During dinner Mrs. Forrester referred to the fact that Mr. Nevins' funeral would take place on Thursday afternoon at three o'clock, and after promising to attend, Forrester did not again allow them to refer to the matter in any way. Dinner over, Forrester retired to a corner of the library, ostensibly to read, but though he occasionally turned a page of his book to keep up the pretense, his mind was absorbed in the problem of the "Friends of the Poor" and the working out of a plan of action for the following day.
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At eight o'clock Thursday morning Forrester left home in his roadster and went straight to Green's office. The detective had had two nights and a day for investigation, and Forrester was anxious to know what facts he might have in his possession before continuing his own researches.
Green was at his desk when Forrester entered the office, and the young man noted the detective's dusty clothes, sickly pallor and the shadows under his eyes. Green must have been working hard, Forrester thought, and therefore would have information of importance.
"How-do," grunted Green, without rising.
"Good morning," returned Forrester, drawing a chair up to Green's desk. "I have an idea that you are going to give me some news."
"My God!" gasped Green, with such vehemence that the usual unlighted cigar dropped from his mouth and remained unnoticed on the floor.
"Well," queried Forrester, "what are you so upset about? Did you get a notice, too?"
"I've been through hell," groaned Green. "Ain't been to bed all night. Couldn't eat any breakfast. Damn Prohibition anyway! What I need right now is a whole goblet o' whiskey!"
Forrester laughed. "I can get that for you if I decide you need it for medicinal purposes, Green. But I should like to hear your story first."