The girl glanced rapidly around. Then, advancing steadily to the table, she raised her hand and pointed at Garth.
He stared fascinated at the finger which, a few hours ago, he had held violently in the rush of his passion. He was aware of the flashing eyes which that afternoon had been wet with tears. But his brain was dull. He waited patiently for the exposure which now appeared unavoidable because of the woman he loved.
She spoke evenly.
"Who could it be but this man that hides his face? There's no doubt about the rest of you. You only have to see, Slim, whether this fellow, Simmons, has got a face."
"He had the word," the leader answered, "and look at that scar. But you're right, Nora. If there's a bull here he's behind that mask."
"Then make him take it off," she said.
Garth raised his hands. His croaking voice was torn with dismay.
"No. I warn you. Spare me and yourselves that. It's not pretty, what you'd see."
"Take it off," the girl repeated.
"I hide it," Garth cried. "For years—Listen, you. If you don't let me keep a little pride you can do your dirty work without me."