Carling, in a somewhat pompous fashion, walked straight ahead toward the carved-mahogany flat-topped desk, and, as he reached it, waved his hand.
"Take a chair," he said, over his shoulder--and then, turning in the act of dropping into his own chair, grasped suddenly at the edge of the desk instead, and, with a low, startled cry, stared across the room.
Jimmie Dale was leaning back against the door that was closed now behind him--and on Jimmie Dale's face was a black silk mask.
For an instant neither man spoke nor moved; then Carling, spare-built, dapper in evening clothes, edged back from the desk and laughed a little uncertainly.
"Quite neat! I compliment you! From headquarters with a report, I think you said ?" "Which I neglected to add," said Jimmie Dale, "was to be made in private." Carling, as though to put as much distance between them as possible, continued to edge back across the room--but his small black eyes, black now to the pupils themselves, never left Jimmie Dale's face.
"In private, eh ?"--he seemed to be sparring for time, as he smiled.

"In private! You've a strange method of securing privacy, haven't you?
A bit melodramatic, isn't it?
Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me who you are ?" Jimmie Dale smiled indulgently.
"My mask is only for effect," he said.

"My name is--Smith." "Yes," said Carling.

"I am very stupid.

Thank you.