Title: The Secret Toll
Author: Thorne, Paul And Mabel
Language: English
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Internet Archive/American Libraries.

                        By PAUL AND MABEL THORNE

                _Authors of "The Sheridan Road Mystery"_

                             NEW YORK DODD,
                            MEAD AND COMPANY
                                  1922

                            COPYRIGHT, 1922
                    BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

                   THE PLIMPTON PRESS, NORWOOD, MASS
                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



CONTENTS


    CHAPTER I—THE TOLL IS EXACTED
    CHAPTER II—"FRIENDS OF THE POOR"
    CHAPTER III—ENGINEERING-CRIMINOLOGY
    CHAPTER IV—THE CAR IN THE FOG
    CHAPTER V—THE HAUNTED TREE
    CHAPTER VI—THE FLAMING HAND
    CHAPTER VII—SPIRIT CLUES
    CHAPTER VIII—THE GIRL ON THE HORSE
    CHAPTER IX—LUCY
    CHAPTER X—CROSSED THEORIES
    CHAPTER XI—TELEPHONE CALLS
    CHAPTER XII—SATURDAY
    CHAPTER XIII—A PUZZLING WARNING
    CHAPTER XIV—THE INTRUDERS
    CHAPTER XV—THE MASK OF DEATH
    CHAPTER XVI—THE FATAL DANCE
    CHAPTER XVII—AT THE DOORSTEP
    CHAPTER XVIII—TRIANGULATION
    CHAPTER XIX—FACE TO FACE
    CHAPTER XX—THE INVISIBLE DETECTIVE

                            THE SECRET TOLL



CHAPTER I—THE TOLL IS EXACTED


"I’m damned if I give up a cent! I’ll die first!"

"You very likely will. Others have. To refuse these people is the first
step toward suicide."

"But are the police so impotent that a gang like this one can operate
unmolested right under their very noses?"

"The police are efficient in ordinary cases. These people, however,
operate mysteriously. So far, the police have been helpless."

The two men who thus discussed a criminal clique which was extorting
money from prominent and wealthy citizens were seated in an exclusive
Michigan Avenue club. From their deeply upholstered leather chairs they
looked out across the busy street, with its hundreds of automobiles and
strolling pedestrians, to the green lawns and leafing trees of Grant
Park, awakened into renewed life by the soft breezes and warm sunshine
of early June.

To the first speaker, Robert Forrester, lately returned from army
service in Europe, and familiar with the privations, struggles and
horrors of the great war, it seemed ridiculous that a band of criminals
could endanger life in the heart of this bustling, crowded, well-policed
city. Yet the threat was in his hand, and his older and presumably wiser
companion assured him that they could make good the threat.

Robert Forrester was a young man of thirty—tall, dark and broad
shouldered; his face deeply tanned by long army service. As a member of
an old and wealthy family, of which he was the sole male survivor and
head, Forrester might have followed the path selected by many of his
boyhood chums and spent his life in the pursuit of pleasure or more or
less indifferent occupations. He had chosen, however, to become a civil
engineer; was graduated with honors, and had taken active part in the
completion of several big railroad projects before the great war.

When the United States entered the war he at once enlisted and went to
France as an army engineer. He had been home now for several months and
was planning to resume work in his profession at the first opportunity.
The financial and business condition of the country did not favor large
construction work at this time, so he was still lingering in Chicago,
spending much of his time at the club, where he could keep in close
touch with some of the far-sighted and influential men who planned and
made possible the big undertakings which would give him the opportunity
he sought.

His companion and confidant of the moment, Frederick Prentice, was past
middle age. The possessor of large, inherited wealth, he was totally
unlike the younger and more energetic man. He had never entered
business, and the only times he ever condescended to visit a business
office were occasioned by infrequent plunges into speculation through a
broker friend, or the necessity of calling on his lawyer.

In his easy-going, well-financed existence he had had few problems or
worries. To Prentice the easiest way out was the logical course.

Forrester knew this as well as any man, and was therefore little
inclined to heed the well-meant advice which Prentice was giving him—to
yield without a murmur to the outrageous and exorbitant demand that had
been made upon him.

The young man opened the clenched hand in which he had crushed the
warning message when making his vehement declaration. He smoothed out
the offending paper on his knee and glared at it—reading again the words
that enraged him more each time he studied them. The message was crudely
hand-printed on a square of ordinary wrapping paper such as can be found
in any store. At the top was the rough drawing of a human skull.
Forrester read the words aloud.

      In Jasper lane two hundred feet west of Sheridan Road
    you will see a great oak tree on the left side. Before midnight
    Saturday place$10,000 in the opening you will find in this tree.
      Failure to comply means death. Be warned!
        _Friends of the Poor_

"On the other side," declared Forrester, "we lived and tramped and
fought with spies and informers at our elbows. Enemy agents, ready to
turn a dastardly trick at any moment, were on every hand. Though
conditions were just ripe for them, sooner or later we spotted
them—practically every one. Do you mean to tell me that here, in a
peaceful, law-abiding city, with trained police and intelligent
detectives, we can’t run down a blackmailing crew like this one?"

"That is exactly what has happened," said Prentice.

"And you want me to believe that every one of the victims has given up
without a fight; that no real effort has been made to apprehend these
desperadoes?"

"My, no!" exclaimed Prentice. "Several of the men threatened went to the
police. The police put their best men on the case for weeks, but so far
as I know, they never discovered a worth while clue."

"What happened to those men who resisted?" inquired Forrester.

"They either finally acceded to the demands, or were found dead. That is
why I warned you to pay and say nothing. Remember, Bob, you have been
away for a long period, while I have stayed on right here in the city a
greater part of the time. I know exactly what has transpired in this
matter; I speak from _actual experience_."

"Experience?" questioned Forrester, noting something significant in the
stress which Prentice laid on his last words.

"Young man," said Prentice, shaking a finger at Forrester, "you may have
had wider experience with some angles to life than I have had. On the
other hand, I possess the calmer judgment that comes with advancing
years. And I know more about _this_ situation than you do. I advise you
to draw ten thousand dollars from that ample bank account of yours, put
it in that tree before midnight Saturday, and consider yourself lucky to
get off so easily."

"I’ll not do it!" declared Forrester.

Prentice extended his hand. "Let me see that paper, Bob," he requested.
The paper was handed over and Prentice studied it carefully.

"Yes," commented Prentice, slowly, as he handed back the message. "It is
unquestionably from the same people. That is a duplicate of the warning
which I received."

"Did you get one, too?" exclaimed Forrester.

"A year ago—just about this time," divulged Prentice. "In fact, so far
as I know, I was the first man upon whom the demand was made. When I
went to the police about it, they claimed that it was the first time
anything of the kind had come to their attention."

"Tell me about it, Prentice," urged Forrester.

"I will," agreed Prentice. "After you have heard _my_ experience, you
will realize more fully why I have told you to pay and say nothing.

"As I said before, it was just about this time last year that a
duplicate of that notice was fastened to my front door with a knife. A
maid found it when she went to bring in the morning paper, and presented
it to me at the breakfast table. I had much the same feeling that you
have regarding it; although I did not take it quite so seriously. As a
matter of fact, I regarded it as a joke, until a few days later a second
warning came in the mail.

"I had, of course, destroyed the first warning, but the second I took to
the police, and laid the matter before them. They arranged with me to
try to trap these people. The night that my time expired I took a dummy
package and placed it in that tree. The police kept watch in the woods
all night without seeing or hearing anyone. In the morning, they found
the package still in the tree, but attached to it was a note stating
that these people were not to be fooled, and allowing me three days in
which to pay or take the consequences.

"For two weeks after that the police watched the tree, and a detective
accompanied me whereever I went. There was no attack upon me, and the
police assured me that it was undoubtedly the practical joke of some
friend. They withdrew my detective guard and I thought the matter had
ended.

"A few days later, however, as I was returning home along the North
Shore in my car one night, a figure leaped upon each running board. They
wore long black hoods with nothing save their eyes visible through
openings cut in the hoods. These men pointed revolvers at me and ordered
me to stop. They said that they represented the ’Friends of the Poor,’
and told me that the time had come to pay the penalty for not complying
with their demands. You can imagine my state of mind. I saw that the
matter was really serious, and not a practical joke after all. I told
them that I had thought it a joke and pleaded with them. They finally
allowed me to go upon my promising to place the money in the tree the
following evening.

"After drawing the money from the bank, I informed the police about my
adventure, and they arranged to watch the tree again that night. I
placed the money in the tree, and although five detectives remained all
night only a little distance away, they heard and saw nothing. _In the
morning the money was gone!_

"During last summer several other wealthy men received demands for
money. So far as I have knowledge of the matter, they either paid the
money, or were later found dead. With the first fall of snow the
activities of this band ceased. A detective, detailed to the case, told
me he thought they had stopped operations because of the snow. When they
approached the tree, he explained, they would naturally leave tracks in
the snow, in that way giving some hint to the police. I was inclined to
believe, on the other hand, that they had obtained all the money they
wished; or else had concluded that the police were aroused to such an
extent that it would be dangerous to keep on. This notice to you,
however, seems to indicate that the detective with the snow-theory was
pretty nearly right. Probably this warning to you is the beginning of
another war to be waged upon the wealthy men of the city this summer."

"Your story is certainly interesting, Prentice," said Forrester, "but
something really ought to be done. If these men are allowed to prey upon
wealth in this mysterious way, there is no limit to the harm which they
may accomplish. Why, just think of it! Unmolested, they might become
bolder and bolder, and by steadily levying this secret toll, practically
ruin every wealthy man in Chicago."

"Well," returned Prentice, "probably sooner or later the police will get
them. So far as I am concerned, however, I would pay over the money at
any time rather than have another experience such as the one I described
to you. If you want to hire detectives, Bob, or stir up the police as I
did, do so, by all means, but in the meantime take my advice and pay the
money."

At this moment an attendant approached, informing Forrester that he was
wanted on the telephone. Excusing himself to Prentice, Forrester went to
the telephone to find that his mother was calling him.

"Son," she said, "Mr. Nevins has met with a serious accident. Josephine
and I are going over to see Mrs. Nevins. She has just telephoned, asking
us to call and stay with her the rest of the day; so we shall not be
home to dinner. I wanted you to know so you would not worry about us."

"All right, Mother," replied Forrester. "I’ll phone the house later and
if Charlie is going to be in this evening I’ll run over and bring you
home. Good-bye."

The Nevins family and his own had been close friends for years. This
friendship was about to be turned into relationship through the recently
announced engagement of Forrester’s sister, Josephine, to Charles
Nevins, the banker’s son.

Forrester hung up the receiver and returned to the lounging room to
rejoin Prentice. As he crossed the room he saw that Prentice was reading
one of the sensational evening papers, for even from a distance
Forrester could read the glaring headlines:

    "FRIENDS OF THE POOR"
    COMMIT NEW MURDER

Prentice held the paper out for Forrester to see when the young man
joined him, with the remark, "Evidently you did not get the first
warning of the season, Bob, as I thought. Here’s a man who received a
notice two weeks ago, and assumed the same attitude that you did this
afternoon toward this mysterious band."

"Who was he?"

"George Nevins, the banker!"

"George Nevins!" repeated Forrester, aghast at the news.

"Yes, old George Nevins—the tightest man in Chicago. I’ll wager _he_
fought as hard as any one could, but see what happened!" Prentice paused
a moment, then added, impressively, "Do _you_ still want to fight?"

"Harder than ever now!" asserted Forrester.

This was bringing it very close to home. Forrester wanted to be alone to
think it over, so he gave his telephone call as an excuse, and took
leave of Prentice.

"’Failure to comply means death!’" quoted Prentice, warningly, as
Forrester turned to go.



CHAPTER II—"FRIENDS OF THE POOR"


On leaving the club, Forrester strolled slowly and thoughtfully north
along Michigan Avenue. The knowledge that old Mr. Nevins had met his
death at the hands of the same people who now threatened him, impressed
Forrester with the seriousness of the situation. Always a fighter, his
army training had developed this side of his nature to a point where it
was practically impossible for him to accede to an unjust demand without
a struggle.

It was Tuesday. Forrester reflected that he had but four days in which
to freely carry out any plan which he might decide upon. In view of
Prentice’s experience, and the startling death of Mr. Nevins, there was
no question that after midnight Saturday every move Forrester made would
be attended with danger.

Immersed in these thoughts, Forrester suddenly found himself in front of
the public library building at Washington Street. It reminded him that
the city detective bureau was on La Salle Street at about this point. In
spite of the apparent non-success of the police, he decided that his
first duty would be to report to them the demand just made upon him. A
few minutes later Forrester entered the detective bureau and sent in his
card to the Chief of Detectives. After being admitted to the Chief’s
office Forrester laid the message from the "Friends of the Poor" before
the head of the detective bureau, with the remark:

"I’m next! What shall I do about it?"

"Mr. Forrester," said the Chief, after only a hasty glance at the
notice, which showed his familiarity with the subject, "sorry as I am to
say it, the Department has made little progress in this matter. We have
a half-dozen detectives working on the case right now. Detective
Sergeants Cahill and O’Connor have given it special study. They have
been working among the West Side joints for some time, and today they
reported to me that they think they have a line on some of these men.
Nothing definite, understand, but it is the first suggestion of a clue
which we have had.

"The probabilities are that between now and Saturday you will not be
bothered. After Saturday, however, if we have made no further progress,
I suggest that you stay off the streets at night, and that during the
day you select only the main thoroughfares for going about the city. If
you have any friends in the North Shore suburbs, and you probably have,
I recommend that you do not visit them for the present. If you wish it,
I will put a police guard at your home."

"I don’t want to be coddled," objected Forrester. "I’m an ex-service man
and I think that I can take care of myself."

"You needn’t be ashamed to take precautions in a case like this,"
explained the Chief. "This gang is both dangerous and clever. If Mr.
Nevins, whose death has just been reported, had allowed me to give him a
police guard, as I wished, he would probably be alive today. You are
really helping the police when you allow us to give you a police guard,
for if these fellows show themselves in any way, our man is there ready
to act. If anything happens to you when no one is around, then we are
simply confronted with another mystery and have much of our work to do
over again."

"That’s very logical reasoning, Chief," agreed Forrester, "and I thank
you for the offer. But I would not have a moment’s peace of mind with a
detective or a policeman hanging around my heels. I am perfectly willing
to take my chance. In fact, I did not come to you for protection, but
simply to talk this matter over with you, and see if something definite
cannot be done to eradicate these criminals. I am doubly interested, not
only because I have received this notice, but from the fact that my
sister is engaged to Mr. Nevins’ son, thus practically bringing his
death right into our family. It is the principle of the thing which I
want to fight—and if there is anything I can do to help, outside of
having a detective trailing me around, I want to do it."

"Well, of course," replied the Chief, "we cannot force a police guard
upon you, but outside of that there is really nothing that you could do.
It takes both experience and a special kind of ability to carry on
detective work. To be perfectly frank with you, _novices only hamper
us_. All I can say is, leave this notice with us and we will do what we
can in the matter."

"No," returned Forrester, "I don’t want to leave this notice. I want to
keep it for my own use. My mind is fully made up to take an active part
in this hunt myself. I should appreciate it if you will tell your men
about me and explain that if they find me doing mysterious things in
out-of-the-way places, not to mistake me for one of the criminals. If I
find out anything, or have any suspicions, I will let you know."

"All right," laughed the Chief. "Play around if you want to, but for the
love of Mike, don’t get under our feet." The Chief and Forrester
exchanged friendly good-byes and the young man passed out into La Salle
Street.

Forrester reflected that Prentice was right. While the detective chief
had maintained an encouraging attitude, it was clear that this was
merely to "save the face" of the Department so far as it was possible.
Between the lines of the Chief’s words Forrester had read the helpless
and hopeless position in which the police were placed. It seemed like
pure egoism for him to attempt to accomplish something in which
experienced detectives had failed, yet Forrester felt that he should
make some effort to solve the mystery behind this menace. After all, he
reasoned, could the solution to this problem be so much more difficult
than many of the engineering problems which he had attacked and
mastered.

It now occurred to him that he had not thought to ask Prentice if any
private detective agencies had ever been put on the case. So far as his
present knowledge of the matter went the problem had been left entirely
in the hands of the police, and yet he knew that in many instances
private agencies had been successful where the police had failed.
Forrester decided, therefore, that his next step would be to consult
with one of these agencies. He went to a nearby cigar store and
consulted the classified telephone directory. Under the heading of
"Detectives" he found a long list of agencies and independent
operatives. Several famous names stood out in this list, but Forrester
fancied that these big agencies would merely put an ordinary operative
on the case, while he felt that the matter needed the attention of a
bigger man. Obviously, by going to a smaller agency, it would be easier
to get the head of the agency to do the work. While these thoughts were
passing through his mind, Forrester’s eye caught a small advertisement
in the center of the page.

                   GREEN’S NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY

                      SECRET SERVICE OF ALL KINDS

         Correspondents in All the Leading Cities of the World

                    _Benjamin F. Green_, _Principal_

                     Commercial Building, _Chicago_

Forrester decided to call on Mr. Green.

He found "Green’s National Detective Agency" to consist of two small
rooms. In the outer room he was met by a woman of uncertain age and
colorless personality who immediately ushered him into Mr. Green’s
office. Green was a large, strongly built man with thin black hair,
carefully brushed over a bald spot, and a bristling black mustache. The
detective was in his shirt sleeves, a half-burned, unlit cigar gripped
in the corner of his mouth, and a well-polished badge gleaming on the
left breast of his unbuttoned waistcoat.

"How-do," he said, rising to greet Forrester, and added, "Have a chair,"
pushing one in the direction of Forrester with his foot.

The two men sat down and after Green had shifted his cigar to the other
side of his mouth, he inquired, "What can I do for you?"

"Ever hear of the ’Friends of the Poor’?" inquired Forrester, going
straight to the point.

Green sat up in his chair with a jerk.

"_You_ been gettin’ one o’ them notices?" he asked.

Forrester took out the warning message and laid it on Green’s desk. The
detective’s eyes sparkled as he leaned over and closely examined it.

"Gee!" he exclaimed, at length. "I’ve just been dyin’ to get onto this
case. So _you’re_ one o’ them rich guys they’re after, eh?"

"I gather from what you say, Mr. Green, that you know something about
the matter," said Forrester.

"_Do_ I?" cried Green. "I’ll show you how I’ve been followin’ that thing
up." He reached into a drawer of his desk, drew out a folder and opened
it before him. Forrester saw that it contained newspaper clippings and
various hand-written notes.

"I’ll tell you, Mister," said Green, "I’ve been followin’ this here case
right from the start. I’ve got some theories, too, that I ain’t been
tellin’ to nobody. I’ve just been itchin’ to get busy on it, but you
know us guys have to make a livin’—we can’t work on a case for nothin’."

"Well," informed Forrester, "I’m going to give you a chance to see what
you can do." Forrester was not wholly taken with Green’s personality,
but the man certainly seemed to know something about the case, and the
fact that he already had theories was a hopeful sign. "There’s the
notice," continued Forrester, "which I received in the mail this
morning. It gives me until Saturday at midnight to pay over the money or
take the consequences. Now, I’d rather present you with the ten thousand
dollars than give up to these people."

Green bounced in his chair.

"Do you _mean_ that?" he gasped.

"Certainly," answered Forrester. "You bring these men to justice and the
ten thousand is yours. In the meantime, I’ll pay you your regular fees
and expenses."

Green ran a finger around inside of his collar and stared at Forrester
for a minute or two. It was quite evident that he was thoroughly stunned
at the offer which had just been made to him. Then, realizing that he
was making a poor showing before an important client, he straightened up
in his chair and assumed the dignified attitude which he thought in
keeping with his profession and the handling of such a momentous case.

"I’m glad to see that you have such a complete record there," commented
Forrester. "I’m anxious to get the full details and history of this
affair."

Green laid his dead cigar on the edge of the desk and pulled his chair
closer, clearing his throat as he did so.

"The case o’ the ’Friends o’ the Poor’," he announced, "first became
known to the public about this time a year ago. Here we have the matter
o’ one Frederick Prentice." Green picked up the first clipping.

"Yes, I know all about that case," interrupted Forrester. "Prentice is
an old friend of mine."

"Ah—h—h!" breathed Green, looking much impressed as he laid the clipping
and a few others aside. "Maybe you knew _this_ guy, too—Booth Warren,
the banker?"

"Yes, I knew him very well," returned Forrester.

"Ah—h—h!" sighed Green, expressively. Never before had he floated into
such an environment of millionaires.

"But," added Forrester, "I don’t know the details of his case. In fact,
I had not heard of his death."

Green cleared his throat once more.

"Booth Warren," he explained, referring to his notes and clippings, "was
vice-president o’ the La Salle National Bank. In July o’ last year this
criminal organization demanded twenty-five thousand dollars, which he
refused to pay, placin’ the matter in the hands o’ the police." At this
mention of the police Green gave Forrester a ponderous wink. Then he
continued, "After ignorin’ three notices, Warren was found by the
roadside one mornin’ just beyond Evanston. The police surgeon o’ the
Evanston Police Department could find no signs o’ violence, or any
evidence as to how the man had been killed. He said he would diagnoose
the case as one o’—" Green paused a moment over the pronunciation of the
word—"asphyxia."

Green thumbed over his clippings.

"Then followed three cases where the guys lost their nerve and paid up.
I guess you’re chiefly interested in the guys that got _killed_,
though," added Green, turning to Forrester.

"Yes, I think so," answered Forrester. "I want to know just what happens
to a man who turns these people down."

