Busily engaged in his amateur detective work, and full of a certain confidence in his own ability, Forrester had half expected to solve, in a few days, a mystery that had baffled experienced detectives for a year. Now, with the final reckoning only one day away, he realized that he had made practically no progress, except, perhaps, to increase the scope of the mystery. Possibly the fact that he felt himself free to come and go in comparative safety until Saturday had blurred his view of the future. Here in the still, deserted house, however, the misgivings that had been dormant beneath his energetic efforts to solve the problem, now came to the surface. The partial doubt which he had felt the previous evening in respect to the detectives' theories, now reasserted itself with increased force.
While his own theories were mere chimerical pictures, based upon a fanciful explanation of the peculiar facts he had unearthed, Forrester nevertheless had a feeling that they possessed more real substance than was apparent at the present time. Again Forrester laughed and tried to shift his thoughts to the seemingly more logical and matter of fact deductions of the detectives.
During these meditations he had been pacing the library floor, several times refilling his pipe. Now he went to the fireplace and lit the gas logs in an effort to dispel the chilly, gloomy atmosphere that pervaded the room. He drew a chair up to the fireplace and sought more cheerful thoughts in recollections of Mary Sturtevant. This did not help. Aside from the girl's attractive personality, Forrester could not but realize that it was the faint element of mystery that seemed to surround her which had stimulated his curiosity and thrown a glamour about her such as no other girl of his acquaintance had ever possessed. Yet that very element of mystery was a disquieting feature. In spite of any arguments he might devise to ease his own mind, Forrester realized that if he were to tell the men at the detective bureau all the details of his acquaintance with Mary Sturtevant he would create a disagreeable stir. While the peculiar effect of her sudden appearance from nowhere had been partly offset by her letter of introduction to his mother, it still remained an odd coincidence that she should select a home so near the blackmailers' tree, and in addition take such a strong interest in the tree itself. And then there was the reprimand which Joshua intimated she had given him for talking about the tree to a stranger. Moreover, what object could a young woman of her undoubted social position have in leaving her family in the East and renting a big house in a Chicago suburb with only a paid companion?
It was no use. In whatever direction he turned his thoughts Forrester's mind reverted to the mystery of the "Friends of the Poor." Glancing at his watch, he found that these thoughts and speculations had consumed a large part of the afternoon and he decided to get away from the dreary surroundings and gloomy inspirations of the empty house by going out to dinner.
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The slight drizzle of the afternoon had increased to a heavy downpour of rain which beat loudly on the windows, while a strong east wind roared about the house. The inclemency of the weather increased the feeling of loneliness and isolation which had seized upon Forrester since the departure of his family. He sprang up, therefore, with a sensation of pleased anticipation when the door-bell rang, but paused immediately to reconsider his action.
Most of his friends were already at their summer homes. It did not seem likely that even the few stragglers who might have remained in town would be out on a night like this. For the first time since the affair started Forrester felt like arming himself. He opened the drawer of the library table and took out a revolver which had lain there unused for many years, only to discover that it was unloaded, and as he could think of no place where he might find the necessary cartridges for it, the weapon was useless. He reasoned, however, that its appearance in his hand might in itself be a partial protection, so with the revolver apparently ready for instant use, Forrester went to the front door and opened it.
No one was there, and the street lay apparently deserted in the driving rain.
It was a strange incident and when Forrester returned to the library he wondered whether it was a wise step for him to remain alone in the house that night. He was still debating the question when a half-hour later the telephone bell rang. Picking up the receiver Forrester was relieved to recognize the voice of Prentice on the wire.
"I called at your house a little while ago," apprised Prentice, "and was alarmed that the door-bell was not answered. After thinking it over I decided to phone you."