the repugnance in the glances they turned on the mask. Simmons' attitude toward life became comprehensible. But, as the journey extended itself interminably, Garth grew restless. He realized he was in the position of a man entering a cavern without a light. He must feel his way step by step. He must walk blindly toward innumerable and fatal pitfalls.

      At last the train paused for the change from locomotive to electric motor. Although he knew that normally no passengers would board it at this place, he gazed anxiously from the window. A man stood close to the track with the evident intention of entering the train. Garth saw him elude a brakeman, saw him grasp the railing and swing himself out of sight. A moment later the man walked into the car, stopped dead, and turned sharp, inquisitive eyes on the gray mask.

      About the figure was a somber air, accentuated by a black felt hat, drawn low over the eyes. It let Garth see, however, a sharp and colorless face which conveyed an impression of uncommon