"Well, he gets _his_—that’s all I can say," replied Green, emphatically.
"That is," he added, realizing his slip, "unless he comes to me."

"Then it is to be expected that I shall escape?" said Forrester,
smiling.

"I said I had some theories, Mister," returned Green, assuming a wise
expression. "I ain’t tellin’ _all_ I know, but you can bet your life
I’ll be on the job between now and midnight Saturday.

"The next case o’ a death," Green resumed, taking up another clipping,
"is that of James Ingraham, capitalist and director of the Cook County
Trust Company. He was ordered to pay fifteen thousand dollars, and
ignored the demand—except for reportin’ it as usual to the police.
Ingraham was found sittin’ under a tree in Lincoln Park early one
evenin’, and the hospital they took him to, and where he died, reported
that all the symptoms showed that he had been—asphyxiated.

"In the early fall, two more guys was threatened and decided to pay up.

"Now," concluded Green, closing the folder and leaning back in his
chair, "I want you to notice two things strikin’ me as funny. These here
guys apparently knock off in the winter time. Another thing is that the
poor devils that get took off is always—asphyxiated."

"But," protested Forrester, "how could they be asphyxiated when the
bodies are always found out in the open air? I thought that a person
must be shut up in a closed room to be asphyxiated."

"Ah-ha!" cried Green. "_Now_ you’ve got the idea! These fellows have a
headquarters somewhere. After they kill a guy they bring him out in an
automobile and throw him alongside the road somewhere. The thing to be
done now is to locate their headquarters. _That’s_ what little Benny is
goin’ to do!"

"How do you propose to find that out?" inquired Forrester.

"Watch the tree and follow ’em!" replied Green, decisively.

"That sounds all right," objected Forrester, "but the police have been
watching that tree for months without getting sight or sound of anyone."

"Leave it to _me_," assured Green, with a wide sweep of his hand. "I
know things these here city dicks never think about. Now,
Mister—Mister—, by the way, you ain’t told me your name yet."

Forrester handed his card to Green.

"Now, Mr. Forrester," continued Green, as he glanced at the card, "take
my advice and don’t let nobody bunco you into any strange place. And I
wouldn’t take no rides in strange automobiles, either. I’ll let you hear
from me in a couple o’ days. In the meantime you can count on findin’ me
around that tree o’ nights. I kinda got an idea that there tree’s a
mighty busy place these nights. The ’Friends o’ the Poor’ seem to be
makin’ a big drive right now. I suppose you heard about the banker,
Nevins, today?"

"Yes," said Forrester, rising to go. "I shall probably have full details
of that shortly. My sister is engaged to Mr. Nevins’ son."

"Ah-h-h!" sighed Green again, as his new client passed out of the door.



CHAPTER III—ENGINEERING-CRIMINOLOGY


Although the yearly hegira from town to suburb was well on, the
Forresters had delayed their departure and were still residing in the
town house on Bellevue Place. To a man of Forrester’s active disposition
Bellevue Place meant a comparatively easy walk from the downtown
section. Moreover, in the present troubled condition of his mind, the
exercise would be conducive to clearer thinking, so he started out with
the intention of walking home. As he was crossing the Michigan Avenue
bridge over the Chicago River, a motor car slowed up by the curb and
Forrester heard someone call to him. Glancing around, he saw that it was
Prentice.

"On your way home?" inquired Prentice.

Forrester answered in the affirmative.

"Then jump in with me," said Prentice.

"Thanks," returned Forrester, "but I had decided to walk home."

"Better change your mind," urged Prentice. "It’s a fairly long walk, and
I should like your company. Remember that after you leave me I have a
long and lonesome drive."

"You are out on the North Shore now, are you?" queried Forrester, as he
climbed into the car.

"Yes," answered Prentice. "We closed the town house on the first. I’m
surprised that your folks are still in the city."

"We hope to leave soon. The decorators are still busy at our place. We
gave ’Woodmere’ a good overhauling this spring. I should think you would
rather take the train than have such a long drive when you are alone."

"I very seldom use the train," explained Prentice. "You know that time
is of no great value to me, and I enjoy the motor ride. The cool lake
air and the scent of the woods are really very refreshing after being in
the hot city—and certainly preferable to the gas, smoke and cinders that
are inseparable from the train.

"By the way," continued Prentice, after a pause, "have you done anything
further about that message we were discussing today?"

"Yes," replied Forrester. "I have taken very definite action since I
left you."

"Drawn the money from the bank, I suppose."

"I certainly did not!" declared Forrester. "I went first to the police,
and then engaged a private detective agency to look into the matter."

"What did the police say?" inquired Prentice.

"Oh, I guess it was the same old stuff," admitted Forrester. "Although
they did say that they believed they had a clue at last."

"Well, I hope it is a better clue than some of the others they have
pretended to discover. It is certainly time they did something. And what
is your private detective going to do?"

"Not very much, I’m afraid," said Forrester. "He proposes to keep his
eye on this mysterious oak, which I believe is just what all the
detectives have done so far without results."

"Exactly," agreed Prentice. "But it is the first time, I think, that
anyone has employed a private detective. Perhaps he will be more
successful than the police. Well, here you are," he added, as he swung
the car to the curb and stopped.

"Thank you for the lift," said Forrester, as he stepped out. "I’ll let
you know how my private detective gets on."

"Yes, do," urged Prentice. "I should certainly like to get some revenge
for the money those people took from me. I suppose I shall see you at
the club as usual tomorrow."

"No," returned Forrester, "between now and Saturday I am going to be
very busy on this ’Friends of the Poor’ matter. I don’t intend to let
any grass grow under my feet in running them to earth." Then he added,
laughing, "However, after Saturday I may have to hang around the club
for protection."

"If I can be of any help, don’t fail to call upon me," offered Prentice.
"Good-bye."

"Good-bye!" called Forrester, as the car shot off up the drive.

Forrester was glad that his mother and sister were not at home. His mind
was concentrated on the peculiar situation in which he now found
himself, and he felt little inclination to talk. His mother certainly
would have noticed his preoccupation and guessed that something was
wrong. It would have been difficult to keep up the pretense of having
nothing on his mind. At this time he did not intend to tell his family
anything about the warning he had received, for it would worry them
unnecessarily, especially after the fate which had overtaken Mr. Nevins.

After dinner Forrester went to the library, hunted up his pipe and sat
down to think. He had just settled back in his chair when he heard the
door-bell, and a minute later a maid announced that a reporter from the
_Times_ wished to see him. Forrester hesitated as he ran the matter over
in his mind. He disliked publicity and this call certainly meant
publicity. On the other hand, he was seeking all the information and
help which he could get, and it was a well-known fact that newspaper
reporters frequently solved mysteries which baffled the police.
Forrester decided, therefore, that he really had little to lose and
perhaps much to gain by allowing the reporter to interview him, so he
instructed the maid to send the man in.

The young man entered the library briskly, giving a quick and
comprehensive glance around the room before addressing Forrester.

"Mr. Forrester?" he inquired.

"Yes," replied Forrester, affably. "Take this chair and make yourself at
home."

As the young man sat down, Forrester turned back the lid of a humidor
and pushed it along the library table.

"Gee!" said the young man, selecting a cigar. "You seem glad to see me.
I don’t always get a greeting like this."

"Well," explained Forrester, smiling, "I’m in deep trouble and you, as a
newspaper man, may prove to be a friend in need."

The young man visibly expanded as he remarked, "That’s right! We
newspaper men can be a lot of help sometimes. If there is anything I can
do, say the word. My name’s Humphrey."

"I’m very glad to know you," said Forrester. "Now, may I inquire how you
happened to call on me?"

"Sure thing," returned Humphrey. "You see, our police reporter informed
us that you had been to the detective bureau today—that you had received
one of those notices from the ’Friends of the Poor.’ Owing to the death
of a prominent man like Mr. Nevins, which is attributed to these people,
our paper is going to run a special feature article tomorrow morning,
reviewing the whole history of this affair. Naturally, we want to know
all the details of each case, and what every one connected with it has
to say. As you seem to be the latest victim, we are interested in the
particulars of your case, and your personal views regarding it."

"I am afraid," declared Forrester, "that the details of one case
correspond very closely to those of any other case. I have merely
received a warning to put ten thousand dollars in a certain tree by
midnight Saturday or take the consequences."

"You’re quite right," agreed Humphrey. "The method in each case is the
same. But the outcome is not always the same. What do _you_ propose
doing in the matter?"

"Well, for one thing," asserted Forrester, "_I do not intend to pay_!"

"That’s the stuff!" approved Humphrey. "If everyone would fight, we’d
soon put those fellows out of business. But," he added, leaning
confidentially toward Forrester, "_how_ do you propose to fight them?"

"That," said Forrester, "is a question I have not entirely settled as
yet. As you know, I went to the detective bureau this afternoon."

"Poof!" grunted Humphrey, leaning back and flicking the ashes from his
cigar.

"And I have also engaged a private detective," added Forrester.

"Who?" queried Humphrey.

"A man named Green—Benjamin F. Green."

"There are detectives—and there are detectives," commented Humphrey.
"Green falls in the first class."

"I think I get your meaning," smiled Forrester, "and I am inclined to
agree with you. That, in fact, is the great problem which confronts me
now—how to get a _good_ detective at work on the case. Any suggestions,
Mr. Humphrey?"

"I’m a better knocker than I am a suggester," explained Humphrey. "I can
tell you the faults of detectives as easily as I could run over my
A-B-Cs. I’ll admit, though, that there _are_ some good ones. Sooner or
later one of them will get on this case and solve it. I wouldn’t care to
take the responsibility of recommending anyone."

"I know you came here for an interview, Mr. Humphrey," said Forrester,
"and I realize how dangerous it is to tell all your plans to a man who
is seeking news. But on the other hand, I have a very high opinion of
the ability and cleverness of newspaper men. That is why I am going to
take you into my confidence."

"I’m enjoying it," assured Humphrey, selecting and lighting another
cigar.

"The fact is," announced Forrester, "I am thinking of becoming a
detective in this matter myself. The question is, can I do it—have I the
ability to be a detective?"

"Why not?" queried Humphrey.

"Well, what, in your opinion, makes a good detective?"

"Brains!" shot back Humphrey. "Look here, Mr. Forrester. As a reporter I
can scent the biggest story ever scooped up by a Chicago newspaper. A
rich man, in the face of dangerous threats, turning detective and
running down a criminal band which has defied the best efforts of the
police department. All I ask is that you give me the dope first!"

"Then I may count on you to keep my plans quiet and give me a certain
amount of assistance?" questioned Forrester.

"You bet!" exclaimed Humphrey. "To tell you the truth, you’ve actually
got me going. I can see real possibilities to the idea. Now, look here,
Mr Forrester; my paper assigned the ’Friends of the Poor’ story to me
the first time the matter came up. They have kept me at it since because
I was familiar with the details. I don’t pretend to have any detective
instincts, but just my share of common sense, and I have thought the
whole matter over pretty carefully. The police, of course, would laugh
at any theories from me, but you, perhaps, might like to hear my ideas
on the subject."

"Go ahead," urged Forrester.

"In my opinion," Humphrey explained, "the police have fallen down so far
on this case because they are sticking too close to the rules. The
average city detective becomes familiar with the ways of the average
thug-type of criminal. Give him an ordinary murder, burglary, or
blackmailing case and he knows just about where to go to get his hands
on the people he wants. But when a different class of criminal begins to
operate, the average detective cannot see the new conditions. He goes
floundering along the same old lines and lets real clues slip through
his fingers."

Humphrey paused to relight his cigar.

"Go on," again urged Forrester. "I am learning something."

"Now," continued Humphrey, "the crooks that compose the ’Friends of the
Poor’ have been operating for about one year. In that time they have
received various sums running from ten thousand to twenty-five thousand
dollars. I venture to say that in one year’s time they have taken in
pretty close to two hundred thousand dollars! Now, I ask you, Mr.
Forrester; if you were taking in that amount of money, where would you
have your hangout? In some West Side saloon or tenement, or in a high
class neighborhood—perhaps even in some fine hotel? Do you get my
thought, Mr. Forrester?"

"I think I do," said Forrester.

"All right, then," went on Humphrey. "I happen to know what the police
are doing in this matter. They are dividing their time between watching
an old oak up on the North Shore, and rummaging around West Side dives.
Somewhere, _in between_, our men sit laughing at them!"

"I am strongly inclined to believe you are right, Mr. Humphrey,"
assented Forrester. "But the important question is: How are we going to
locate that place which lies in between?"

"That’s where you come in," maintained Humphrey. "That’s where your
money, social position, training and brains are going to enable you to
give the ordinary detectives the go-by. When you mentioned becoming a
detective, an idea hit me with an awful wallop. Now, Mr. Forrester,
you’re an engineer."

"How did you know that?" queried Forrester.

"We usually look up a man before we interview him. We know all about
you."

"I see," smiled Forrester. "Well, then, as an engineer how am I going to
solve this problem in crime?"

"By triangulation!" exclaimed Humphrey.

Forrester laughed. "Now you _have_ got me guessing, Mr. Humphrey. As a
civil engineer I have used triangulation in my surveying work on many
occasions, but how I can apply it to a criminal problem is beyond me."

"Well," explained Humphrey, "the first thing to do in a criminal case is
to take a good survey of the problem and the ground it covers—just as
you do when you build a bridge, a dam, or open up a mine. The higher
type of criminal investigator usually falls back upon his study and
knowledge of criminology, which is a broader and more scientific
development of the ordinary _facts_ with which the city detective starts
to work. What I am going to suggest to you is a new branch of
criminology. For want of a better name at this time we’ll call it
Engineering-Criminology. I am not an engineer myself, and what I know
about surveying and triangulation could be put into a thimble, but I
think I know enough to give you an idea of what I mean.

"As I said before, the detectives are wallowing around in the mire of
the lower West Side—they are in the valley, so to speak. Now, if you, as
an engineer, were about to survey a certain unknown and inaccessible
territory, you’d go up on the nearest high hill and pick out two other
prominent points in the landscape, so as to form a triangle. Then you’d
take sights, or whatever you would call it, from one point to another. A
little figuring would give you the exact distance from one point to
another, and a lot of information about the lay of the land in between.
Am I not right?"

"You’ve put it very roughly, but I think I can see what you are driving
at," returned Forrester.

"Continue the idea a little further, Mr. Forrester," went on Humphrey.
"If you were making a mine survey you would first lay out your
boundaries, tunnels and so on, on the surface, wouldn’t you?"

Forrester nodded.

"Then you would carry those lines below the surface. In other words, the
lines you had laid out _on_ the surface would be a guide to you when you
got _below_ it."

Again Forrester nodded.

"All right," said Humphrey. "I think you’ve got my idea about this case,
and what I mean by solving it by triangulation. You will take the
people, and the events which have occurred, and use them as your
prominent landmarks; that is, points for your triangles. You will then
study what lies between those landmarks, and also what lies under the
surface. By that means I think you will eventually discover some clues
that will be worth while.

"For example; take Mr. Nevins, who was the last victim of the ’Friends
of the Poor,’ as the first point of your triangle. Take his bank as the
second, and his home as the third point. Instead of measuring the
distance between these points by feet or rods, measure it by people and
events. Set down, just as you would the figures of a survey, the names
of his friends and acquaintances, the men with whom he has done
business, and any little out-of-the-way events which have taken place in
his life, so far as you can ascertain them. Do this with the other
people who have been concerned in the blackmailing activities of this
band. By arranging your triangles so they will overlap if possible, you
will get at a starting point. _Somewhere the lines will cross_, and at
the point of intersection a definite clue may form."

"Mr. Humphrey," laughed Forrester, "you are giving me a man’s-size job."

"I know it!" admitted Humphrey. "But the man who solves this case has
got to put more than ordinary brains and ability into it. You have got
to forget the old rules and theories and formulas. That is why the
experienced detectives are falling down. They can’t forget the rules!
When you suggested a while ago that you thought of turning detective, I
immediately saw its possibilities. Your engineering training has taught
you how to study cause and effect, and work out plans for meeting
unusual conditions. You start with a mind trained to solve difficult
problems, but at the same time your mind is free of all the traditions
of the detective craft. Things they wouldn’t notice, or consider
important if they did, will impress themselves upon you and start a
train of thought.

"Now then," exclaimed Humphrey, jumping to his feet, "I have over-stayed
my welcome and I must get back to the office and write up my story for
tomorrow’s paper. You can rest assured, however, that the important
details of this conversation will not get into print until you say the
word. But remember, when the big scoop comes—_it belongs to me!_"

"I promise you that," returned Forrester, rising and extending his hand.
"We’ll shake hands on it."

"And you may count on me to help all I can in the meantime," declared
Humphrey, as he grasped Forrester’s hand.

"Let me offer you a suggestion for that article which is to appear
tomorrow," said Forrester.

"Shoot!" replied Humphrey.

"Announce that I have given up all idea of fighting the ’Friends of the
Poor,’ and say that Saturday, before midnight, I shall place a package
containing the money in that tree."

"I get you," smiled Humphrey. "I’ll be there!"



CHAPTER IV—THE CAR IN THE FOG


Forrester glanced at his watch. It was just nine o’clock, not too late
to make his promised call on the Nevins.

The Nevins’ residence was on Dearborn Parkway, only a fifteen-minute
walk for Forrester, so he sauntered west after leaving the house. A
heavy mist was gathering on Lake Michigan and rolling through the
streets before a gentle breeze from the east, completely shutting from
view all but the nearest street lights and any pedestrians who might be
abroad at this hour. Always a quiet neighborhood, the mist-hidden
streets now seemed somber and deserted, and so still were his
surroundings that Forrester’s attention was presently attracted to the
soft chug-chug of a motor somewhere in the fog behind him.

When the sound first caught his ear it had made little impression, but
as the purring of the engine continued, apparently always at the same
distance, it struck him as peculiar that the car did not catch up with
and pass him. The threat which now hung over his head, as well as his
recent interviews with detectives and the reporter from the _Times_, had
made Forrester more alert than usual. He was keenly on the watch for
anything that might appear out of the ordinary in character. Although he
continued at the same pace without looking back, Forrester listened
attentively to the sound of the motor and noted instantly that as he
turned north on Dearborn Parkway, the motor followed him. He was
convinced that he was under surveillance, and as detectives were not
likely to keep guard over him from a motor car, it was clear that the
persons who followed him had some other motive.

Forrester was well aware that auto bandits were active at all times in
the city streets, and it was more than likely that a foggy night would
prove especially inviting. Still, he could not recollect ever having
heard of a hold-up of this character in his immediate neighborhood. As
he deliberated on the matter, the suspicion grew stronger that the car
which now followed him through the fog was connected in some way with
the "Friends of the Poor." If that were so, there seemed little risk in
allowing them to follow him, for it was certain that the ten thousand
dollars they had demanded was of more importance to them at this time
than his life, and as they had given him until midnight Saturday to pay
the money, it did not appear likely that they would harm him before that
time.

On the other hand, he realized that he had been especially active that
day in taking steps to thwart them. It was not improbable that an
organized band of this kind would have underground methods of gaining
information and therefore might be familiar with everything he had done.
Forrester recollected with a start that he had taken Humphrey for
granted. Might it not be possible that Humphrey had merely been a spy
sent to ascertain his attitude? As he recalled the young man’s discourse
it seemed strangely fanciful and might have been planned merely to add
to his perplexities in seeking a solution. He had been extremely frank
with Humphrey, and the supposed reporter would have a very comprehensive
tale to unfold to his associates. Informed that Forrester planned to go
further in his fight against them than any previous victim they had
selected, was it not possible that they had decided to disregard his
money, which might be easily replaced by a demand upon someone else, and
make away with him before he had an opportunity to disrupt their plans?
Forrester admitted to himself that he felt decidedly nervous and
quickened his pace. He glanced back once or twice and saw the blurred
but unmistakable outlines of a motor car without lights. Although the
speed of the car had been slightly increased when he hastened his steps,
the distance between them was maintained, and Forrester’s mind grew
easier as he became convinced that the sole purpose of the car behind
him was to watch his movements. Very probably, he reflected, the
"Friends of the Poor" kept track of their victims so that they could not
escape by leaving the city or concealing themselves in some
out-of-the-way place. Though he was probably safe for the moment,
Forrester realized more fully now the dangerous nature of the task he
had set himself.

By the time Forrester reached the Nevins home and rang the door-bell,
the lesson had had its effect. He had acquired part of the attributes of
a good detective—caution, and a suspicion of everybody and everything.
In the future, so he assured himself, he would be more guarded in his
conversation, not only with new acquaintances, but with his friends as
well. At this moment a servant opened the door and Forrester stepped
into the brilliantly lighted hallway with a feeling of relief.

As he was well known in this home he went immediately to the library
without being announced. There he found his mother and sister with the
Nevins family. Evidences of grief were apparent on all their faces and
after a general exchange of subdued greetings, young Nevins led
Forrester to a sofa in a corner and said, "I suppose you’ve heard about
Father, Bob?"

"Yes," replied Forrester, "and I’m mighty sorry, old man. It must have
been a great blow."

"It was a dreadful shock to Mother. You know when a person is ill, and
death is momentarily expected, you are sort of prepared for the final
end, but when you find your father dead on the front steps, and you know
that he has been murdered, it is an awful stroke."

"If you don’t mind talking about it, Charlie, I should like to hear some
of the details."

"I don’t mind, Bob. The fact is, that is about all we have been able to
talk about. There is very little to tell, however.

