"It is useless for you to ask questions," declared the voice. "I am asking information—not giving it."
"But favors beget favors," protested Forrester.
"You are not doing me a favor," returned the woman. "This is in your own interest."
"Well, then, if you insist," acceded Forrester, "I will take the risk and inform you that I expect to visit the tree at ten-thirty tomorrow night."
"Thank you," was the reply, and the receiver was hastily hung up.
"I don't understand these telephone calls at all," said Prentice. "What do you make of them, Bob?"
"I fancy your first idea was correct," returned Forrester. "It is my opinion that these thick-headed detectives have talked too freely to the newspaper reporters about their new plan, and that we are simply going to have a convention of the press at the tree tomorrow night."
Prentice laughed heartily. "Perhaps you are right, Bob," he agreed. "If I had not had such a trying experience with these people myself, I should have liked to be a spectator, too. As it is, I imagine it will be safer to keep out of the way. And now," he added, rising, "I believe I would better go. I want to drive out early in the morning, and you, too, should have a good night's sleep."
Forrester accompanied Prentice to the door and stood until he saw the car disappear in the rain and mist. Then he returned to the library. The windows still rattled under the lash of the wind and rain, and somewhere far up in the house he heard a door slam.
"I don't think I'll do much sleeping tonight," thought Forrester, and crossing to the library table, lifted the lid of his humidor to get a cigar. He paused with a startled exclamation, for there before him lay a small square of brown wrapping paper. On it he recognized the crude skull and rough hand-printing of the "Friends of the Poor." The words stood out clearly in the light shed by the lamp on the table. He read: