"That bluff won't work," came the reply. "We had a couple of men watchin' for that very thing, and they'd have given us a high sign if we had been followed. You're here all by your lonesome, and so you'd better be good."
Two of the men left the room, and the third sat down by the table to act as guard. Fifteen minutes passed, during which Jim Farland and the man by the table exchanged pleasant remarks concerning each other, neither getting much the best of the argument.
Then the hall door was opened again, and a masked man entered the room!
Remembering what Murk had related to him concerning his experience of the night before, Jim Farland looked up at this newcomer with sudden interest.
This man, undoubtedly, was a sort of leader, one who had hired others to help him in his work and who knew the identities of Sidney Prale's mysterious enemies, and why they were working against him; perhaps, also, the man who could tell a good deal about the murder of Rufus Shepley.
Farland did not betray too much interest, though, for he sensed that he was opposed to a person of brains and cunning, a different type from the thugs he hired to work for him. So the detective merely blinked his eyes rapidly as he looked up at the other and waited for him to speak.
"You are Jim Farland, a detective?"
The voice was low and harsh, a monotone, a disguised voice in fact. Jim Farland knew that at once.
"That's my name, and some people are kind enough to say that I am a detective," Farland replied. "What's the idea of treating me rough like this?"
"I regret that violence was necessary to get you here, Mr. Farland," the masked man replied, "but it seemed to be the only way in which I could get a chance to talk to you freely without subjecting myself to danger."