"It seems that Father received a notice about two weeks ago from this
damnable blackmailing society which calls itself the ’Friends of the
Poor.’ About that notice, and what happened subsequently, we know
practically nothing outside of the few details we read in the
newspapers, and a little that the police were willing to tell us. Father
never said a word to either Mother or myself about it. I believe he did
not even tell his business associates, simply putting the matter into
the hands of the police and going on about his business as usual. The
Chief of Detectives called in person this morning, and during his visit,
told me that he had offered Father a police guard, but that Father
refused it.

"Last night Father attended a dinner of the _Midland Bankers’
Association_, and as we naturally did not expect him home until quite a
late hour, Mother and I retired at our usual time. The first we knew,
therefore, that Father had not been home all night, was when we missed
him at breakfast. When a maid went up to call him she found his bedroom
door open and saw that the bed had not been occupied. I was just about
to call up the police when the patrolman on our street rang the
door-bell and asked the maid who answered the door if she knew the man
who was lying on our steps. Of course, she immediately recognized
Father, and when we heard her scream we all hurried to the door. The
patrolman helped me carry him in. This man waited until the doctor came,
as he said he would have to make a report and he wanted to know if foul
play were suspected.

"Our doctor lives just across the street. He was here in five minutes,
but there was nothing that he could do. He said that Father had
unquestionably been dead for many hours."

"Could he tell the cause of death?" inquired Forrester.

"Yes," returned Nevins, "he stated that it was clearly a case of
asphyxia. Father, of course, had been murdered by the same method as all
the other victims of the ’Friends of the Poor.’"

"But," protested Forrester, "how could they get at your father? It was
my impression that he always went about in his car with a chauffeur
driving."

"That is quite right," answered Nevins, "but Fate was with these people
last night. They had evidently been watching for just such an
opportunity. When our chauffeur drove the car up at nine o’clock this
morning, which was his custom, to take Father down to the bank, I called
him in and questioned him about last night.

"He said he had called for Father at eleven o’clock, as he had been
instructed to do, and they started for home. Just as they reached Oak
Street something went wrong with the motor. The chauffeur spent a
half-hour trying to discover the trouble and he says that Father grew
very impatient. Father, it seems, tried to get a taxicab, but all the
cabs that passed were going north and had people in them. You know it is
not much of a walk from Oak Street up to the house, and the chauffeur
said that Father finally told him to take his time in fixing the car and
he would walk home. The chauffeur saw him start off up the Lake Shore
Drive and that was the last anyone saw or heard of Father until he was
found on our steps this morning."

Forrester’s thoughts reverted to the car which had followed him through
the fog. There was little doubt in his mind that this same car had
followed the elder Nevins, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
Forrester did not question that the banker’s murderers were in that car
now. At this very moment they might be waiting outside for Forrester to
reappear. It flashed through his mind what a simple matter it would be
for him to notify the police and have them ready when he started out.

"Mother," said Forrester, "how soon do you expect to go home?"

"I suppose we could leave at any time now, Son," replied Mrs. Forrester.

"How did you plan to go home? I did not see the car outside when I came
in."

"No," explained Mrs. Forrester, "it was such a pleasant evening that I
told William he need not return. After the excitement and worry we have
been through I thought it would be good for us to walk home."

"It is not at all nice out now," said Forrester. "A heavy fog has come
up. I think I would better call a taxicab."

Forrester went to the telephone and ordered a taxicab. Then he whispered
to Nevins, "May I use a phone upstairs where I can talk without being
overheard?"

"Yes," informed Nevins, "you will find a phone in Father’s room."

Forrester went upstairs and called police headquarters. He briefly
explained who he was, what had occurred on his walk over, and suggested
that they watch for the strange car as he returned home.

"Leave the house in exactly fifteen minutes," instructed the man at
headquarters, "and we’ll be ready for you."

After returning to the library Forrester took an occasional
surreptitious look at his watch and was pleased to hear the taxi driver
ring the door-bell just as the fifteen minutes expired.

As Forrester assisted his mother down the steps he glanced hastily
around. The fog was still heavy. He could make out nothing save the
taxicab at the curb, but just as he was giving the address to the taxi
driver he noticed a small man of slight build appear out of the fog.
This man stopped quite near to him and lit a cigarette. Aside from
noting the man’s build and the fact that he wore a cap and had very dark
hair, Forrester could make out no other details, for the man stood with
his back to Forrester and the lighted match really served only to throw
him out in silhouette. Forrester entered the cab and it started off. As
he leaned back he reflected that the man he had seen was of too small a
stature to be a detective. His act of stopping so close to them might
have been mere accident, but to Forrester the thing had a significance
which could not be overlooked. He was confident that this was one of the
men they wanted. He hoped that the police, although not visible in the
fog, had arrived as promised. If so, he felt that their problems were
pretty close to a final solution.

They reached Bellevue Place without incident. The whir of the taxicab’s
engine had effectually drowned any sound of pursuit and though he had
glanced back several times, Forrester had been able to see nothing save
a wall of fog back of the cab. Yet somewhere in that fog-draped street
he was sure the murderers’ car was lurking.

There appeared to be no one around as they left the cab, but Forrester,
after his mother and sister had gone into the house, lingered for a
moment in the dark doorway. He could hear the hum of the taxicab’s
engine as it passed down the street toward the Lake Shore Drive.
Otherwise the night was silent.

Suddenly Forrester heard the roar of opened mufflers in the other
direction, and the next instant two black shapes passed swiftly by
through the fog. Red flashes leaped out of the darkness and sharp
reports resounded through the street as they passed the door.

"The police are on the job!" exulted Forrester.

He hastily stepped inside and closed the door, for his army experience
had shown him the danger of stray bullets.



CHAPTER V—THE HAUNTED TREE


Twice before he retired that night Forrester sought information from the
police. By one o’clock, however, when no report had been turned in, he
decided to wait until morning.

Early Wednesday morning he called the detective bureau on the telephone
to find out what the police had accomplished. The voice at the other end
of the wire was apologetic.

"We’re sorry, Mr. Forrester, but the men got away from us. Had it been
any other kind of a night we would have had them, sure. The fog
prevented the detectives from seeing the car distinctly, so that after
it turned into the Lake Shore Drive, and mingled with other cars, it was
impossible to pick it up again.

"Our men were sure that their bullets struck the car. After giving up
the chase they spent half the night on the West Side trying to locate an
automobile with bullet holes, but were unsuccessful."

"Then you have made no progress at all on the case," said Forrester.

"No, I wouldn’t say that," was the reply. "We now have some fairly
definite people to look for. Before the incident of last night the whole
thing was a mystery that did not present a single tangible point on
which to base our investigations. Now, we believe that these people are
just an ordinary auto bandit gang, and we know how to take steps to look
them up."

"If anything of a hopeful nature occurs," requested Forrester, "I will
appreciate it if you will call me on the telephone and let me know about
it."

"We will be glad to do that," agreed the man at headquarters. "You may
expect to hear from us at any time. And in the meanwhile, we will also
appreciate any further tips similar to the one you gave us last night."

Forrester then called the garage and ordered his roadster sent around to
the house.

Although the police seemed to be trying, and were under the impression
that they were making some progress, Forrester decided to make a few
efforts on his own account as he had originally planned. Even if he did
not get very far in his investigations, he at least might discover
something that would be of assistance to the police. He had little faith
in Green, yet he realized that with this private detective, the police,
and himself all working along individual lines, it was possible that the
sum of all their discoveries might convey some hint of the lines that
must be followed to bring the criminals to justice.

Forrester was not much impressed with Humphrey’s triangulation theory.
It was too far fetched and fanciful. Moreover, he realized that before
putting even this surveying method into actual practice, he must first
look over all the ground carefully. At the present moment, the only
prominent and definite landmark in the case was the oak tree. He knew
that this had already been the starting point for all the detectives who
had been conducting investigations, but it was possible that because of
his freedom from traditions, as Humphrey had put it, he might discover
something which the more experienced detectives had overlooked. As soon
as his roadster arrived, therefore, he planned to visit the oak tree in
Jasper lane.

This analyzing of Humphrey’s suggestions recalled to Forrester his
suspicions of the night before. He decided, before going further, to
make sure of Humphrey, so he got the _Times_ office on the wire and
inquired for the reporter. He recognized the young man’s voice
immediately and it lifted a considerable load from his mind.

"This is Forrester," he told Humphrey. "I called up to see if you had
any new information for me."

"Oh, hello!" called Humphrey. "No, I haven’t any new tips—but say—did
you see my article this morning?"

"No," admitted Forrester, "I haven’t had time to look at the paper."

"Don’t miss it!" cried Humphrey. "I’ll bet I’ve killed any idea those
fellows might have had that you would put up a fight."

"What did you say?" queried Forrester.

"Why, I described how I called on you last night, and stated that I
found you in a blue funk. Without actually saying so, I intimated that
the cold sweat was standing out in beads on your forehead and thrills of
fear running up and down your spine."

"I’m afraid," laughed Forrester, "that you have given my friends an idea
that I hid in a dugout all through the war."

"Not on your life!" protested Humphrey. "You just read that article.
You’ll find that I’m an artist when it comes to descriptive writing."

"All right," agreed Forrester, "I’ll read it tonight. I’m starting out
now to have a look at that oak tree."

"Good luck!" said Humphrey. "Let me know if you spot anything. I’ve got
to break away now. The Chief’s shouting. Good-bye!"

The most direct route to follow in starting out for the North Shore
would have been to go straight up the Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan
Road. Forrester, however, had become cautious since his experience of
the night before. He turned his car west and followed less used
thoroughfares as far as Devon Avenue, glancing back from time to time.
The few cars which he saw at these times all turned off at various
streets before he reached Devon Avenue. Forrester, confident that he was
not followed, swung east on Devon Avenue and soon turned into the north
bound traffic on Sheridan Road.

Twice before reaching Jasper lane he stopped his car at the side of the
road and pretended to adjust his engine. What he really did, however,
was to carefully inspect the cars which passed him so that if he met any
of them again they would be easily recognized. But when he turned into
Jasper lane it was quite evident that no one had followed or paid any
attention to him.

The surrounding country appeared lonely and deserted at the point where
Jasper lane branched off from Sheridan Road. In this locality there were
only large estates and vacant tracts of land, all heavily wooded. Jasper
lane, which sloped slightly upward as it left Sheridan Road, was an
unfrequented byway sometimes used as a short cut to a few large estates
that lay along a prominent road farther to the west.

Forrester figured that two hundred feet would bring him to the crest of
the rise before him and he kept his eyes on the left side of the road as
he drove slowly along. He did not need any special guide to locate the
oak tree, however, for its gigantic form towered above all the other
trees in the neighborhood. He turned his car to the opposite side of the
road, stopped his engine, and inspected the tree. The trunk, which was
fully six feet in diameter, rose to a height of about fifteen feet, at
which point it branched into two parts. Forrester’s engineering mind
took in this detail at once and it occurred to him that the space thus
formed would make a roomy and comfortable perch from which to keep a
watch over anything that might take place at the tree. He surmised that
the detectives who had previously watched the tree had merely concealed
themselves in the surrounding undergrowth where clever people, familiar
with the locality, might have been able to espy and avoid them in
approaching the tree. If at any time he decided to do a little watching
on his own account, Forrester concluded that this was the point of
vantage which he would occupy.

Forrester now jumped down from his car and strode across the road to
take a closer view of the tree and its surroundings. The tree stood back
from the road a few feet, and an open grass-covered space surrounded it
for a distance of about ten feet. Beyond this clear space were thick
undergrowth and young saplings, and a little farther back the woods
began. From the road to the tree was a well-defined pathway. As
Forrester approached the tree he found that this pathway wound around it
and led off toward the right through the thick woods.

The opening referred to in the demand he had received was noticeable at
once—a hole about a foot high by six or eight inches across. It had
probably been caused by some fungus growth or insects eating into the
tree and gradually rotting away part of the wood. The opening was about
four feet from the ground and Forrester had to stoop slightly to put his
arm into it. The space inside was comparatively small. Forrester was
under the impression that oak trees were seldom, if ever, affected in
this way, but as he felt around, digging his fingers into the rotting
wood, there seemed no reason to believe that the opening was other than
a natural one. While his arm was still inside the tree, Forrester was
startled to hear a voice close behind him, for he had not heard anyone
approach.

"What yo’all doin’ dere?"

Forrester withdrew his hand and turned swiftly to find himself facing a
coal black negro. Though Forrester was himself a tall man he found that
he had to slightly raise his eyes to look into those of the man before
him. They looked each other over for a moment and then the negro
repeated his question.

"What yo’all doin’?"

"I don’t know that that’s any of your business," said Forrester.

"Dat’s all right, Boss. Ah don’t mean no offense. Dat tree done have a
bad name, an’ us folks aroun’ yere has begun to kinda keep our eyes
open."

"Well," inquired Forrester, "what do you think I’m doing at the tree?"

"Ah dunno, Boss. Dat’s what Ah’m tryin’ to fine out."

There was a slight pause as the two men again looked each other over. To
Forrester, the negro, in spite of his size, appeared to be really a
harmless individual. Possibly he was a gardener in the vicinity. The
negro on his part could see that Forrester was a gentleman, and
therefore hardly likely to be one of the supposed blackmailing gang who
had made this tree famous for miles around. His changed attitude was
clearly apparent in the manner in which he next addressed Forrester.

"Yo’ mus’ scuse me, suh, fo’ buttin’ in on yo’ disaway, but mah Missey
done tole me to watch eberybody dat hung aroun’ dis yere tree. Ah only
been doin’ mah duty, suh."

Forrester accepted this apology in the spirit in which it was tendered,
and assumed a more tolerant attitude toward the negro.

"You live around here, do you?" he inquired.

"Yas, suh. Jes’ a little way up de road on de oder side."

"Gardener, I suppose," suggested Forrester.

"Yas, suh. Dat an’ some mo.’ Mah wife, Marthy, an’ me done be caretakahs
fo’ ole Mistah Bradbury. His house is jes’ up de road aways. Him an’ his
wife done be liben in Califo’ny, suh."

"Well, arn’t you and your wife afraid to live alone out in the woods,
with bad men all around?" asked Forrester, with mock gravity.

"Yas, suh. We done be mighty afeared sometimes. But we ain’t alone no
mo’."

"I thought you said your folks were in California?"

"Yas, suh, Ah done say dat. But we done got a young lady liben dere now,
Boss. She ain’t been dere long, suh—only since las’ Sato’day. She’s a
mighty fine young lady, Boss, an’ Ah’s skeered dis yere tree am goin’ to
dribe her away. She done seem jes’ fas’nated wif dis tree—hangin’ aroun’
all de time, Boss."

"Well!" murmured Forrester, thoughtfully. It was strange that a young
woman should take such an interest in this tree, associated as it was
with mystery, menace and the blood of victims. "You’d better look out
for her," he added. "Some of these bad men may get her."

"Say, Boss, what yo’ mean bad men?"

Forrester looked his surprise.

"Why," he explained, "the bad men who make people put money in this tree
and then come and get it out."

"Dat ain’t no men, Boss!"

"No men!" repeated Forrester.

"No, Boss. Jes’ hants!"

"What nonsense are you talking now?" queried Forrester.

"Dat ain’t no nonsense, suh. Dere ain’t nobody aroun’ yere, ’ceptin’
maybe dat bad niggah woman dat libes back in dem woods, dat would go
neah dis tree in de night time."

This was growing interesting, decided Forrester. He could not remember
having heard Prentice, the detectives, or anyone, refer to these uncanny
surroundings. Possibly they had heard of them, but had scoffed at the
idea. Perhaps, then, that had been one of the reasons why so little
progress had been made. Forrester meant to get at the bottom of all this
talk.

"What is your name?" he inquired.

"Joshua, suh."

"That’s a good Bible name," commented Forrester. "I fancy a man with a
name like that ought to tell the truth."

"Ah does, Boss; hones’ Ah does," protested Joshua. "Ah belibes in de
Lawd an’ goes to church reg’lar. But de Lawd, he can’t always stop de
debil puttin’ hants in t’ings."

"You really think this tree is haunted, do you, Joshua?"

"Hones’, Boss. Dat’s de whole truf an’ nuffin but de truf."

"Tell me what makes you think the tree is haunted," requested Forrester.

"Done make me hab de shibers ebery time Ah talk ’bout dat, Boss. Yo’
see, dere’s a bad Jamaica niggah woman libes back in dem woods. She an’
her husband done come yere ’bout two yahs ago. Dis yere tree all right
den, but she done murdah her husban’ one night."

"If she murdered her husband," said Forrester, "how is it she is living
here now? Why wasn’t she hung or put in jail?"

"De trouble was, Boss, dere wasn’t no ebidence!"

"Then how do you know she murdered her husband?"

"Jes’ a minute, Boss, jes’ a minute! Yo’ done got me all frustrated. Yo’
done axe so many questions—an’ axe dem so fas.’"

"All right, Joshua," laughed Forrester. "You tell the story your own
way."

"As Ah was sayin’, Boss, she done murdah her husban.’ Nobody done see
her do it, an’ de polisman dat wen’ huntin’ roun’ nebber foun’ nuthin’.
She said her husban’ jes’ run away. But we-all knows she done kill him,
'cause eber since he been missin’ he done hant dat tree."

There was a slight pause as Joshua collected his wits. After the
previous warning Forrester remained silent until the colored man was
ready to go on with his story.

"One Sunday night, mah wife an’ me come by yere on our way from church.
An awful still night, Boss, an’ ter’ble dark. When we got jes’ yere, we
heered a noise—click, click, click—jes’ like dat. Den we heered cuss
words—blasphemin’ de Lawd something ter’ble. Den we heered mo’ click,
click. An’ after dat—_sighs_. We don’t wait to heah no mo’, Boss. We
jes’ runned home an’ got our heads under de cobers—quick! Marthy’s awful
fat, Boss, but mah goodness, how dat woman can run!

"Nex’ mo’nin’ Ah says to Marthy: What yo’all t’ink dat was we heered
las’ night?

"’Joshua,’ she says, ’don’t you know what dat was? Dat was dat Jamaica
niggah woman’s husban’ diggin’ his own grave! Dey such bad peopull de
Lawd done sen’ him away an’ he had to come back yere an’ dig a hole for
hisself.’

"Eber since den, Boss, folks has heered funny t’ings aroun’ dat tree.
Sighin’s, an’ chain rattlin’s, an groans. An’ some folks say dey done
seen funny lights floatin’ roun’. Tain’t no men gettin’ dat money,
Boss—no _suh_. It’s de hant of dat Jamaica niggah woman’s man gettin’
money to gib to de debil! Boss, dere’s lots of polismen done come from
de city an’ watch dat tree. Dey neber seen or heered nuthin’—but in de
mo’nin’ de money was gone! Dat means hants sure, Boss."

Forrester stood for a moment, gazing thoughtfully across the roadway. He
was sure that he had unearthed something worth while by allowing this
colored man to talk. Whether the man actually believed what he had told
Forrester, or was just repeating a prearranged story, which someone had
instructed him to tell, Forrester could not now determine. One thing was
certain, however. Several singular and suspicious people _did_ live near
this tree. He made up his mind to investigate the colored woman who was
reported to be living back in the woods, and also, at the first
opportunity, to secure information regarding the young woman who was
taking such an interest in the tree.

"Joshua," said Forrester, suddenly, "have you told this story to the
young lady who is now living at your house?"

"Yas, Boss, Ah shuah did. De fus’ time Ah foun’ her at dis yere tree Ah
done tole her all ’bout it, an’ wahned her to keep away. She jes’
laughed at me, Boss, an’ said dere wasn’t no such t’ings as hants. Why,
Boss, dat young lady done been comin’ down to dis yere tree ebery night
since Sunday! She come _all alone_—by _herself_—in de _dark_! Ah know,
Boss, ’cause Ah done follow her. Ah got to keep mah eyes on dat young
Missey. Ah got to take keer of her, Boss."

Forrester glanced at his watch. It was after one o’clock and he decided
to return to the city and think the situation over carefully before he
undertook any further steps. Taking a coin from his pocket, he handed it
to Joshua.

"You’re a good story teller, Joshua," declared Forrester. "Here’s a
little present for you. I’m coming up to see you again sometime. Perhaps
I’ll drop over to your house to see you."

"T’anks, Boss, t’anks," exclaimed Joshua, pocketing the coin, and
Forrester left him bowing and scraping as he went to his car and started
back to the city.



CHAPTER VI—THE FLAMING HAND


As Green had told Forrester, he had some theories of his own about the
people who called themselves the "Friends of the Poor." Like Humphrey,
he did not believe that the West Side held any clues. He was more
inclined to believe that the guilty people could be located within a
comparatively short distance of the tree in which the victims were
ordered to leave their money.

This theory of Green’s, however, had developed solely from the fact that
all activities of the band had ceased as soon as the ground was covered
with snow. With snow on the ground, according to his hypothesis, it
would be a comparatively easy matter to follow any tracks from the
tree—at least for some distance. If similar tracks could be discovered
near any house or houses in the neighborhood, a smart detective would
have an excellent clue. On the other hand, Green conjectured that if a
West Side gang were involved they would logically visit the tree in an
automobile, and therefore have little fear of giving the detectives a
clue from any tracks which they might leave between the auto and the
tree.

The fact that the detectives who had watched the tree had failed thus
far to hear or see anything, strengthened Green in this conviction.
During their watch on the tree it was probable that all the detectives
had remained at some little distance so as not to frighten off anybody
approaching it with evil intent. For people living in the country, and
familiar with the locality, it should be an easy matter to approach the
tree noiselessly in the dark and then get away without being observed.
In connection with these theories Green had worked out a plan, which
Forrester’s commission now enabled him to put into effect.

