LATE that evening, a man entered an apartment house in upper Manhattan. He was short and heavy set, with a grim face that bore signs of ugliness. He walked abruptly through the hallway and took the automatic elevator to the third floor.
There he opened the door of an apartment and entered a darkened room. He pressed a switch on the wall. Then he turned toward the far corner of the room. A quick gasp came from his lips.
Behind a small desk sat a man in a dark-blue overcoat, who wore a crimson mask that covered the upper half of his face.
“The Red Envoy!” exclaimed the man who had entered the room.
The figure behind the desk did not reply. The man in the crimson mask was motionless. His hands lay upon the desk; they were hidden within thin red gloves.
The man who had come into the apartment recovered his composure. He glanced about the room, noticing that the shades were drawn. He deposited his hat on a chair, and approached the desk.
“I did not expect you to-night,” he said respectfully.
“Why not?” asked the man who wore the crimson mask. His voice was low, and even-toned. “You have much to report, Comrade Prokop.”
“That is correct.” Prokop was speaking in English, his words slightly thickened by a trace of foreign accent. He drew up a chair and sat opposite the Red Envoy.
DESPITE his formidable appearance, the man called Prokop seemed nervous in the presence of the masked man who wore the red gloves.