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. All you know is that we wanted a scientific fellow who doesn't use his profession exclusively for the benefit of humanity. Also one without any nerves. I've always heard that of you."
Garth nodded, smiling a little to himself. Lack of nerves had been the inspector's chief requisite. Now the criminals demanded the same quality. He stood, as it were, between two deadly fires. He wondered if murder was on the boards. He recalled the slip of white paper in his pocket, questioning if he would be able to finger it, to scratch upon it those vital invisible directions before these sharp and overcurious eyes.
The slender man hurried on, glancing at his watch.
"We're waiting for one more. At first all you have to do is to keep close to George. We're going to crack a safe."
His voice colored apologetically.