"Better call up the detective bureau," retorted Forrester. "Good-by," and he hung up the receiver.
Prentice was leaning toward Forrester with a puzzled expression on his face. "That was a peculiar conversation," he said. "May I ask what it was about?"
"A man whose voice I did not recognize," explained Forrester, "was trying to find out at what hour I intended to place that extortion money in the tree tomorrow night. He wanted his information without giving me any."
"Strange," murmured Prentice. "Perhaps it was a newspaper man—or a detective."
"No need for them to disguise their identity," asserted Forrester. "I certainly have talked freely to all of them."
Prentice sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes, and Forrester was equally absorbed in trying to fathom the object of the person who had called him up. Their thoughts were interrupted by another clamorous ring on the telephone. Again a man's voice came over the wire when Forrester took up the receiver. This was a very different voice, however; coarse, with a slightly foreign accent, and rough in its address.
"That you, Forrester?" asked the voice.
"Yes," answered Forrester, gruffly. "What do you want?"
"This is the 'Friends of the Poor'," came back over the wire.
"'Friends of the Poor'!" repeated Forrester, astonished and Prentice sat up suddenly in his chair.