s--by the time she opened
the door.

In the dim light she did not at first see the mask on Dale's face, and
she was insistently demanding to be told just where Ben's injuries
were, when she detected the fraud.

Then she gasped and stepped back, trying to close the door. She would
have succeeded had not Dale thrust a foot into the aperture.

She stamped at his foot with her bare one ineffectually. Dale laughed
at her futile efforts to keep him from opening the door. He struck an
arm through the aperture, leaned his weight against the door, and
pushed it open.

She was at the other side of the room when he entered, having dodged
behind a table. He made a rush for her, but she evaded him, keeping
the table between them.

There was no word said. The girl's breath was coming in great gasps
from the fright and shock she had received, but Dale's was shrill and
laboring from the strength of his passions.

Reason left him as they circled around the table, and with a curse he
overturned it so that it rolled and crashed out of the way, leaving her
with no obstacle behind which to find shelter.

She ran toward the door, but Dale caught her at the threshold. She
twisted and squirmed in his grasp, scratching him and clawing at his
face in an access of terror, and one hand finally caught the black mask
covering and tore it from his face.

"Alva Dale!" she shrieked. "Oh, you beast!"

Fighting with redoubled fury she forced him against one of the door
jambs, still scratching and clawing. Dale grasped one hand, but the
free one reached his face, the fingers sinking into the flesh and
making a deep gash in his cheek.

The pain made a demon of Dale, and he struck her. She fell,
soundlessly, her head striking the edge of a chair with a deadening,
thudding crash.

Standing in the doorway looking down at her, the faint, outdoor light
shining on her face and revealing its ghastly whiteness, Dale suffered
a quick reaction. He had not meant to strike so hard, he told himself;
he hoped he had not killed her.

Kneeling beside her he felt her pulse and her head. The flesh under
his hand was cold as marble; the pulse--if there was any--was not
perceptible. Dale examined the back of her head, where it had struck
the chair. He got up, his face ashen and convulsed with horror.

"Good Lord!" he muttered hoarsely, "she's dead--or dying. I've done it
now!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GUNMAN

Dale's first decision was to