The murder of George Nevins, and the demand made on Forrester, coming
close together, led Green to believe that the "Friends of the Poor,"
made bolder by past success, were now making a big drive on the rich men
of the city. It was more than probable, therefore, that other notices
had been sent out, and that almost any night some victim could be
expected to approach the tree and leave his payment. This, of course,
would also mean a visit by the criminals.

On Wednesday evening, just as dusk was falling, Green dropped off the
train, carrying a heavy bundle in each hand. He had carefully studied an
automobile road map of the vicinity and found no difficulty in locating
the oak tree. Jasper lane sloped away in both directions from a point
opposite the tree so that Green could see a considerable distance in
either direction. After a careful inspection of his surroundings, to
make sure that he was not observed, he swiftly plunged into the heavy
undergrowth at the side of the road directly facing the tree.

Green had carefully timed his arrival to give him a few minutes of
daylight to arrange his apparatus, which consisted of a small storage
battery and a powerful automobile spotlight. He drove a stick into the
ground and attached the spotlight to it. The light was so arranged that
it could not be seen by anyone passing on the roadway before dark. At
the same time the light had a clear space through which to throw its
beam directly on the tree when the current was switched on. Green
connected the storage battery to the spotlight and tried the switch a
couple of times to make sure that it was in working order. Then he sat
down beside his apparatus, leaned his back against a tree, and prepared
to await developments.

After darkness fell he found his vigil somewhat tiresome. He dared not
smoke, nor strike a light of any kind, so it was impossible to even take
note of the time. Under such circumstances time seems to stretch to an
interminable length and the nerves get on edge. Green at length felt
these effects from the waiting game he had started to play.

During his many years on the police force, and since beginning his
career as a private detective, his work had been confined to
well-lighted city streets. Lately, much of his time had been spent in
brilliantly lighted resorts, keeping an appraising eye on the
after-business-hours amusements of trusted employees. To step from these
places to the thick woods on a dark, still night was something of a
change, and as time passed Green was willing to admit it.

He had never before believed that such absolute quiet could be possible.
All Nature slept. No chirp of bird voices, or hum of insects, could be
heard. There was no sound save the occasional rustling of leaves
overhead, the distant and weird call of locomotives on the railroad, and
once in a great while the snapping of a twig in the underbrush, or the
sound of something dropping through the trees. These were just the
ordinary sounds of the woods at night, but to Green’s inexperienced ears
they might mean anything, and many times one hand shot out to the switch
on his lighting apparatus while the other grasped the automatic in his
pocket. But each sound had stood by itself, and Green’s nervous
alertness relaxed as time wore on.

Suddenly Green’s ears caught the sound of a stone overturned on the
roadway. This was more like the sounds he had been expecting and his
body stiffened to attention. A moment later he heard the sound again, a
little nearer, and then a third time it came from the road directly
opposite to him. To Green it could mean nothing but the cautious
footsteps of someone approaching the tree. He continued to listen
intently. Sure enough, there was a slight scratching sound in the
direction of the tree. This was Green’s long awaited opportunity.
Abruptly he threw the switch and a broad beam of light made the great
trunk of the oak stand out against the black background of the woods.

The sight was not at all what Green had expected to see. He quickly
switched off the light and swore volubly yet softly. All that he had
discovered was a night-prowling cat in the act of climbing the tree,
probably in search of birds’ nests.

The discovery that this sound had its source in a common, everyday house
cat, greatly relieved the tension on Green’s nerves. He readjusted
himself to a more comfortable position and for some time paid little
attention to the various sounds about him. Gradually, however, he became
conscious of a sound that he had not heard before. To Green it appeared
something like the whistling of the wind just before a summer
thunderstorm, but looking up, he saw that the sky was unclouded and
filled with a multitude of twinkling stars.

The sound continued at intervals, growing louder on each occasion, and
at last Green realized, with a start, that it was distinctly like a
human sigh. In a moment Green’s phlegmatic constitution was upset. He
became conscious of a slight chill in his spine and a peculiar tingling
in his scalp. When, a moment later, he distinctly heard a metallic
rattle like a person in heavy chains trying to move about, he swore
audibly for comfort and promised himself that if he ever got back to the
city alive, he would resign forthwith.

The sound of his own voice relieved him a little, and reason reasserted
itself. Neither victims depositing money, nor the criminals who might be
seeking it, would be apt to make noises like that. On the other hand,
Green had never believed in the supernatural. He ascribed everything to
a human agency, and he now argued that for whatever reason the sounds
were made, some human being was back of them. He resolved that the next
time a sound came to him he would throw on the light.

But that next sound was more uncanny than anything that had gone before,
and as Green listened he temporarily forgot about the light. What he
heard was the muffled tolling of a bell. The sound rose and fell on the
still night; now seemingly close at hand; now floating far away.

Green was sure that it must be very close to midnight, and even though
it had been earlier in the evening, it was not likely that anyone would
be ringing a church or school bell. Moreover, he was confident that the
sound he heard originated in his immediate neighborhood. Gradually the
sound of the tolling bell grew fainter and seemed to drift away. Green
threw on the switch again. He could see the tree and the space about it
clearly, but there was no sign of anyone, and he could detect no
movement in the undergrowth. Even the cat had silently disappeared.
Green allowed the light to remain on for a minute, while he listened
intently, and keenly inspected the scene before him. Then he switched
the light off once more and resumed his watch. But Green was recalling
certain eerie stories he had heard in years gone by, and there in the
dark and silent woods many disturbing doubts besieged him.

For a time his eyes were blinded by the recent glare of his light, and
the darkness shut him in like a wall. After a while, however, his eyes
again became accustomed to the darkness and he could dimly see the gray
road in the starlight. At the same moment that his vision had adjusted
itself to the darkness, Green was conscious of something like a moving
shadow in the roadway before him. He heard no sound, yet he was
confident that someone or something had stopped in front of the tree. He
did not hesitate this time but instantly threw on his light. It brought
out in bold relief the figure of a woman walking up the path toward the
tree. She stopped abruptly at the unexpected burst of light and Green
realized that she would instinctively turn to see its source, allowing
him to see her face.

Indeed, she had already begun that turning movement when Green’s vision
was suddenly shut off by a broad hand that covered his eyes, and he felt
a long arm encircle his body. He struggled desperately, but the person
who held him was too powerful. Green was like a child in that vise-like
grasp. He felt a precipitate movement of the body of this person,
followed by a crash in the roadway. Green needed nothing more to tell
him that his lighting outfit had been kicked aside and probably
destroyed.

Then Green felt himself unexpectedly propelled out into the roadway by a
pair of powerful arms. He lost his balance and fell at full length. The
dust rose in clouds about him, momentarily stifling and blinding him.
All thought of the supernatural had now been driven from Green’s mind.
He had plainly seen a woman who could not possibly be a ghostly
visitant, and he had been very roughly treated by some other person who
could not for one moment be considered as a misty, disembodied spirit.
Green scrambled to his feet, pulling out his automatic as he did so, and
stared about him. As far as the darkness would permit his gaze to
penetrate Green could see no strange forms or movement anywhere, and the
silence of the woods was unbroken. Whoever had been there had made good
their escape during the time Green was stretched in the road.

Green stood with his back toward the tree. Glancing warily in all
directions he slowly turned to face it. Then, as he looked toward the
tree he became aware of a white, or greenish-white, misty glow that
seemed to come from it. Gradually this light increased until he seemed
to be able to dimly make out the small hole in the tree. Suddenly a more
pronounced mass of light appeared. It was not a bright light; simply a
hazy, greenish glow in the darkness, though it seemed to flame and smoke
in a weird, peculiar manner. Green remembered having read or heard
somewhere that specter forms were supposed to emit just such a light.
While he stared, wild-eyed and shaking, the light apparently took the
form of a hand pointing at him. And as he continued to look in petrified
amazement Green realized that it _was_ a hand—a flaming, smoking,
ghastly hand. And then he saw also that the hand was slowly turning. At
last he could perceive quite distinctly that the flaming hand was
pointing in the direction from which he had come.

Green had had enough. He took the hint and started down the road as fast
as his legs could carry him.



CHAPTER VII—SPIRIT CLUES


While driving down from the North Shore, Forrester decided to ascertain
as soon as possible if either Green or the detective bureau had ever
heard of the strange rumors regarding the oak tree, for it seemed to him
that to the trained detective mind this might offer some suggestion.
Forrester did not believe in the supernatural. Such occurrences must be
backed by a human agency of some sort, and the knowledge of the
existence of these occult manifestations, if carefully analyzed, might
lead to the formation of a definite clue.

It was late in the afternoon when Forrester reached the city, but he did
not delay his inquiries. He went first to Green’s office, finding, of
course, that the detective had already left to carry out his plan of
night observation, although Green’s office girl, trained to secrecy,
said that she did not know anything about the detective’s movements.
Forrester then went to the detective bureau and related his story. Far
from attaching any importance to the matter, the men there simply
laughed at and ridiculed the story of a haunted tree, ascribing it
solely to the well-known superstitious nature of colored people. They
assured Forrester that it could have no bearing whatsoever upon the
case, and he left the detective bureau more impressed than ever with the
idea that the solution of the problem was entirely in his hands.
Humphrey’s general analysis now assumed greater importance in
Forrester’s eyes, for the reporter had predicted that Forrester would
discover clues unnoticed or disregarded by the detectives. Here was a
quick fulfilment of Humphrey’s prophecy!

As Forrester closed the front door, after reaching home, his mother and
sister hurried out into the hall to meet him. Mrs. Forrester threw her
arms around his neck, while Josephine sympathetically took one of his
hands in both her own.

"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Forrester. "Why didn’t you tell us you
were worried to death?"

"Worried!" echoed Forrester. "Where did you get the idea that I was
worried?"

"Oh, Bob," explained Josephine, "we read that article in the _Times_
this morning, and people have been calling us up all day."

"Why didn’t you tell us you received one of those dreadful notices?"
queried Mrs. Forrester.

"Because I didn’t think it amounted to anything," answered Forrester.
"There was no use upsetting you with a little thing like that."

"A little thing like that!" exclaimed Josephine. "Why they _killed_ poor
Mr. Nevins! When we didn’t hear anything from you all day we were sure
you had met with an accident."

"And the paper said you were so frightened, Bob," added his mother,
"that we thought perhaps you had run away and hidden somewhere without
letting us know."

"Damn!" exploded Forrester. "Wait until I get my hands on that
reporter!"

"Arn’t you really frightened?" asked Josephine.

"Do I look frightened?" retorted Forrester. "You mustn’t believe all the
rubbish you see in the newspapers. Those reporters have to invent half
the stuff they write."

"But you _did_ get a notice, didn’t you, Son?" asked Mrs. Forrester.

"Certainly, but it’s nothing to get excited about," grumbled Forrester.
"I’ll just put the money in that tree Saturday night and the whole thing
will be forgotten. Prentice told me he had had the same experience once,
and you see nothing ever happened to him."

"Oh, don’t wait until Saturday," protested Mrs. Forrester. "Take it up
right now and get the thing off our minds. The decorators are through
and before we saw that newspaper article I had made all arrangements to
move out to ’Woodmere’ Saturday morning."

"Yes," added Josephine, "fix it up right now as Mother suggests, Bob. We
would never dare move out into the country with this threat hanging over
you, and I do so want to leave the hot city. Practically all our friends
are up in the country now."

"Now look here, folks," protested Forrester, releasing himself from the
embraces of his mother and sister, and throwing back his shoulders. "I’m
the head of this house, and I command you to say nothing more about this
matter. Let your arrangements for moving Saturday morning go ahead just
as you had planned. I cannot do anything about delivering this money
before Saturday night, as these men would not be expecting it until that
time. Now, mind what I say and forget about it. It’s all nonsense,
coddling and worrying about a man who has come safely through the war.
The police are working on the case right now and you have absolutely no
cause for worry or fear."

"But Mr. Nevins...." began Josephine.

"His case has nothing to do with mine," interrupted Forrester. "He was
an old man in the first place; and in the second, he didn’t take any
precautions."

"But there have been others...." started Mrs. Forrester.

"Now, _now_, NOW!" exclaimed Forrester. "Don’t say another word! You can
safely leave this whole matter to me. Now then, Mother, have dinner
served at once. I didn’t have any luncheon and I’m hungry as a bear."

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.

                                  ————

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."

"Couldn’t you arrange the drink first, Mr. Forrester?" pleaded Green.

"No," returned Forrester, "I’d have to take you up to our country house,
'Woodmere’, to get that for you, and I’m afraid you couldn’t stand the
trip until you get this trouble off your mind. Come on, pull yourself
together and tell me what has happened."

"I hate to repeat it, Mr. Forrester. God knows, I don’t even like to
think about it!"

"You make me curious, Green. I’ll bet you have got a clue—for it begins
to look like you’d had a real fight with those men."

Forrester glanced down at Green’s dusty clothes.

"Men?" snorted Green. "There ain’t no men!"

Forrester gave a startled exclamation and looked at Green in amazement
for a moment. The reply was curiously like that which the negro had made
to him the day before.

"Mr. Forrester," continued Green, "I’ve been doin’ police and detective
work for twenty years. I ain’t afraid o’ no man livin’. Just show me a
bunch o’ tough mugs and I’ll jump right in and clean ’em up. But I’m
damned if I’ll ever sit out in the woods at night again with rustlin’
leaves, bodiless voices and burnin’ hands! No, _sir_—never again! You
don’t want no detective to solve this case, Mr. Forrester—you want a
spiritualist, or somethin’ like that!"

"Look here, Green!" exclaimed Forrester. "You’re too old and experienced
a man—you’ve got too much common sense—to believe in stuff like that.
Who has been telling you all these things?"

"Tellin’ me?" gasped Green. "My God! I seen ’em myself, with my own
eyes; heard ’em with my own ears. Nobody don’t have to _tell_ me
nothin’. _I seen it!_"

"Mere trickery!" scoffed Forrester. "Someone was playing a joke on you."

"Damn it all!" cried Green, jumping up and pounding a huge fist on his
desk. "Don’t tell me I didn’t see what I seen. I never had no
superstition till last night, but believe me! You can tell me any kind
o’ a ghost story now and I’ll _swear_ to it. Take it from me, Sir Oliver
Lodge and all them people ain’t so cracked as we thought they was. I
thought them city detectives was a bunch o’ boneheads, but I apologize
to ’em now—every one. I tell you, Mr. Forrester, here’s a case that’ll
never be solved. It’s some imp o’ hell that leaves those notices at
people’s doors. No wonder they’re found asphyxiated when they don’t pay.
It’s coal-gas straight from hell that comes out and suffocates ’em.
You’ll never catch nobody takin’ that money out o’ that tree, ’cause you
can take my word for it, when you put it in there, a ghostly, flamin’
hand reaches over your shoulder and pulls it out again. Believe me, no
human eyes is goin’ to see the people that gets that money."

"Now look here, Green!" exclaimed Forrester. "I’m willing to admit that
something or other has given you a bad scare, and that you’ve lost your
grip. What you need is a good breakfast and some hot coffee. Come on out
with me and get your breakfast. You can tell me the whole story while
you’re eating."

Green mumbled objections, but Forrester continued to urge him until the
man put on his hat and accompanied Forrester to a nearby restaurant.
There, between gulps of food and the consuming of several cups of hot
coffee, Green told his story across the table to Forrester.

At its close, Forrester lit a cigarette and sat in deep thought. To
Forrester, Green’s original theory that some or all of the "Friends of
the Poor" lived near the tree, seemed extremely plausible. Crude as the
detective might be, his reasoning in this regard apparently had a sound
basis in the weird happenings as related by Joshua, and now confirmed by
Green’s experience. Combining the theories of both Green and Humphrey,
and fitting them in with the negro’s story and Green’s tale, threw
several hitherto unnoticed figures into the limelight. Forrester did not
doubt for a minute that the woman revealed by Green’s light was the girl
referred to by Joshua. If so, then the man who had attacked Green was
probably the big negro himself. A third person to be considered was the
peculiar negress, said to live in the woods near the tree. Forrester
remembered with a start Humphrey’s triangulation theory. Here were three
prominent figures with which to lay down a triangle. Surely he was
making more progress in the quest than any of the detectives. These
occurrences might only be indefinite spirit clues, but they pointed
accusing fingers at several very definite people.

Though he had little faith in Green’s ability as a detective, it was
possible that the man’s very stupidity might force him to stumble upon
worth while clues, as in this instance; clues which Forrester later
could make use of in his own deliberations. Thinking along these lines,
Forrester decided that he would not allow Green to leave the case, as
the man had intimated he would do.

"Green," said Forrester, at length, "you spoke in your office as if you
wished to drop this case."

"You bet I do!" returned Green, emphatically.

"That would be foolish," remonstrated Forrester. "There’s a good deal of
money in it for you, and your reputation won’t lose anything if you are
on the ground when the case is solved."

"It’ll never be solved," affirmed Green, positively.

"Yes, it will," declared Forrester. "I’m going to do it, with your
help."

Green stared. "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet," he protested.

"Now, listen to me," went on Forrester. "On Saturday morning we open our
country house. I want you to come up on the noon train with enough
baggage to last you all summer, or until we settle this case. You are to
be my body-guard when I am home, and watch the house while I am away.
Occasionally I may want you to look up certain things for me, but I will
promise you right now that I won’t ask you to go near that tree again
unless I am with you. Our chauffeur has a nice place over the garage and
I’ll have him give you a room there, so you can be close at hand. Now,
that’s settled. The noon train, remember. And here’s the address."

Forrester tore off a corner of a menu and wrote out directions for
reaching "Woodmere."

Green wavered. "Well, I dunno," he said, hesitatingly.

Forrester leaned across the table.

"Green," he said, smiling, "we have a little private stock left in the
cellar up there. Our guests are permitted to use it."

Green’s eyes twinkled. "That might help to keep them ghosts away. One
poison sometimes counteracts another, so I guess one kind o’ spirits
_might_ chase away the other kind."

"Then the matter is settled?" asked Forrester.

"Sure thing," grinned the mollified detective. "But remember—I’ve got to
have regular protection against ghosts."



CHAPTER VIII—THE GIRL ON THE HORSE


Taking Green to breakfast and listening to his story had occupied more
time than Forrester had allotted for his interview with the detective.
So, after leaving the city behind and entering the smooth and less
frequented roads of the North Shore, he drove his roadster at a pace
that would quickly have brought him into the toils of any local
guardians of the law who might have spied his racing motor. Fortunately,
they were reserving their watchfulness for a later hour of the day and
Forrester kept up his swift pace until familiar landmarks told him that
he was approaching Jasper lane.

He had just placed his hand on the gear lever when a horse and rider
unexpectedly appeared coming out of a narrow side-road a short distance
ahead. Forrester threw out his clutch and shifted his hand to the
emergency brake. So great had been his speed, however, that the car slid
for some distance along the oily roadway and passed directly under the
horse’s nose. Both horse and rider were startled. Snorting wildly, the
horse reared on his hind legs with such suddenness that his rider was
thrown to the ground. Forrester jumped from his car and ran back to see
if he could be of any assistance. He discovered then that the rider was
a girl, who had sprung quickly to her feet before he reached her.

"I am sorry," exclaimed Forrester, apologetically, removing his cap.
"Are you hurt?"

"Oh, no," she returned, with a smile, "it was nothing at all."

"It was very careless of me," continued Forrester, "not seeing you
sooner."

"Not at all!" returned the girl. "It was entirely my fault. I should
have remembered that I was approaching the main motor highway and been
more cautious." Her eyes twinkled, as she added, "Just like a woman,
wasn’t it?"

"Well," smiled Forrester, hesitatingly, "I wouldn’t exactly say that."

"Oh, yes, you would," she asserted. "I know how you men talk about us
behind our backs. You see, I have a brother."

"I would not take what a brother said as a guide to other men’s
opinions," suggested Forrester. "Brothers do not always fully appreciate
their sister’s charms."

"Am I to consider that as a compliment, or just a piece of information?"
challenged the girl.

"I leave that to your own good judgment," returned Forrester.

The girl flushed slightly. "Would you mind catching my horse?" she
requested.

Forrester glanced around and saw that the horse was ambling along by
himself and already some distance away. Forrester started after the
horse at a run, and thought with deep chagrin that the girl standing
back there in the road was probably laughing at him. To run before a new
acquaintance is never a graceful performance. He had seen a spirit of
mischief lurking in the girl’s eyes and he half suspected that her horse
could have been recalled without this display of energy on his part.
Probably it was his punishment for attempting to compliment her on such
short acquaintance. Forrester caught the horse without difficulty, which
convinced him that his supposition regarding the girl’s purpose was
correct. He took advantage of the return trip with the horse to study
her carefully and deliberately; partly for his own information and
partly to punish her for sending him after the horse.

He had already noted that her hair was slightly reddish in hue and very
abundant, and that her eyes were brown. He now observed that she was
tall, but not too tall, and slender, but not too slender. She was
attired in a brown linen riding suit, with tan boots, and a white straw
sailor hat. Whether accidentally or by design, the hat was tilted at
just the right angle. That she was athletic and a good horsewoman was
evidenced by her quick recovery from what would have been a very bad
fall for the average woman.

She greeted him with a smile as he neared her.

"My, how you can run!" she exclaimed.

That he had been put on exhibition Forrester was now sure, and his
resentment must have shown in his face, for she added, soothingly, "It
is awfully good of you to take so much trouble for a stranger."

Forrester was distinctly attracted to the girl. She was so different
from girls that he knew. He could not recollect a girl of his
acquaintance who possessed such unquestionable beauty and engaging
personality, combined with a self-reliance that detracted not a jot from
her femininity. Small wonder that he felt a poignant regret that they
were about to part and probably never meet again. Almost unconsciously
his thoughts took the form of words.

"Must we remain strangers?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she answered, placing her foot in the stirrup and vaulting
lightly into the saddle. She smiled down at him and then, with a wave of
her hand, started at a gallop up the road.

Forrester stood a moment watching her retreating figure.

"Perhaps!" he repeated to himself. "How am I to take that? ’Perhaps’
might mean anything—yes, or no, or maybe. Who the deuce can she be? I’ll
have to ask Josephine if she knows her."

Going back to his roadster Forrester resumed his journey. It was his
intention to pay a call on the mysterious negress, so just before he
reached the oak he drove his car well up on the side of the road and
alighted. With Green’s story in mind he glanced around to see if any
evidences of the detective’s adventure remained. Almost in front of the
oak he discovered the battered remains of the spotlight, and in the
gulley across the road he saw a corner of the small storage battery.
This removed any doubt Forrester might have had that Green had actually
been at the oak tree. In fact, it seemed highly probable that Green had
really met with the mishaps he described. If the detective had not been
dreaming or drinking then there were certainly many strange things going
on here and perhaps some real clues to be unearthed.

Forrester stood in front of the oak for some minutes, deliberating. Then
he approached it and plunged his arm into the opening as he had done the
day before. In thinking the matter over it had occurred to him that the
oak might be hollow and someone concealed within it. After feeling
carefully around, however, and digging his fingers once more into the
rotten wood, Forrester was convinced that this hollow in which the
packages of money were placed, and which was little larger than a man’s
head, was the only opening in the tree. The rest of the great trunk
appeared to be absolutely solid.

Just as Forrester withdrew his arm from the opening he heard a sound
behind him that resembled several persons walking. He stood erect and
turned swiftly; then paused, staring sheepishly, like a bad boy caught
in the pantry. Before him was the girl on the horse. Her left hand,
which grasped the reins, was resting on the front of the saddle, while
her right hand was buried in the pocket of her coat. Surprised and
disconcerted as he was, Forrester nevertheless noted the easy
nonchalance of her attitude. This time, however, she did not smile but
sat regarding him with the suggestion of a frown on her face.

"Putting it in or taking it out?" she inquired, lightly.

"I—I—don’t know what you mean," stammered Forrester.

She slightly raised her eyebrows. "I presume, if I were to ask you the
question, you would tell me you did not know that oak has a bad
reputation."

By this time Forrester had recovered his poise, and his newly acquired
detective instinct asserted itself. The girl was evidently regarding him
with something approaching suspicion, and it aroused in him an answering
feeling of distrust. In these surroundings his mind was working rapidly.
He recalled the young lady of Joshua’s story, and the woman of the night
in Green’s recital.

"Has it?" asked Forrester, innocently, after a pause.

The girl regarded him keenly for a moment before she spoke.

"For a man who knows so little about it," she said, sarcastically, "you
seem to have been in a great hurry to get here."

"I don’t see why you should suppose this to be my original destination,"
returned Forrester. "Possibly the large size of this tree attracted my
attention in passing."

"Perhaps," she said, and both smiled as they recalled the last time that
word was spoken. Then she added, "But you have not _passed_ yet. Your
car is still some distance back on the road. Think of a better one."

"Tell me," exclaimed Forrester, "do you live near here?"

Her face hardened as she replied, "That is an unnecessary question at
this time. I might even say that it savors of an evasion."

"I beg your pardon," said Forrester, stiffly.

Again the girl sat silently regarding him and Forrester met her eyes
with a steady look. He surmised that she was appraising him and her next
question confirmed his thought.

"Are you a victim?" she inquired.

"My dear young lady," returned Forrester, "about all we do is to ask
each other questions. Sometimes _I_ don’t get an answer."

"I accept the reproof and apologize," she said, and smiled. "I live just
a little way up this road."

"And I am—unfortunately—a victim," admitted Forrester.

"Now we’re quits," laughed the girl. "Let’s begin again."

"If this tree has a bad reputation," said Forrester, "I am curious to
know why a girl, alone, takes a doubtful chance by talking to a strange
man in its shadow."

The girl partly withdrew her right hand from her coat pocket.

"I’m not quite alone," she answered, and Forrester saw that she held a
small automatic in her hand. "This has been covering you ever since I
rode up."

"Certainly I shall now feel it incumbent upon me to answer all
questions," smiled Forrester.

"All right," she retorted, quickly, "what is your name?"

"Forrester."

"_Robert_ Forrester?"

"Yes, how did you guess?"

A wicked little smile stole over the girl’s face. "You are the last
person I should expect to see here," she declared.

"Why?" queried Forrester.

"I understood you were scared to death," she returned.

"That damned reporter again!" burst out Forrester, clenching his hands.
"Wait until I get within reach of him!"

"My, how savage you are!" exclaimed the girl, with mock severity. But
Forrester saw that her eyes twinkled.

"You will pardon my strong language," he said, "but this is not the
first time that article has made me look foolish."

"Oh, then you’re not _really_ frightened?" she inquired, her eyes still
flashing with humor.

Forrester opened his mouth as if to speak, but words failed him, and the
girl threw back her head and laughed.

"Mr. Forrester," she said, at length, leaning down toward him, "you
asked me a little while ago if we must remain strangers. I can now
answer your question definitely. If you will come over to the house for
a minute I will give you a letter of introduction, which I have,
addressed to your mother. I had intended to deliver it in person, but
after arriving here I found you were still in town."

Forrester was thunderstruck, and therefore speechless for a moment. This
was too good to be true.

"My name is Sturtevant," the girl continued. Then added, with one of her
mischievous smiles, "_Miss_ Sturtevant."

"I shall be very glad, indeed, to deliver your letter, Miss Sturtevant,"
said Forrester. "Or if you prefer to wait until Saturday, you can
deliver it in person as you first intended to do. We move out to
'Woodmere’ on Saturday."

Forrester had no sooner said this than he could have kicked himself. He
had wanted to have a look at the place she occupied and he might now be
throwing away the opportunity. When he recalled the negro’s words, it
had seemed as if the girl lived alone. If she did, it would be both odd
and suspicious under the circumstances. Forrester was anxious to
ascertain this fact definitely, and he was pleased when the girl
disregarded his suggestion.

"If you don’t mind," she said, "I should like to have you come over to
the house now and get the letter."

"I shall be delighted," returned Forrester, this time without
qualification. "If it is only a short distance I will walk."

"It is a very short distance," informed the girl. "It would be hardly
worth while starting up your car." Then she added, "Especially if you
plan to return here."

Forrester glanced up at her quickly, but she was already turning her
horse back to the road and he did not meet her eye. Whether or not she
had some object in what she said, or was simply poking fun at him, he
could not tell.

Miss Sturtevant kept her horse down to an easy walk and Forrester found
no difficulty in maintaining his place at her side. She made no further
reference to the tree and its evil repute, so Forrester did not again
bring up the subject, leading their light chatter instead into comments
upon the surrounding country.

The Bradbury house, which Forrester now knew had been taken by Miss
Sturtevant, stood only a short distance back from the road, and as they
turned into the gate Forrester could see an elderly woman on the porch.
A few minutes later she was introduced to him as Mrs. Morris, and during
the short talk he had with her, while Miss Sturtevant was getting her
letter, he gathered that she was a paid companion to the girl. Miss
Sturtevant quickly returned with the letter for his mother, and after a
few brief words, which included an invitation to Forrester to come
again, they parted.

At the gate Forrester met the big negro, Joshua.

"Hello, Joshua," he greeted the negro.

"Howdy-do, suh."

"Any new stories about that haunted tree, Joshua?"

"No, _suh_! Mah Missey done say Ah talk too much." And the negro hurried
on.

Forrester wondered as he returned along the road toward the tree.



CHAPTER IX—LUCY


Forrester had at first been in a quandary as to the character in which
he should approach the negress. If she were open to suspicion it would
be unwise for him to pose as a detective, or openly confess to being a
victim of the "Friends of the Poor." As he weighed the matter, a
recollection of Humphrey offered him a suggestion. Why not, for the
moment, assume the character of Humphrey and approach her as a reporter?
The fact that neither Humphrey nor the detectives had at any time
referred to her, and that no one outside of Joshua had mentioned her,
led him to believe that her retreat in the woods had remained unnoticed.
A visit by him in the guise of a reporter would probably be the first of
the kind that she had received. Although he knew Humphrey had not made
use of a notebook while interviewing him, Forrester believed that a
notebook would impress an ignorant colored woman. In her mind it would
more fully bear out his claim to being a reporter. In accordance with
this idea Forrester had provided himself with a new and imposing
notebook which he was prepared to pull out as soon as he started his
interview with the negress.

Leaving the road, Forrester followed the path around the oak and back
into the woods. The thick foliage shut out every ray of sunlight and
Forrester could well imagine how the gloom and silence of these woods
would give full play to superstitious minds. If the negress were seeking
to hide herself, the woods in themselves formed an eerie protection. The
path turned sharply to the right just beyond the tree and Forrester had
gone only a few yards when he was startled to find himself unexpectedly
in front of her cottage. He had supposed the place to be more deeply
buried in the woods, and this precipitant arrival at her door impressed
Forrester at once with the negress’ accusatory proximity to the oak
tree. A savage snarl greeted Forrester as he stepped into the small
clearing in front of the house and he saw a half-breed dog facing him
with teeth bared and hair bristling. Forrester spoke soothingly to the
animal but the sound of his voice seemed only to enrage it the more and
it barked loudly. He hastily glanced about for a club with which to
defend himself in case the beast should attempt to attack him. Just at
this moment, however, the cottage door opened and the negress stood in
the doorway. She was tall and thin, with wiry, jet-black hair that
contrasted strangely with the sickly yellow of her skin. Her eyelids
drooped and at first Forrester thought she was squinting at him, but as
he discovered later, this was a natural affection of the eyelids. It
gave her a peculiarly sinister look and Forrester felt an aversion for
her the moment she appeared in the doorway. She stood with her hands on
her hips and silently looked him over.

"How do you do," said Forrester.

"Good afternoon," she returned, sullenly, her voice deep and harsh.

"Would you mind calling off that dog?" requested Forrester. "I want to
have a chat with you."

"About what?" she asked.

"Oh, about yourself, and the oak tree, and what has been going on there
lately."

"I don’t know anything about it!" she snapped.

"I’m sorry," said Forrester. "I thought perhaps you would know something
about it."

"What made you think that?" she demanded.

Forrester immediately fell into Humphrey’s manner so far as he could
recollect it. "I’m a reporter for the _Times_," he explained. "I have
been assigned to write up a special feature article for next Sunday’s
edition about this tree that the ’Friends of the Poor’ have been using,
and the neighborhood. While scouting around I just now happened to
discover your cottage. Naturally, it occurred to me that anyone living
so near to the oak tree might know something about it."

There is a certain glamour and attraction connected with reporters,
newspapers and special interviews which appears to appeal to persons in
all stations of life. Forrester observed that his remarks had had a very
softening effect upon the negress. She regarded him thoughtfully for a
moment, then turned and administered a kick to the dog.

"Get out!" she cried, and as the beast slunk off into the woods she
turned to Forrester. "Come in," she invited.

Forrester had observed that though the woman’s voice was monotonous and
expressionless in character, she used excellent English, without a trace
of negro dialect. In her pronunciation, however, the slight accent
peculiar to West Indian negroes was noticeable. Before the door had been
opened Forrester had also noted that the cottage was a small one-story
affair and as he now passed through the door he marked a partition, with
a doorway, running across the center, and concluded that the interior of
the cottage was divided into two rooms. As the negress closed the door
behind him Forrester quickly scanned the room into which he had been
ushered. This was about twelve by fifteen feet, and quite obviously
served as both kitchen and sitting room. A small iron cookstove stood in
one corner, a table occupied the center of the room, and a rocking chair
and two straight-backed chairs of ancient design completed the
furnishings. On a small stand in the window next to the entrance door
stood an old glass aquarium, covered with wire netting. It contained no
water, however, and Forrester discovered several small snakes slowly
coiling themselves around on the gravel in the bottom. It instantly
recalled to his mind that the Voodoo worshippers of the West Indies used
snakes in their ceremonies.

The woman crossed the room and seated herself in the rocking chair, but
did not invite Forrester to sit down. He selected one of the
straight-backed chairs, pulled it up to the table, and as he sat down
drew out his notebook and spread it open on the table in an ostentatious
manner that could not fail to impress the woman.

"What is your name?" he inquired.

"Lucy."

"Lucy what?"

"That’s all—just Lucy."

"You’ve lived around here for some time, I suppose?" asked Forrester.

"About two years," she replied.

"Have you a husband?" he queried, glancing about the room as if he
expected to see a man in some corner.

"I did have," she said, "but he ran away soon after we moved in here."

"Too bad—too bad," sympathized Forrester, as he made some notes in his
book. Then he added, "Now, what can you tell me about the goings-on at
this tree?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, frankly," said Forrester, "I haven’t a very clear idea of what I
do want to know. You see, that’s just what I came to you about. I
thought perhaps you could tell me something regarding what was going on
here. Have you ever seen any of the men who make use of that tree?"

"No," she declared, "and no one ever will."

"What do you mean by that?" queried Forrester.

"No men ever come near that tree—just ghosts. It’s haunted!"

Forrester stared for a moment. It was curious how all these people
agreed on that one point. He could understand how an ignorant colored
man could have his superstitions aroused, and he could see how a plain
man like Green might be tricked; but it was hard to believe that this
apparently educated colored woman, living for two years within the
shadow of the tree, could be fooled. This, he concluded, was suspicious
circumstance number one, and as he glanced toward the snakes in the
aquarium he strongly suspected that if she were willing, the negress
could give him some inside facts regarding the manifestations at the
tree.

"What do you keep those snakes for?" he asked, suddenly.

"They’re part of my religion," she returned.

"Don’t you go to church?" inquired Forrester.

"Not the church these niggers around here go to," she sneered. "I
worship in my own way."

Forrester did not venture to question her further on this point, for he
had read enough regarding the Voodoo worship to know that they were
extremely reticent in describing their ceremonies. The possession of the
snakes suggested to Forrester that this woman might even be a priestess
of the sect, because he remembered having read that only the priests and
priestesses were accustomed to using snakes in their ceremonies. Another
thought came to Forrester at this moment, which gave him a decided
start. Voodoo worshippers had been known to demand _human sacrifices_!
Was he, after all, actually discovering clues which the detectives had
overlooked?

"Well," he went on, again addressing the negress, "if there are ghosts
instead of men hanging around that tree, perhaps you can tell me
something about what they do. I’m sure this is going to make a most
interesting story for my paper."

"I have never seen anything," explained Lucy, "but sometimes when I come
home late at night I hear things."

"Such as—" suggested Forrester.

"Oh, groans and sighs—rattling chains—and sometimes the sound of a
bell."

This was positive confirmation of Green’s story, and Forrester pondered
before asking his next question. He remembered Joshua’s assertion that
he had plainly heard words, so he asked:

"Do you ever hear voices saying anything?"

"Nothing distinctly. Just sighs and groans and sounds like that, as if
somebody were in trouble."

"You think, then," said Forrester, "that it is just some uneasy soul
that haunts that tree?"

"Yes," she replied.

"But," protested Forrester, "what could a ghost want with good United
States money?"

"I don’t know," replied Lucy. "In my worship I sometimes commune with
the spirits, but they have never told me how they could use money."

"Have you ever tried to commune with this ghost?" asked Forrester.

"No," replied Lucy. "I don’t think it belongs to my people."

"Suppose I were to offer you a good sum of money to try to communicate
with it?" suggested Forrester.

"I don’t need money," she replied.

"Don’t you have to work for a living?"

"No."

"How do you manage to live then?"

"I don’t need money to live. I can get on."

Forrester glanced around the room once more. The cookstove appeared to
be without a fire and there were no signs of food. He wondered.

Turning again to Lucy, Forrester said, "Strange about the ghost that
haunts that tree, Lucy. Did you ever hear of anyone being murdered
around here?"

"No," she replied. Then added, after a slight pause, as she rose and
walked toward the door, "Guess you have found out all I can tell you,
Mister. You’d better go now—before my dog comes back."

The uncanny atmosphere of the place, the nearby snakes in their glass
prison, and the weird conversation regarding ghosts and singular forms
of worship, had given Forrester a very uncomfortable feeling. He knew
now why Green had temporarily lost his nerve, for he was quite willing
to take the woman’s undisguised hint about his own immediate departure.
Slipping his notebook into his pocket and putting on his cap, Forrester
thanked her for the interview and hurriedly passed through the door,
which was slammed on his heels.



CHAPTER X—CROSSED THEORIES


The long drive into the city from the North Shore delayed Forrester so
that he did not reach the Nevins’ home until the funeral services had
ended, and though he joined the cortège which followed the remains of
the banker to the cemetery he did not have an opportunity to speak to
his mother about the letter which the girl had entrusted to him. At
dinner, however, he passed the letter across the table to his mother
with the remark:

"There’s a note I was requested to bring to you—and in which I am very
much interested."

Mrs. Forrester withdrew the letter from its envelope, adjusted her
glasses and glanced at the writing. Hastily she turned to the signature
and exclaimed, "Why, it’s from Helen!" Then, turning to Josephine,
added, "You remember Mrs. Lewis, my dear. Her husband was appointed to
the vice-presidency of a New York bank about two years ago. She wrote to
me several times and then our correspondence gradually dropped off. I
was thinking of her only recently, and wondering how she was getting on
in New York."

"We remember her perfectly, Mother," broke in Forrester, impatiently.
"We want to know what the letter says."

"We!" echoed Josephine, surprised. "I’m sure I’m not especially
interested."

Mrs. Forrester glanced through the note. "It is a letter of
introduction," she explained, looking over her glasses at Forrester.
"How odd! Helen asks me to do what I can to make Miss Mary Sturtevant’s
stay in Chicago a pleasant one. Strange that she did not write me
directly."

"Oh," breathed Josephine, smiling wisely at Forrester.

"Does she say who Miss Sturtevant is?" queried Forrester.

"The daughter of some very dear friends of Helen’s. The Sturtevants are
an old New York family, she says. I’m quite sure that I have heard of
them."

"May I be permitted to inquire," said Josephine, roguishly, "how Mr.
Robert Forrester came to be the bearer of this note, and wherefrom
springs his intense interest?"

Forrester colored, then frowned severely upon his sister.

"I met the young lady through an accident this morning. When she learned
who I was she asked me to bring this letter to you. She had intended
presenting it in person, but learned after arriving that we would not be
moving to ’Woodmere’ for some days."

"My! What a simple and straightforward explanation," smiled Josephine.
"Why not tell us _all_ about it, Bob?"

Forrester scowled at his sister, and sipped from his water glass to gain
time to collect his thoughts. He was not sure at this time just how much
he ought to tell. He set the glass down and briefly related how his car
had frightened the girl’s horse, leaving it to be assumed that she had
at that time given him the letter.

"What an extraordinary coincidence!" exclaimed Mrs. Forrester. At that
moment her attention was distracted by a question from the maid, and
Josephine, leaning toward Forrester, whispered, "Some time I want to
hear the _whole_ story, Bob. It’s so romantic!"

Happily for Forrester’s peace of mind the conversation drifted to other
things, and as soon as dinner was over he hurried to his favorite corner
in the library. He wanted to think, not alone of Mary Sturtevant and her
vague connection with the mystery, but of the negress, Lucy, and the
perplexing new aspect she had given to the case. There seemed no
apparent alliance between the two, yet both were strangely, though
obscurely, associated with it. Forrester had no sooner lighted his pipe,
however, when the door-bell rang, and a moment later a servant announced
that two men wished to see him. For an instant he was startled, yet it
did not seem likely that the "Friends of the Poor" would approach him in
this open way.

"Did they give any names?" he asked.

"No, just said they were from the police department, sir," was the
reply.

"Oh!" exclaimed Forrester, relieved. "Send them in."

Two heavily built men entered the room. They were strikingly alike in
their general appearance; tall, broad shouldered, with big feet, large
hands, and smooth-shaven, plump, ruddy faces. Forrester thought as he
looked at them that there was small wonder so many criminals escaped.
The average city detective was a type! Easily recognized and therefore
readily avoided.

"Is this Mr. Forrester?" inquired one of the men.

"Yes," answered Forrester, as he rose from his chair.

"Well," continued the man, "my name’s Cahill, and this is my partner,
Detective Sergeant O’Connor. We come from the detective bureau."

"I’m glad to know you both," returned Forrester, smiling. "Sit down,
please," and he indicated nearby chairs. The two detectives seated
themselves and Forrester passed the humidor before returning to his
chair. The three men puffed their cigars in silence for a time, the
detectives evidently enjoying the flavor and aroma of Forrester’s
excellent cigars, while he awaited the explanation of their visit.

"We came to see you about this ’Friends of the Poor’ matter," began
Cahill, who appeared to be the spokesman for the pair. "My partner and
me are working on the case."

"Making any progress?" inquired Forrester, fully convinced in his own
mind, however, that they were not.

"Well, we are, and we arn’t," answered Cahill. "You see, O’Connor and me
were in the police auto the other night—the night you tipped us off.
We’re both some shots, and we felt pretty sure we had hit that car we
were chasing. So we’ve been scouting around the West Side garages
looking for a car with bullet holes."

"Why the West Side?" questioned Forrester, inwardly amused as he thought
of Humphrey’s arraignment of the detectives’ methods.

Cahill smiled wisely at O’Connor, and O’Connor smiled significantly back
at his partner.

"You see," explained Cahill, "we know crooks’ ways pretty well. When
anything gets pulled off we can tell from the method used just about
where to look for our men. We have felt pretty sure all the time that
this was some Black Hand bunch from the Dago settlement on the West
Side. It’s the same line of approach. The only difference is that
they’re operating a little higher up than usual, and choking the guys
off quietly with some kind of gas, instead of filling them full of lead
from a sawed-off shotgun. The idea’s the same, only they’re getting a
little more ambitious—that’s all."

"And about the car," prompted Forrester, still amused at the trend of
the detectives’ theories.

"That’s just the point," continued Cahill. "Today we located a car with
half a dozen bullet holes in the back in a garage out on Grand Avenue.
Grand Avenue, you know, is full of Dagos all the way from the river. The
garage man said it was left there late Tuesday night by three young
Italians. Now, do you get the idea?"

Forrester did, and he was astounded at the news.

"You mean," he queried, "that you ascribe this whole affair to some West
Side Black Hand band, and that this car proves your theory?"

"Sure thing!" assented Cahill. "O’Connor and me have been working on
this case for months. Sometimes we thought we had a clue, and then again
we didn’t. We have suspected Black Handers from the first, but we
couldn’t exactly get a line on them. That tip you gave us Tuesday night
started things right. Now we know where we’re at. There’s three
detectives in overalls in that garage right now, and if those guys come
back for their car the whole thing’ll be cleared up in a jiffy."

"What makes you think that this is the car you wanted?" persisted
Forrester, still doubting the correctness of the detectives’ theories.

"Headquarters has no report of any other car being shot at by the
police. And this car was left late _Tuesday_ night. Get the idea?"

Forrester pulled reflectively at his cigar. He was overwhelmed. The
suspicions he had entertained regarding the weird negress, the girl on
the horse and her colored servant, were knocked flat. The half-formed
theories he had been building up around them were completely shattered.
The growing pride he had felt in his own detective talents was crushed,
and the discoveries in which he had exulted were rendered valueless.
After all, the hard-headed, plodding, unimaginative city detectives knew
their business best. There was really no mystery or romance to crime; no
clever men pitting their brains against those of astute detectives. The
criminal class was nothing more than the police claimed it to be—just a
stunted, unnatural, evil-smelling plant, with its roots buried deep in
the sordid, filthy dives and foreign settlements of the West Side.
Forrester was disappointed; deeply disappointed. In spite of the danger,
worry and uncertainty, the thing had gotten into his blood during the
last few days. It had fired his imagination, stirred his latent
energies, and awakened his brain. And now the whole elaborate structure
which had been slowly building up toward the skies collapsed in one
moment to reveal nothing save a few murderous thugs concealed in the
cellar.

Forrester heaved a sigh.

"Relieved, eh?" chuckled Cahill. "Thought the police were no good, and
that you had to kiss ten thousand bucks good-by?"

Forrester laughed. Now the humor of the situation struck him. Green’s
long study of the problem, his careful tabulation of information and
secretly developed theories, were in the same class with Humphrey’s
suggested scientific solution, and Forrester’s own investigations and
conjectures. No wonder the Chief of Detectives had said, "Novices only
hamper us."

"No," explained Forrester, in answer to Cahill’s comment, "I hadn’t
exactly lost faith in the police. But I will say this: I have recently
made some peculiar and interesting discoveries on my own account, and
now you have practically knocked the foundation from under them with
your very matter of fact solution of the mystery."

"We ain’t solved it yet, remember," objected Cahill. "We’ve simply got a
line on the right people, and in due time we’ll get our hands on them.
We may still have to ask you to help us. That’s what we dropped in for
this evening."

"What do you want me to do?" asked Forrester.

"Well, you see it’s this way," explained Cahill. "If those Dagos come
back to the garage between now and Saturday, we’ll have them. But if
they get wise that we found the car, they may chuck it and steal another
one. In that case we’ll sure get them at the oak tree up there on the
North Shore Saturday night. What we want you to do is to put that money
in the tree at the time we tell you to, so that we will be ready."

"But nobody has ever succeeded in locating these people at the tree,"
protested Forrester.

"I know," admitted Cahill, grinning, "but O’Connor and me have worked
out a plan. We figure that in the past these guys have been able to slip
in between the detectives on watch. You see, it’s pretty dark in those
woods at night. Our plan is going to put a stop to that. It’s like this:

"We’re going to put a peg in the ground on each side of the tree, back
and front. O’Connor will be on one side and me on the other. There’ll be
a string from each peg running to O’Connor, and the same thing on the
other side to me. We’ll hold these strings, one in each hand. Now, that
completely surrounds the tree, so that anyone approaching will kick into
a string. We’ll know from the hand the string’s in just what direction
to look for them in the dark. O’Connor’s strings will be A and B, and
mine will be C and D. Get the idea?

"If O’Connor feels a tug, he’ll yell A or B at me. If I get a feel on
one of my strings I’ll holler C or D. Get me? Then we’ll both make a
rush at just the right spot. Believe me, Mr. Forrester, we got them this
time. No sneaking up between detectives _next_ Saturday night."

"The idea sounds very good, Cahill," agreed Forrester. "Perhaps it will
work. If I don’t hear from you in the meantime, what hour do you wish me
to approach the tree on Saturday night?"

"We’ve fixed on ten-thirty, if that is convenient for you, Mr.
Forrester," answered Cahill.

"That suits me," declared Forrester.

"And now, we’ll be going," announced Cahill, rising. "Thanks for the
cigar. As fine a smoke as I’ve had in a long time."

"Bang up," murmured O’Connor.

"Take another along," suggested Forrester, accepting the hint.

The two detectives each carefully selected another cigar, and then
Forrester went with them to the door.

"What will you do if the ghosts supposed to haunt that tree should
appear?" inquired Forrester.

"You don’t believe that stuff, do you, Mr. Forrester?" asked Cahill,
scornfully.

"Well, several people, unknown to one another, have agreed on the
details."

Cahill smiled. "Maybe so," he said, "but don’t forget that O’Connor and
me can shoot, Mr. Forrester. We can lay out any ghost that ever
ghosted."

"You certainly have my best wishes for your success," said Forrester.

"Don’t worry any more," assured Cahill, as he passed out. "The police
have got this gang dead to rights _this_ time. Saturday night will end
it!"



CHAPTER XI—TELEPHONE CALLS


"Son," said Mrs. Forrester at breakfast Friday morning, "Josephine and I
have changed our minds."

"About what?" prompted Forrester.

"We are moving out to ’Woodmere’ late today instead of tomorrow morning.
The Prentices are giving a dinner dance, the first of the summer season,
Saturday evening. If we moved tomorrow we would be too tired and upset
to attend. We do not want to disappoint the Prentices, especially as we
understand the affair is given to introduce Miss Sturtevant."

"Does she know the Prentices?" exclaimed Forrester.

"Only through a letter of introduction, I believe," explained Mrs.
Forrester.

"Of course, you will be there, Bob, now that you know who will be the
principal guest," laughed Josephine.

"I haven’t received an invitation," returned Forrester, gravely.

"Oh, the affair is quite informal," declared Mrs. Forrester. "All the
invitations were extended over the telephone, because it was only
decided upon at the last moment. Mrs. Prentice told me to be sure to see
that you came. She wants you to meet Miss Sturtevant."

"Not realizing that Bob was such a forward young man and attended to his
own introductions," interjected Josephine.

"That was only an accidental meeting, Josephine," protested Mrs.
Forrester. "They had no opportunity to get really acquainted."

"I wonder?" said Josephine, with a side glance at Forrester. Then added,
"Of course, Mrs. Prentice does not realize what a rival Miss Sturtevant
will be for Diana."

Forrester glared at Josephine. Until she had taken up his recent meeting
with Mary Sturtevant, it had been her custom to tease him about Diana,
Prentice’s daughter. Josephine had professed to believe that a genuinely
serious affair was developing, at least on Diana’s part.

"Josephine," remonstrated Mrs Forrester, "you must not make light of
Bob’s interest in Diana. I should be most pleased to see Bob select her
as his life’s partner. Miss Sturtevant is here only for a brief visit,
and they have met but once; simply by chance. One cannot be so much
attracted to a chance acquaintance as to one who has been a friend since
childhood."

"Very wisely spoken, Mother," approved Forrester, with a triumphant look
at Josephine.

"I am satisfied to await the developments of Saturday evening," returned
Josephine, and finished her breakfast in silence, while his mother
explained to Forrester the details of the day’s plans.

The knowledge that the solution of the case was now practically out of
his hands left Forrester with a sensation of loss. Never before had he
felt so thoroughly bereft of an object in life. He rather welcomed,
therefore, the information that the household moving would take place on
Friday instead of Saturday as originally planned. Throughout the morning
he was busily engaged in assisting his mother and sister to pack, in the
securing of a motor truck to carry their trunks and bags, and the
various other little details connected with the removal of the household
for the summer season.

Shortly after luncheon his mother, sister and the servants left in the
big car. It was a dark, gray day with low-hanging clouds and a chill
wind blowing off the lake. As Forrester stood by the curb watching the
car disappear down the street, he found that a light, misty rain was
falling. The weather affected him strongly under the circumstances and
he returned to the house with a feeling of depression. Forrester seemed
to find something sinister about the deserted house. The closing of the
front door behind him echoed through the lonely rooms, and the thud of
his feet was uncannily loud as he passed down the hall to the library.

Forrester laughed, shook himself and hunted up his pipe.

"The truth is," he said, aloud, as the tobacco glowed under the match,
"my nerves are getting ragged."

In spite of the fact that the detectives had assured him that the
solution of the mystery was close at hand Forrester could not fully
convince himself that the matter was to be settled in so commonplace a
way. The discoveries which he had made must surely possess some
significance. It did not seem possible that a band of West Side
Italians, far away from the oak tree on the North Shore, could be back
of the so-called ghostly manifestations of which he had heard so many
rumors, and which Green claimed to have actually witnessed. If these
apparitions had no connection with the "Friends of the Poor," then what
was their purpose?

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.

                                  ————

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."

"There is no one here but myself," replied Forrester. "The folks moved
to ’Woodmere’ today. I stayed in town because I have a little job to
attend to in the morning. That must have been you who rang the bell
about a half-hour ago. I _did_ answer the bell—and was amazed when I
found there was no one at the door."

"You took a thundering long time to answer," said Prentice. "It seemed
to me that I stood a long time in the rain. I am at the Drake hotel now.
My car is handy and I will be over in a couple of minutes."

"All right," replied Forrester, "I will be watching for you."

Hanging up the receiver, Forrester went to one of the front windows and
took up his promised watch. The car arrived promptly and Forrester
opened the door. Prentice hung up his hat and raincoat in the hall and
Forrester led the way to the library.

"The house looks dark and dismal," commented Prentice, as he seated
himself and drew out a cigar. "Why don’t you turn on more lights?"

"It did seem a bit lonesome before you came," admitted Forrester. "I
don’t believe more light would help. To me it would simply emphasize how
large and deserted the house is at this moment. How do you happen to be
in town on a night like this?"

"We expected friends from Rockford," explained Prentice, "to stay with
us over the week end. You know we are giving a dinner tomorrow evening."

Forrester nodded.

"I stayed in town to meet them," continued Prentice. "When they did not
arrive and I found it was to be such a bad night, I decided to stay at
the club, instead of going home. The time was dragging, for it seemed
that practically everyone I knew had left town. Then I thought of you
and concluded I would run up and pay you a little visit."

"I am very glad you did," approved Forrester, "for I am willing to admit
that I miss the family now that they have gone."

At that moment the telephone bell rang sharply.

"Looks like you were not going to be so lonely after all," observed
Prentice.

Forrester picked up the receiver.

"Hello!" said a man’s voice. "Is that you, Mr. Forrester?"

"Yes," replied Forrester.

"I want to get a little information," informed the voice. "I believe you
expect to put some money into a certain tree tomorrow night."

"Who are you?" demanded Forrester.

"That is of no immediate importance," returned the voice. "What I wanted
was to find out the exact time at which you intended to place the money
in that tree."

"I am not giving any information to strangers," snapped Forrester.

"I am sorry," returned the voice in a conciliatory tone, "but I can’t
give you any particulars at this time. It is important, however, that I
know at what hour you intend to visit the tree."

"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.

"Yes," affirmed the voice. "We’re tired of fooling around with you and
we want to know something definite."

"What do you wish to know?" inquired Forrester, less harshly.

"We want to know the exact hour at which you will put the money in the
tree tomorrow night."

Forrester hesitated. He glanced at Prentice, who was leaning toward him,
an interested listener, and reflected whether or not to ask his advice.
Forrester’s own impulse was to treat the man as he had the first caller.
It occurred to him, however, that if this man really did represent the
"Friends of the Poor," as he claimed, it would simplify matters for the
detectives if a definite hour were arranged. He remembered Cahill’s
instructions to approach the tree at ten-thirty.

"I had planned to go to the tree about ten-thirty," finally announced
Forrester.

"That’s all right," said the voice. "Be sure you make it ten-thirty
sharp—and no dicks, remember!" The wire suddenly became dead as the man
at the other end hung up the receiver. Forrester hung up his own
receiver and turned to Prentice.

"What’s this about the ’Friends of the Poor’?" exclaimed Prentice.

"That man said he represented the ’Friends of the Poor’," replied
Forrester. "He wanted me to give him the exact hour at which I would
place the money in the tree."

"That’s a strange proceeding," muttered Prentice.

"Strange?" queried Forrester.

"That they should take the risk of calling you up on the phone,"
explained Prentice.

"Things are getting rather hot for them," declared Forrester. "They
realize it, and probably do not want to take a chance by staying near
the tree for too long a period. The man warned me not to have any
detectives at hand."

"He did!" ejaculated Prentice.

There followed a moment’s silence while Prentice relit his cigar.

"Tell me, Bob," he requested, at length, "have you made any definite
plans about tomorrow night?"

"Yes, I’m coming to your house for dinner for one thing," smiled
Forrester.

"You know what I mean," said Prentice, seriously. "You have trifled with
this ’Friends of the Poor’ matter long enough. What have you decided to
do—are you going to pay the money or fight?"

"Both," answered Forrester, laughing. He then explained to Prentice the
major details of his own and the detectives’ plans for Saturday night.

"And you mean to say, Bob," gasped Prentice, "that these detectives have
actually located the ’Friends of the Poor’?"

"Not located them, exactly," returned Forrester, "but they have a very
strong suspicion."

"Against whom?" asked Prentice.

"A band of Italians on the West Side," divulged Forrester. "They have
secured what they claim to be certain evidence and expect to capture the
men at the tree tomorrow night."

Prentice smiled. "That’s not the first time I’ve heard that police
theory," he declared. "Still, there may be something to their idea,
after all, in view of the telephone calls you received this evening.
There should be interesting developments tomorrow night. But, Bob," he
added, "take my advice and leave this matter entirely in the detectives’
hands. Don’t fail in your part of the matter. Place your money in the
tree at the hour you agreed upon and then get away as quickly as you
can."

"You take the matter too seriously," objected Forrester.

"And you don’t realize how serious the affair is, Bob," asserted
Prentice. "The claims of these detectives have given you too much
confidence. Even if they do capture some men tomorrow night, there may
be others of the band who will seek revenge. I cannot urge you too
strongly to place that money in the tree and assure your own safety. The
history of the case—"

Prentice was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone bell once more.
He paused, with an astonished look on his face, and Forrester laughed.

"Unquestionably my busy night," said Forrester, as he picked up the
receiver.

Forrester’s face also expressed amazement, as he listened, and he placed
one hand over the transmitter while he remarked in an aside to Prentice,
"A woman’s voice this time!" Then, speaking into the telephone, he said,
"Yes, this is Mr. Forrester."

"I want to get some information," said the woman’s voice, "that is
vitally important to you. I must know at what hour you will place the
money in the tree tomorrow night."

"Who are you?" inquired Forrester.

"I cannot tell you that now," replied the voice, "but let me assure you
that I am absolutely friendly to you. It is chiefly in your interest
that I want this information."

"But," protested Forrester, "it is a matter in which I cannot be too
free in furnishing information to strangers."

"I know," admitted the voice, "but you’ll have to trust me for the
present."

"Are you a lady reporter?" asked Forrester.

"No."

"Are you securing the information for a reporter?"

"No."

"Are you connected in any way with a newspaper?"

"No."

"Are you a lady detective then?" and Forrester could not restrain a
slight laugh.

"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:

    _Your efforts to trace us are known. We prefer your death to
    your money but will overlook your activities if you cease them
    at once and raise amount of your payment to $25,000. This
    opportunity ends positively at midnight Saturday._

        _Friends of the Poor_



CHAPTER XII—SATURDAY


"Woodmere," the Forresters’ summer estate, lay between Sheridan Road and
the lake. The house, a long, two-storied building of white stucco, with
green shutters and a green tile roof, looked much smaller than it really
was because of the many great trees that towered above it. On the lake
side a wide, paved terrace extended the length of the house. A short
stretch of lawn spread from the terrace to the edge of the little bluff
that dropped down to a sandy beach. On the edge of this bluff stood a
vine-clad pergola, furnished with comfortable willow chairs. Here, on
warm summer days, Forrester liked to sit with his pipe, and the ladies
brought their reading and fancy work. From the pergola one had a
wonderful view up and down the shore line, while the great lake
stretched as far as the eye could see. Even during the sultry days of
midsummer this spot was sure to pick up a cooling breeze.

Large ornamental gateways stood at the north and south ends, and from
these a wide driveway swung in a crescent shape up to the front door. A
branch drive turned off at the south side of the house and passing the
end of the terrace wound through a mass of shrubbery to the garage.

Shortly after noon on Saturday Forrester turned his car in at the south
gateway and drove to the garage. The doors stood wide open, and William,
the family chauffeur, who was working on the big car, came out to take
charge of Forrester’s roadster.

"I’m glad to see you arrived safe, sir," William greeted Forrester. "The
ladies were a bit worried at your staying alone in the town house last
night. Stormed dreadful here, sir."

"It was a bad night, William," agreed Forrester. "But that’s just the
sort of night to make one sleep soundly. Did that man, Green, arrive?"

"A few minutes ago, sir. He’s up in his room now."

"I’ll go up," said Forrester, and entering a door at the side of the
garage, climbed to the chauffeur’s quarters. Green had been given a cozy
room overlooking the lake and Forrester found him in the midst of his
unpacking.

"Gee!" exclaimed Green, on sighting Forrester, "I hope that mystery
ain’t solved all summer. I sure like this here room."

"The mystery will be solved tonight, I believe, Green."

"What!" gasped Green. "Who’s got the dope? Not them city dicks?"

"You guessed it. Drop that work for awhile, and I’ll tell you the whole
story. Here, have a fresh cigar," offered Forrester, catching sight of a
cold and much-chewed cigar end in the corner of Green’s mouth.

The two men sat down near the window and lighted their cigars.

"An amazing lot of things have happened since I saw you on Thursday,
Green," began Forrester. "For a time I thought I was getting on the
actual trail—then the city detectives called Thursday night and told a
plausible story that knocked all the props from under my theories; and
yours, too, for the matter of that."

"Huh!" scoffed Green.

"I know how you feel," assented Forrester. "I wondered myself, until an
incident occurred Friday night which half convinced me they were right.
Now, let me tell you the whole story, and then we will talk it over. One
thing I want to impress upon you, however. Some things I am about to
tell you, especially about a certain young lady, are to be kept
absolutely quiet—no matter what happens."

"That’s part o’ my business," assured Green. "A detective don’t get
nowhere if he talks too much."

"I’ll take that as a valuable hint," laughed Forrester.

He then related the occurrences of the last two days; his meeting with
Mary Sturtevant, his visit to Lucy, the call from Cahill and O’Connor,
their theories and plans, the mystifying telephone calls, and finally
the startling discovery of the notice in his humidor.

"And now," Forrester concluded, "I want your opinion on all these facts.
Forget your natural animosity to the city detectives, Green, and
consider their clues and theories in the light of cold reason."

Green shifted his chair so that he could rest his feet on the window
sill, relighted his cigar which had gone out while Forrester talked, and
smoked for a while in silence.

"Look here," he said, at length. "You remember _my_ theory and arguments
that these here ’Friends o’ the Poor’ lived _near_ that tree?"

"Yes," replied Forrester, "and that newspaper fellow, Humphrey, had
something of the same idea. I half agreed with both of you after my
discoveries."

"All right," continued Green, "I’ll bet you a week’s pay them _Italians_
out there on the West Side—miles away—are just plain auto bandits.
They’re pullin’ some game o’ their own, and most likely never even heard
o’ the ’Friends o’ the Poor.’ Them city dicks is coverin’ up their poor
work by misleadin’ you. Get me?"

"But the telephone calls," protested Forrester. "Especially the man’s
voice with the foreign accent!"

"Bunk!" sneered Green. "Reporters, most likely, tryin’ to get next to
your plans. See here," he added, dropping his feet to the floor and
shifting his chair to face Forrester, "I bet there’s so many o’ them
reporter guys around that tree tonight that the ’Friends o’ the Poor’
can’t get near it!"

"And that notice—unaccountably slipped into my cigar humidor while I sat
in the library. How do you place that?"

"_That’s_ the only _real_ thing that happened," maintained Green. "But
it ain’t any way mysterious, though they tried to scare you into
thinkin’ it was. Them guys just crawled through a window while you was
out to dinner. It was there all the evenin’—only you didn’t happen to
want a cigar till late, that’s all. Did you find any open or unlocked
windows?"

"Not on the first floor. I discovered a second floor window open after
hearing a door slam."

"Any floor would suit them guys," asserted Green. "Take it from me, Mr.
Forrester; you and me’s nearer the solution o’ this thing than them city
bulls. We’re right on the ground _now_, and we’re goin’ to locate
somethin’. Let them detective guys play around with their _Italians_.
They’ll never get ’em near that tree—never on your life!"

                                  ————

The library at "Woodmere" faced the terrace, upon which a row of French
windows opened. Forrester sat by the big center table that evening, idly
turning the pages of a book. Heavy footsteps clattered along the
terrace, and a moment later Green entered at one of the windows.

"I was waiting for you," Forrester greeted him, rising as he spoke. "My
mother and sister have just left. Now, one last word of instruction,
Green. You’re to stick close to the windows of the drawing room over
there at the Prentices’. After dinner I will walk to one of the windows
with Miss Sturtevant. Take a good look at her. While I’m away try and
keep an eye on her. If she slips out, trail her! That’s your job for
tonight."

"Count on me," assured Green. "Is that the money?" he asked, indicating
a long flat package on the table.

"That’s the package I’m going to put in the tree."

Green picked up the package and weighed it in his hand while his eyes
sparkled. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "Twenty-five thousand bucks!"

"No," laughed Forrester, "only a few ounces of paper!"

"Goin’ to fool ’em, eh?" grinned the detective.

"That’s what I hope to do. I made a very open and noisy visit to my bank
this morning, and remained for some time in the president’s private
office. The idea was to give anyone who might be watching the impression
that I was drawing the money from the bank. What actually happened,
however, was that I explained my plans to the president, and he
instructed a clerk to make up this dummy package."

Forrester took the package from Green and slipped it into an inner
pocket. "Come," he said, and led the way out to his car.

                                  ————

"Am I too late to ask for the first dance?" inquired Forrester, as he
approached Mary Sturtevant after dinner.

"I’m sorry," she replied, smiling, "but you were very late in arriving.
A New Yorker seems to be popular in Chicago."

"Depends greatly upon the New Yorker," returned Forrester.

"You haven’t changed a bit since Thursday, have you?" cried the girl.
"How many dances do you wish?" and she extended her card.

"I’m afraid," declared Forrester, a doleful note creeping into his voice
as he glanced over the card, "that I shall have to forego any. I must
leave before you have completed this long list of engagements."

"Oh, of course," she exclaimed. "I had forgotten. You have a _most_
important engagement yourself at ten-thirty."

Forrester looked at her sharply.

"How do you know?" he asked.

Miss Sturtevant looked surprised.

"Why, you told me—and it has been in all the papers."

"Not the exact hour," returned Forrester, his eyes still observing her
keenly.

"Oh," she murmured, flushing, "wasn’t it? Well, then, I must have heard
it somewhere."

"Over the telephone, perhaps," suggested Forrester.

"One hears gossip in so many ways, it is hard to remember the source,"
she returned, easily. "If you won’t have time to dance, we can at least
chat until the dancing starts. Let’s look for a quiet corner."

It was an opportunity which Forrester welcomed. He guided her carelessly
toward one of the large windows that opened out on the lawn. The
musicians, concealed among palms and flowers at the other end of the
room, were playing a tender little air—one that seemed to throw a mantle
of romance about them. Forrester looked down at the girl in silence. It
seemed hard to believe that she could in any way be linked with the
abominable men who had committed so many murders, and now, threatened
his own life. Yet her actions had been strange, and her slip of a few
minutes before seemed inexplicable. In spite of his misgivings Forrester
longed for the girl. Love at first sight had always seemed a mere trick
of the novelist to Forrester. As he stood there beside Mary Sturtevant
he knew that in his case at least it was a fact! Whoever or whatever she
was, he wanted her! If she had made a mistake—well, then he would save
her from herself.

"I thought we came here to chat," and she smiled mischievously up at
him.

"I think we have been chatting," he returned, and added, "with our
minds."

Once more Mary Sturtevant flushed slightly. "You could never guess what
I was thinking," she declared, watching him with a peculiar smile.

"I wish I could," he replied, earnestly. "It might solve my greatest
problem."

"Sometimes you say such strange things," she asserted. Then, as the
music for the first dance started up, she added, extending her hand
impulsively, "There, I must go. I wish you the best of luck tonight."

Her last words struck him as ominous. How often he had heard a similar
phrase on French battlefields just before a futile sortie. He seized her
hand, held it a trifle too long, perhaps, and murmured, lamely, "Thank
you."

Then, as she was swept away by her first dancing partner, Forrester
slipped through the window to the lawn. After that few minutes of
delightful nearness to her he did not want to dance. To hold another
girl to him now would seem like sacrilege. He was glad that he had
neglected to place his name on any dance cards.

"She’s _some_ girl, ain’t she, Mr. Forrester?" whispered a gruff voice
at his side, and romance fled at the sight of the prosaic Green.

The thought that this rough man was to spy upon the girl who had just
left his side was revolting to Forrester in his present mood. He had the
comforting feeling, however, that it was for her own good. If she had
entangled herself in some way with these people he would save her!

"That’s the girl you must keep an eye on, Green. And," instructed
Forrester, "see that she is protected also. If anything happens to her
tonight you’ll have to answer to me."

"I getcha," assented Green. "You don’t want them bulls to beat you to a
capture."

"What’s the plot?" called a cheerful voice, and the two men turned
quickly to find Prentice close at hand.

"I thought you were dancing by this time," said Forrester.

"Haven’t danced for years," returned Prentice. "I came out to have a
quiet smoke, and just spotted you fellows with your heads together."

"This is my body-guard, Detective Green," stated Forrester.

"Looks like an able-bodied protector," laughed Prentice. "But I suppose
you won’t need him after tonight." Then he added, throwing his cigarette
away, "Think I’ll go in. You’ll be back, won’t you, Bob?"

"I hope to return if all goes well."

"Remember my advice—get away from the tree if there is going to be a
battle. See you later," and Prentice strolled in through the window
Forrester had recently left.

"Ten o’clock!" exclaimed Green, consulting his watch. "Gee, you swells
eat late. Better start, hadn’t you?"

"I think I will," decided Forrester. "There’s just about time to walk
over, instead of using the car."

Green watched Forrester until he disappeared in the darkness, then
strolled over to a large tree which commanded a view of all the windows
on that side of the house. If any other person contemplated leaving the
dance Green was sure they would try to slip out of one of these windows,
selecting that way as the one least likely to attract attention. In the
deep shadow under the tree the detective appeared a part of the trunk
against which he leaned.

Presently, though no sound had reached Green, he saw a man’s figure
appear in silhouette against the lighted window which faced him; a tall,
broad-shouldered man, wearing a sack suit and a cap. Green knew from his
dress that he was not one of the guests. While the man might be only a
chauffeur, or a neighbor’s employee, Green decided to take no chances,
and remained in motionless expectancy. His suspicions grew as he noted
that the man did not attempt to peer in as a merely curious visitor
would have done. Instead he remained where he had paused when Green
first discovered him, standing in the same tense, motionless attitude as
the detective. Either the man was keeping watch as Green was doing, or
he was there to keep an appointment.

Green was enlightened in a few minutes. The music ceased and immediately
afterward he saw Mary Sturtevant appear in the window. Glancing hastily
about, probably to make sure that she was not observed, the girl quickly
stepped through the window and into the shadow at one side. A low,
peculiar whistle came from the man, and the girl instantly reappeared as
she approached him. Green could not hear their greeting, but they turned
and moved toward his place of concealment, evidently seeking the shadow
of the tree for a conference. Green cautiously moved around the tree,
placing its massive trunk between himself and the approaching couple.
They came so near that Green dared not look around the trunk at them. He
stood with his back pressed against the tree and listened.

"And now, tell me how matters stand tonight," requested the man,
evidently ending a report of his own.

"No one has left the room except Mr. Forrester," replied Mary
Sturtevant. "He started for the tree a few minutes ago."

"Take anyone with him?"

"I’m not sure. He arrived with that private detective and he may have
taken him along."

"Very likely," assented the man. "And there will be city detectives
there, too, that I know. It will be very difficult for anybody to
approach that tree tonight. It may spoil our plans."

"Mr. Forrester’s case certainly seems to be attracting more attention
than the others," commented the girl.

"That’s because he is putting up a real fight. To tell you the truth, I
have my doubts about the package of money he is putting in the tree
tonight. It probably isn’t worth the danger involved to get it."

"Do you think he will take the risk? Surely he knows that punishment
would be certain."

"I think it will take a lot to scare that chap. He will probably still
be fighting after we have listed other victims. I must hurry now if I am
to get there on time. I’ll phone you after you get home."

"Yes, do; I shall be worried until I hear from you," urged the girl.

Green waited a moment before cautiously peering around the tree trunk.
The man had disappeared as quietly as he had come, and Mary Sturtevant
was just passing back into the house through the window.

"Gee!" muttered Green. "I’ve got the dope _now_. I’m wastin’ time
here—me for the tree!"

He started off at a run.

                                  ————

By going north along the road on which the Prentice estate was located,
Forrester could reach the western end of Jasper lane. He began his
journey at a brisk pace. The night was clear but dark, the white strip
of roadway being barely distinguishable. Forrester knew the way well,
however, and arrived at the lane without further adventure than the
keeping out of the way of occasional motors that flashed by. As the
headlights of these cars threw his figure into prominence against the
background of the night he thought with amusement of the wonder of the
occupants at seeing a hatless man in evening clothes straying along a
deserted road.

Forrester did not make any effort to conceal himself as he approached
the great oak. Both the detectives and the emissaries of the "Friends of
the Poor" would be expecting him. For the time being at least he had
nothing to fear, and it would be well for all those who might be
watching to know definitely when the package was deposited.

He paused for a moment in front of the tree and listened. Nothing was to
be seen, and there was no sound save the distant wail of a locomotive
whistle and the faint rustling of leaves overhead. Cautiously picking
his way through the darkness so as not to disturb the detectives’
strings if they were in place, Forrester reached the tree, found the
opening and placed the package in it. Then he carefully returned to the
road and walked noisily along it for a short distance. Suddenly he
leaped aside and paused. When he was assured that everything remained
quiet he crept silently back in the direction of the tree, but on the
opposite side of the road, and close to the woods. He had slightly lost
his bearings during these maneuvers in the darkness, and had difficulty
in again locating the tree. By glancing toward the sky from time to time
he finally saw the huge bulk of the oak against the stars. Feeling
around for an opening in the underbrush directly opposite the tree,
Forrester moved back a little way from the road and waited.

As the minutes slipped by without incident, Forrester grew restless. The
necessity of remaining absolutely motionless to prevent making any noise
cramped his muscles, and the continued silence in the impenetrable
darkness grated upon his nerves. He had expected action of some kind,
yet it almost seemed now as if he were doomed to disappointment. He
remembered that on other occasions detectives had waited there
throughout the night, only to discover in the morning that their quarry
had come and gone. Was this about to happen once more? Had the package
over which he and the detectives were watching already been removed? It
hardly seemed possible, in view of the precautions which the detectives
had taken. He had a feeling, too, that somewhere in that silent
darkness, others beside the detectives and himself were concealed. He
did not hear a sound, however, outside of the occasional stirring of the
leaves as a gentle breeze passed through the woods.

Suddenly, far down the lane, Forrester heard a slight creak that seemed
to him like the application of the brake on an automobile. Listening
intently, he felt sure that he could also hear the soft purr of an
idling engine. At last they must be coming!

Strain his ears as he might, however, Forrester could detect no other
sound. If anyone were approaching the tree it was with a catlike tread
that no human ear could hear.

Then, in a moment, everything changed. There was a short, sharp
exclamation, followed by stifled oaths and the rush of feet. Forrester
could tell from the rustling of leaves on the ground and the cracking of
twigs that a struggle was taking place. He longed to rush forward and
help, yet reason told him that it was better to leave the matter in the
hands of the detectives until they were sure of their men. The next
moment the darkness was scattered by two electric pocket lamps and
Forrester recognized Cahill and O’Connor standing halfway between the
road and the tree, each with a man in his grasp.

Forrester darted across the road, but at the same moment there came a
blinding flash of light that blotted out everything about him. This was
followed by shouts and oaths and several pistol shots. The flash had
lasted for only a second, but the intensity of the light, followed by
utter darkness, left Forrester practically blinded, and he stood
helpless in the road.

He did not know which way to turn, or what had happened, until an
electric pocket lamp once more spread its rays across the road.
Forrester then saw that the man who held it remained alone in front of
the tree, and he hurried over to join him.

"What happened?" cried Forrester.

"That’s what I’d like to know," growled the man, who proved to be
Cahill.

Just then another pocket lamp flashed out. It was held by O’Connor, who
now approached from the roadway and joined them.

"No use," groaned O’Connor, "they got away. I stood no chance chasin’ an
automobile."

"What do you know about that?" muttered Cahill. "Those Dagos right in
our hands! Then that flash went off and blinded us, and piff—they were
gone!"

"That’ll make some picture!" came a gleeful exclamation, and Humphrey
appeared within the circle of light cast by the pocket lamps.

"Picture, hell!" bellowed Cahill. "They got away!"

Humphrey stared around with a bewildered air. "Why," he exclaimed, "when
you turned on your lights I thought you had them fast. I decided that
was the time to set off my flash light and shoot a picture of you in the
very act of capturing your prisoners."

"Bright idea, young fellow," snorted Cahill, "but in one second you
killed a whole year’s detective work!"

At this moment a wheezing sound was heard in the road. All turned in
that direction and saw Green come staggering up, out of breath and
almost speechless with his exertions.

"Did—you—get—him?" gasped Green, with an effort.

"Don’t see any strangers hanging around, do you?" sneered Cahill.

"Well—the—man—started—for—the tree," declared Green, "and I—followed
him." He gave a gulp and partly recovered his breath. "Just as I turned
in—from the main road—down here—I heard the rumpus—and I thought you had
got the man."

"THE man?" exclaimed Cahill. "What are you talking about?"

"Why—I was keepin’ watch at a house—up the road here—for Mr. Forrester.
I heard a man arrangin’ to come down to the tree—to get the package."

"Well, he split into _two_ by the time he got here," sneered Cahill.
"You’ve been looking through last year’s almanac, partner."

Forrester took the puffing Green by the arm and pushed him to one side.
"If you know anything," he whispered, "keep it to yourself. We’ll talk
it over later."

"Look here," said O’Connor, suddenly, turning to Humphrey, "What you
goin’ to do with that picture you took?"

"Put it in the paper tomorrow," answered Humphrey, triumphantly. "A big
headline across the top will read: ’Friends of the Poor’ caught while
trying to collect their secret toll."

"Don’t do it!" commanded O’Connor. "They ain’t caught yet. Keep it quiet
about that picture. Give the negative to us. We’ll have the faces
enlarged. Perhaps we can pick up these Dagos from their photos."

"I get you," assented Humphrey. "I see I spoiled the game all right; and
I’ll do all I can to help you. I’ll have that negative over at the
detective bureau first thing in the morning."

"O’Connor don’t talk much," observed Cahill, "but when he does, he says
something. You get that picture to us quick, young fellow, and we’ll
close this thing up with a bang! There’s no question about who the
'Friends of the Poor’ are now."

"Did those fellows get my package?" inquired Forrester.

"Not on your life!" returned Cahill. "They never got near enough to the
tree for that."

"Then," said Forrester, turning to Green, "you would better get that
package and we’ll take it back with us. It may come in handy some other
time."

Green went to the tree and inserted his hand in the opening. He felt
carefully around, then withdrew his arm and turned to face the others.
In the dim light of the pocket lamps they saw that his eyes were staring
wildly.

"_It’s gone!_" he cried.



CHAPTER XIII—A PUZZLING WARNING


"Whatever happened to you last night, Son?" exclaimed Mrs. Forrester.

Forrester had just strolled into the dining room, late for the one
o’clock Sunday dinner. The excitement of the incident at the tree,
together with the strange occurrence related to him by Green, had caused
Forrester a sleepless night. It was nearly dawn when he had finally
fallen asleep and in his state of nervous and physical exhaustion he had
not again awakened until just in time to dress for dinner.

"It seems to me, Bob," observed Josephine, "that of late it has become
quite an event when you honor us with your company."

"You apparently forget," returned Forrester, testily, as he sat down,
"that I have had something more important on my mind this last week than
regular attendance at meals and dances."

"No, Bob," smiled Josephine, "I had not overlooked the great event that
has come into your life during the past week. It is a well-known fact
that a man in love usually loses his appetite. I have not told Mother
before, but the last time I saw you, you were engaged in an earnest
conversation with Miss Sturtevant. When you disappeared so completely I
concluded that she had probably sent you forth to tilt with windmills."

"I gather from your words, young lady," retorted Forrester, "that you
look upon me as a modern combination of Don Juan and Don Quixote. Let me
inform you that I am neither of these—but simply a re-incarnation of M.
Lecoq, the great detective."

"This repartee bewilders me and does not answer my question," declared
Mrs. Forrester. "We missed you right after dinner last night, Bob, and
Diana asked for you several times. She said that she had not had one
dance with you—not even a word except a formal ’good-evening’ when you
arrived."

"If you have forgotten, Mother, at least Josephine must remember that
last night was the night on which I was to place that extortion money in
the big oak in Jasper lane."

"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Forrester. "You assured me, Bob, that you
had fixed that matter up and that there was nothing for us to worry
about. Did you pay them the money they asked for?"

"I put a package in the tree last night as instructed," returned
Forrester, evasively. "There is absolutely nothing for you to worry
about, Mother."

"I hope you gave them all they asked for, Son, and have not trifled with
them. You know what happened to dear Mr. Nevins, and others who opposed
them."

"It’s all fixed up, Mother. Just go on with your dinner and forget about
it. By the way, have you seen the Nevins since the funeral?"

"No, but I talked with Mrs. Nevins over the telephone yesterday,"
explained Mrs. Forrester. "They will not open their house here this
summer. Just now they plan to travel for a while, and then stay at their
place near Pittsfield, in the Berkshires, until fall."

"I must try to see Charlie before he leaves," said Forrester. "So many
things have happened in the last few days that the time has seemed like
weeks instead of days."

"Incidentally, Bob," informed Josephine, a moment later, "you will be
interested to know that you have been quite a hero during the past week
because of that demand made upon you. It seemed as if every group I
approached last evening was discussing it, and when your continued
absence was discovered, it caused considerable concern."

"You should have assured them," returned Forrester, "that I had a trusty
body-guard."

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Josephine, "William was telling me about that man,
Green. I must get a look at him. I don’t know that I ever saw a real
live detective before."

"Any time you want to peek through the window, Josephine, you will
probably see him," replied Forrester, laughing. "He has instructions to
hang around outside the house and keep his eyes open."

"But of course you will let him go, now that everything is settled,"
asserted Mrs. Forrester.

"Yes, of course," returned Forrester, "but I thought it might be just as
well if he stayed around for a few days longer." Then he added,
diplomatically, "It is a great protection against burglars and tramps to
have a detective near the house."

Dinner over, Forrester joined Green in the pergola. Green had selected
this spot as his permanent station because it formed a splendid vantage
ground from which he could keep an eye on the principal living rooms of
the house, and have both the north and south entrance gates under his
observation as well.

Green had been stunned when he learned of the actual appearance of the
Italians at the tree on Saturday night. While he frankly confessed that
an explanation was beyond him, he refused to believe that the city
detectives were correct in their surmises. He stoutly maintained that
the real "Friends of the Poor" were undiscovered, and cited the
mysterious disappearance of the dummy package as proof of this claim.
Forrester was inclined to agree with him, and before parting for the
night the two men had decided to go ahead with their investigations,
independently of the police. Green, after the conversation he had
overheard, was in thorough accord with Forrester in the conviction that
Miss Sturtevant was in some way the key to the problem.

After conferring with Green along these lines for some time, Forrester
left the detective to watch the house, and taking his roadster, started
out to visit the girl.

To reach the house which Mary Sturtevant had rented it was necessary for
Forrester to pass through Jasper lane. He stopped his car in front of
the tree and made a careful examination of the ground in every
direction. From the trampled condition of the undergrowth, and some
withered leaves which had been burned by the flashlight, Forrester was
able to locate the spot across the road where Humphrey had been
concealed. The wooden pegs which the detectives had placed in the ground
near the tree were still there, though the strings had been broken off
and scattered during the struggle. He found no other indications of
anyone having been at the tree. How the package had been removed without
discovery was a baffling puzzle. Standing there in the brilliant
daylight, Forrester felt as though the whole thing were a nightmare. It
was hard to associate the stories of weird voices, rattling chains and
the notes of a ghostly bell with this peaceful woodland spot. The
flaming hand which Green still maintained he had actually seen was too
fantastic for credence. Forrester re-entered his car, more than a little
depressed with the hopelessness of the situation, and continued his
journey.

Miss Sturtevant and her companion, Mrs. Morris, were sitting on the
front porch when Forrester arrived. The girl was frankly pleased to see
him, rising from her chair and coming part way down the steps as he
approached.

Under the spell of her presence Forrester’s recent depression took
flight. The startling happenings of the past week seemed like mere
phantasmagoria to him as he dropped into the chair she indicated. He
settled back with a sigh of relief that did not escape the girl. Her
eyes softened as she looked at him and had Forrester turned at that
moment he would have been greatly encouraged by the flush which stole
over her cheeks when she perceived his attitude toward her.

"You are tired," she observed, sympathetically. "It has been a great
strain. I am sorry the case remains unsolved."

Forrester glanced around sharply, recalling Green’s information about
the promised telephone message.

"You have heard what happened last night?" he queried.

Miss Sturtevant stiffened perceptibly, and the guarded nature of her
reply was evident.

"Your dejected attitude tells a plain story, Mr. Forrester. Whatever
happened at the oak, I am sure you are still perplexed."

"I am," admitted Forrester, shortly.

"I have heard, Mr. Forrester, that you are making a determined effort to
unmask these people; that you have taken grave risks which should have
been assumed by others more experienced. Do you think you are wise?"

"What do _you_ think I should do?" asked Forrester.

"Go away!" she answered, quickly, emphatically.

"Until when?"

"Until—," she paused a moment, "until the police have cleared this
matter up."

"Permanent banishment!" laughed Forrester. But immediately his face grew
grave. Why did she want him to go away? Did she really feel a personal
interest in him, and desire to save him from the retribution she knew
was sure to come, or had he actually become a menace to the rogues who
apparently held her allegiance? Did this advice come from her heart, or
had she been instructed to warn him? Forrester was confused in a tangle
of hopes, doubts and conjectures. Then a passionate longing for the girl
surged within him. In spite of his suspicions and the enigmatic
occurrences in which she was a prominent figure, he knew that he felt a
restfulness and enjoyment in her company that was inexplicable. Always
when he was near her it seemed as if he had reached the end of a
difficult journey. Despite their short acquaintance Forrester knew that
he was deeply and irretrievably in love. With his usual impulsiveness he
swung his chair to face hers and burst out:

"Mary, I love you!"

The girl regarded him steadily, a serious, searching look in her brown
eyes that held Forrester fascinated and for the moment incapable of
further speech. Then she broke the spell.

"How can you," she asked, "in so short a time?"

"Mary, I am old enough to know my mind and heart. I have danced and
dined and flirted with the women of two continents without a desire for
any one of them. But from the moment I saw you, I wanted you—just you.
Sometimes love may grow as the result of long friendship or close
association; but when a man meets his real mate he knows it—instantly."

"Robert," said the girl, timidly, and Forrester thrilled at the sound of
this name on her lips for the first time. It showed at least a partial
victory. "The fate that has so strangely thrown us together still holds
us in its hands. Both of us are entangled in the meshes of a malignant
force and until such time as fate relinquishes its present hold upon us
I cannot give you the answer you are seeking."

This admission from Mary Sturtevant startled Forrester. Yet its greatest
effect upon him was to further strengthen his resolve to pull her back
from the black pit of disaster before it was too late.

"I have known from the first that some hidden influence controlled you,"
imparted Forrester. "It is that knowledge which impelled me to disclose
my feelings toward you so soon. I want to save you from these people who
are dragging you down. I want to save you from yourself. If you will
marry me, now, we can go away and leave this hideous nightmare behind."

As Forrester made this statement a peculiar expression drifted over the
girl’s face. Then her eyes sparkled as she extended her hand and laid it
caressingly upon one of his which grasped the arm of her chair.

"Do you think that I am involved in this affair of the ’Friends of the
Poor’—that I have guilty knowledge of it?" she asked.

"I have suspected it," assented Forrester. "Many of your actions have
implicated you seriously. You must remember," he added, "that I have
been playing the detective myself."

"And you still want to marry me?" she queried.

"Yes; I want you more every minute I know you."

"Then, I know you really love me," she murmured. "But, Robert—I cannot
draw back now. If you will wait until this thing reaches its inevitable
end—and you still feel that you want me—then I will answer you."

Mary Sturtevant rose to her feet and Forrester knew that she was
dismissing him. Her companion had long since discreetly disappeared and
the dusk of approaching evening already threw the porch into shadow.
Realizing that they were free from observation, and acting on a sudden
impulse, Forrester took the girl in his arms and held her close to him.
She neither resisted nor responded, but her soft, warm body aroused in
Forrester a feeling of reckless determination to solve the mystery
quickly and at any cost. Releasing her, he left without a word, dashing
down the steps and across the drive to his car.



CHAPTER XIV—THE INTRUDERS


Several days passed without incident, and so far as Green or Forrester
were concerned, no progress had been made. Each day Green went to his
post in the pergola and lolled in an easy chair while consuming
Forrester’s cigars at an alarming rate. With the lake rippling at his
feet, birds calling in the trees around him, and gentle breezes
tempering the increasing heat of advancing summer, Green was in
paradise. The monotonous hours of his watch were relieved by occasional
visits from William, the chauffeur, and flirtations with the maids.

Forrester, on the other hand, existed in a state of feverish but
profitless activity. He secured several books on criminology and studied
them conscientiously in the quiet of the library; he spent hours in the
woods watching the tree or spying upon the negress, Lucy. He could not
free himself from the idea that this eerie colored woman was in some way
connected with the mystery, although Green scoffed at its possibility.

"You’re wastin’ time on that Jamaica nigger woman," counseled Green.
"That type can’t stand prosperity. If she had her fingers on any o’ them
dollars, she wouldn’t be rustin’ away in the woods. I’d risk a bet that
she’s just hidin’ from her past."

Once Forrester called on Mary Sturtevant during this quiescent interval,
and twice met her at social functions to which both had been invited. On
these latter occasions the girl had eluded all his efforts to be alone
with her. In fact, Forrester had a feeling that she purposely avoided
any appearance of more than a mere acquaintance with him.

He was not deceived by these eventless days. Surmising that the "Friends
of the Poor" were holding off some act of retaliation merely to lull him
into a sense of false security and thus take him off his guard,
Forrester maintained a constant watchfulness of everything about him.
This caution at times may have made him appear churlish; in such
instances as a refusal to accept assistance from passing motorists when
he had trouble with his car on the road.

Then, on Saturday, one week after the enigmatical happenings at the oak
tree, the case once more presented itself with weird and baffling
additions. Toward noon, Humphrey telephoned that he had important
information and would come out to "Woodmere" after business hours.
Forrester extended him an invitation to dinner, coupled with an
admonition against mentioning a word regarding the matter before his
mother and sister. So it was not until after dinner, when Forrester had
summoned Green and the three men had shut themselves in the library,
that Humphrey disclosed his startling information.

Forrester placed cigars on the library table, inviting the others to
help themselves, while he filled and lighted his pipe. "Now," he said,
"what is it?"

"The detectives have caught the Italians!" divulged Humphrey.

"Always them _Italians_," sneered Green. "Well, what then?"

"Yes," requested Forrester, "tell us the whole story—right from the
start."

"It begins with the photo I made last Saturday," began Humphrey. "I took
the negative and a print to the detective bureau as I promised, and
turned them over to Cahill and O’Connor. It was a wonder, too; take it
from me! At the moment the flash went off both the detectives and the
two Italians looked straight at the camera. O’Connor immediately spotted
one of the men as Dominick Campanelli, a suspect the police have taken
in half a dozen times but never could actually fasten anything on. That
picture of mine settled him! I showed the detective bureau this time
that it was worth while letting reporters on the inside of their cases."

"Leave out the interpolations," interrupted Forrester. "Green and I want
the facts that concern us."

"Oh, you gotta let them reporters blow off a little steam," declared
Green.

Humphrey glared at Green. "You detectives haven’t any extra steam to
blow off," he retorted. "Well, as I was about to say, Cahill and
O’Connor started out to hunt for those two men in the photo. They picked
up Campanelli out in Hammond on Thursday. He had a man with him named
Luigi Licansi, who turned out to be the man that drove their car. The
detectives kept this capture quiet until, on Friday, along in the
afternoon, they found the other man in the picture—Frank
Tanuzzio—hanging around the very garage where the car with the bullet
holes was discovered. Cahill considered that a conclusive piece of
evidence.

"At the detective bureau the men were sullen and refused to talk. The
detectives put them through the third-degree all night without results.
This morning the men were taken to the office of the State’s Attorney.
When he informed them that they were to be charged with being members of
the ’Friends of the Poor,’ and would probably pay the penalty for the
murders committed by that band of money-gougers, these Italians were
scared stiff and immediately offered to make a full confession."

"You mean," exclaimed Forrester, "that these men were not really the
'Friends of the Poor,’ as the detectives had supposed?"

"I should say not!" returned Humphrey. "Just low-brow _intruders_—common
thieves. It was simply a case of one crook trying to steal from another.
And I want to tell you that when the facts are made public they’ll be
mighty lucky to be safe in jail."

"What’ve I been tellin’ you, Mr. Forrester," cried Green. "Thank God,
them _Italians_ will be off our minds now."

"Yes," admitted Humphrey, "you guessed right for once, Green. I’ve seen
their signed confession. I telephoned here as soon as I left the
Criminal Court building."

"What did they say in the confession?" questioned Forrester.

"Of course, I can’t remember the exact words, but the facts are about
like this: Reading in the newspapers that people were placing large sums
of money in that oak tree, they figured that it would be easy to slip up
some night and steal the money before the other fellows could get it. It
was just a question of knowing what night the money would be there. When
they heard of your case, Mr. Forrester, these Italians decided that
their opportunity had come and watched you night and day to find out
when you placed the money in the tree. That _was_ their car which
followed you through the fog that night. Reading my article, stating
that you intended placing the money in the tree last Saturday, they made
sure of the time by telephoning you Friday night."

"One telephone call accounted for," murmured Forrester.

"I frustrated the detectives’ capture," continued Humphrey, "by setting
off the flashlight for my photo. It startled and blinded the detectives,
so they tell me, allowing these fellows an opportunity to get away."

"Did they get my dummy package?" inquired Forrester.

"I think not," replied Humphrey. "The Italians claim not to have taken
anything from the tree at any time."

Forrester stretched out his feet before him, thrust his hands deep into
his trousers pockets and smiled at the two men.

"That settles all doubt about the ’Friends of the Poor,’" he said. "They
not only remain unknown, but probably secured my dummy package and know
that I have fooled them. Gentlemen, kindly omit flowers."

"Ah! but here’s the biggest surprise of all," exclaimed Humphrey, as he
jumped out of his chair, and taking a large envelope from the table
where he had laid it on entering the library, drew forth a photograph.

Green and Forrester also rose and approached the library table while
Humphrey was arranging the photograph where the lamplight would fall
full upon it.

"A camera is a wonderful thing," commented Humphrey. "Astronomers
discover stars with it that are not visible to the eye, even through a
powerful telescope; and spiritualists claim to have secured photos of
specters or ghosts or whatever they call the things that visit them. I
can believe it after seeing this photo."

"You ain’t got a picture o’ them ghosts, have you?" queried Green,
memories of a certain gruesome night only too clearly recalled.

"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t," returned Humphrey, non-committally,
but obviously amused at Green’s apprehension. "_That’s_ what I’m going
to let you folks decide. There!" he added, placing a finger on the
photograph as the others bent over it. "See that black spot back of the
tree? That is the shadow thrown by the tree trunk when my flashlight
went off. Naturally, anything in that shadow would not photograph well.
If you look carefully, however, you can make out what appears to be a
man standing a short distance back of the tree. It looks like a
silhouette, and may be only my imagination. That is why I want your
opinions."

First Forrester and then Green studied the photograph.

"Well?" inquired Humphrey, at length.

"I believe you are right," acceded Forrester. "A man was evidently
hiding behind the oak while we were there."

"I can go you one better!" asserted Green, positively. "Remember, Mr.
Forrester, the man’s silhouette I saw on the Prentices’ lawn that
night—the man who—"

"Yes—yes," interrupted Forrester, quickly, fearing that Green was about
to mention the girl before Humphrey.

"_That looks like the same silhouette!_"

"And now," cried Humphrey, "I want to show you something that is even
more puzzling. Do you happen to have a magnifying glass, Mr. Forrester?"

"Yes," said Forrester, opening the drawer in the table and taking out a
large reading glass.

"Hold the glass over the opening in the tree," instructed Humphrey. "Do
you see anything?"

Forrester adjusted the glass to different distances, while he examined
this part of the photograph.

"Yes," he agreed, after a time, "there seems to be a thin black object
inside the opening. It may be my package."

"No," protested Humphrey. "This looks like a black rod with a bright or
white spot near the end. Can you make it out, now that I have explained
it?"

"Yes," acknowledged Forrester, "but I cannot even make a guess at what
it can be."

"I’ll bet it’s a hand!" groaned Green. "I’ve seen it before!"



CHAPTER XV—THE MASK OF DEATH


Humphrey’s visit marked a turning point in the mysterious case of the
"Friends of the Poor." His famous photograph was published in the
_Times_ and created a considerable stir. Fortunately, in the newspaper
reproduction only the prominent features were discernible, and as at
Forrester’s request the reporter had omitted any reference to the
perplexing details which he had discovered, these possible clues
remained unknown to the police and public. All the newspapers showed a
tendency to ridicule and censure the police for their misdirected
activity, which aroused the department to redoubled efforts in the
solution of the case. This was further accentuated by pressure brought
to bear upon the chief of police, and even the mayor himself, by various
civic associations which had become alarmed at the inability of the
police to protect wealthy citizens from this terrible menace.

A small army of detectives was assigned to the case, and as Green
expressed it, "You can’t turn a corner without steppin’ on some bull’s
toes." Police activity was largely expended in the form of espionage
upon persons who had in any way been connected with the case, and
careful investigation of all people who lived in the vicinity of the oak
tree. Green reported to Forrester that a man who was unquestionably a
detective was keeping the Forrester estate under surveillance, and
Forrester discovered that a detective was steadily on guard at the tree.

That the "Friends of the Poor" were undaunted by this display of police
action, and were prepared to flaunt their power in the very faces of the
police, was shown by the fact that one morning the detective who had
been on watch at the tree the night before was found dead. The police
surgeon stated it to be a clear case of asphyxiation, although how such
a thing had been accomplished in the open air he was not prepared to
say. This tragedy, however, terminated all efforts of the police to keep
an open watch over the tree, for it was evident that the mysterious
force which was at work could not be reached in this way.

On the same day Green had come to Forrester in a state of great
dejection. The detective had found one of the familiar wrapping paper
notes pinned to his chair in the pergola, which read:

    _To_ _Detective Green and Robert Forrester_:

        You have but ten days to live.

            _Friends of the Poor._

Following the death of the detective at the tree, the negress, Lucy, was
arrested on suspicion, and Forrester learned from the newspapers that
the police had thoroughly ransacked her home in a search for
incriminating evidence, but without results. Forrester was impressed,
when he read this report, by the fact that Lucy persistently refused to
give any information regarding herself. As had been the situation at the
time of the reputed murder of her husband, there was absolutely no
evidence against her, and the police were forced to release her. To
Forrester, however, she still held her position as a possible though
puzzling element in the case.

Forrester also read with indignation that detectives had visited Mary
Sturtevant, closely questioning everyone in her household. Not a breath
of suspicion was raised against her as a result of this investigation,
which pleased Forrester, though it still further bewildered him in his
surmises regarding the girl. What chance had he in unearthing something
which a direct police investigation could not disclose? Forrester had
not seen Mary Sturtevant for some days, but this incident impelled him
to call on her, so early in the evening he took his roadster and drove
over to the girl’s house.

Mary Sturtevant’s apparent coldness toward him at their recent meetings
had worried Forrester, and he was greatly relieved when her greeting was
more cordial than ever and she showed every indication of pleasure at
seeing him.

"Robert," she said, as he drew his chair close to hers and sat down, "I
had about come to the conclusion that you had taken my advice and gone
away."

"You know," replied Forrester, "that I will not leave here until this
case is solved—unless you promise to go with me."

"That is impossible," she returned. "I am in no danger—not even from the
police," and she glanced at him with one of her old mischievous smiles.
Then added, gravely, "But you are risking your life every day that you
remain here."

"Mary," protested Forrester, "your attitude in this matter is
inexplicable. Won’t you confide in me and let me help you?"

"Some day, Robert," she declared, earnestly, "I shall probably be able
to explain to you; but please for the present, say no more about it."

While absolutely certain of his own feelings toward her, Forrester was
still doubtful about her attitude toward him. The fact that she
continued to use his given name when they were alone encouraged him.
Beyond that, however, she gave little or no evidence of how she felt
toward him. Forrester was unwilling, therefore, to risk offending her by
further talk upon a subject which she so urgently requested him to drop.
He turned the conversation to other matters in which they were mutually
interested.

At ten o’clock Forrester rose to go, and the girl accompanied him to the
foot of the steps. There she held out her hand and as he took it, she
said, pleadingly, "Please, Robert, won’t you go away for a little
while?"

Forrester leaned over and touched his lips to her hand.

"No," he returned shortly, and jumped into his car.

As he drove along Jasper lane Forrester was startled to hear a sharp
report behind him. It echoed through the still woods and for a moment he
thought that someone had fired a shot at him, but the immediate jarring
of his car signified that one of the rear tires had blown out. He
stopped the car, shut off the engine, and after adjusting the spotlight
so that he could see to work, threw his coat into the car and started
the job of changing tires.

He had nearly completed the task when he was suddenly seized in a strong
grip and something placed over his face!

Though taken at a disadvantage, and aware, from the peculiar odor which
assailed his nostrils, that his opponent was endeavoring to render him
unconscious by some sort of gas or drug, Forrester did not give up hope
but fought back courageously. His arms had been pinioned at his sides,
however, and he found it impossible to do more than struggle in the
grasp of his attacker. Realizing that he must soon lose consciousness,
Forrester made a supreme effort and succeeded in wrenching his arms
free. His first thought being to get air, he grasped at the object over
his face in an effort to pull it away. It was too late, for he already
felt faint and weak and could not exert the necessary strength.

Then he dimly heard several explosions like pistol shots and everything
became blank.

                                  ————

Forrester slowly opened his eyes and stared straight ahead for a minute
or two, trying to recollect what had happened and where he was. He was
in bed, but the room, so far as he could see in the dim light of a
distant, shaded lamp, was unfamiliar.

"Oh, Robert," cried a voice, "are you all right? How do you feel? Speak
to me!"

Languidly he turned his head and recognized Mary Sturtevant sitting by
the bedside. Then he discovered that one of his hands was held tightly
in both of hers.

"What has happened?" he queried, weakly.

"You met with an accident," she answered. "The doctor said we got there
just in time. You must not talk about it now, or ask any questions."

She dropped his hand, and jumping up, hurried across the room. In a
moment she returned with a glass, and holding his head up with one hand,
placed the glass at his lips.

"Drink this," she ordered.

Forrester drank a little from the glass and then she let his head drop
gently back on the pillow and sat down beside him. He watched her
dreamily for a moment or two, finally dropping off to sleep.

When Forrester again awoke the bright morning sun was streaming in
through a window at the foot of his bed. The first thing he saw was the
big colored man, Joshua, rocking in a chair near the window and crooning
to himself. Forrester tried to sit up, but found that he was very weak.
His effort attracted the attention of the negro.

"Yo’ jes’ lie still, Boss. Dem’s mah orders."

"Hello, Joshua!" said Forrester, and was surprised at the feebleness of
his voice when he tried to speak. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah belong heah, Boss. Dis am Mistah Bradbury’s house."

Forrester was puzzled. He knew that "Mr. Bradbury’s house" was where
Mary Sturtevant lived.

"How did I get here, Joshua?" he inquired.

"Ah guess de hants done got yo’, Boss. Mah Missey an’ me done fine yo’
layin’ in de road in front of dat tree wif a rubber t’ing in yo’ han’."

"A rubber thing?" exclaimed Forrester. "What do you mean?"

"Ah dunno what it is, Boss."

"Where is it now?" asked Forrester.

"We-all done got it downstairs, Boss. Ah’ll get it and show yo’."

Joshua left the room. He returned presently with a large, circular piece
of rubber which he placed in Forrester’s hands. Forrester examined it
carefully. He found that it was flexible, somewhat oval in form, and
concave. At the back a piece of light rubber tubing, about one foot in
length, was attached. Forrester placed the rubber over his face for a
moment and found that its form made it fit like a mask. He withdrew it
hastily when he heard an exclamation at his side. It was Mary
Sturtevant, and as Forrester glanced up he saw her looking at him with
startled eyes.

"Joshua!" she cried, turning to the negro, "how did Mr. Forrester get
that?"

"Ah done brung it to him, mam."

The girl seized the piece of rubber from Forrester and handing it to
Joshua, directed, "Take it away instantly, Joshua. Put it in my room."

"Yassum!" and Joshua darted out of the room, mumbling to himself.

The events of the night came back to Forrester quite clearly now.

"Was that the thing my assailant used on me last night?" he asked,
looking up at the girl.

"Yes," she returned, "but you mustn’t talk about it."

"But I want to talk about it," he exclaimed. "And I want it for
evidence!"

"Robert," she said seriously, "you must not tell a soul about what
happened last night, or refer to that piece of rubber. It is absolutely
vital that you do this for me. Please promise."

"I’ll consider it," he said, "if you will tell me the whole story of
what happened."

"I am willing to tell you that," she returned, "but first you must have
your breakfast. I can tell you the story while you are eating. It is
very short."

She left the room, returning in a few minutes with a tray. After
assisting Forrester to sit up in bed, and arranging the pillows at his
back, she placed the tray in his lap. As he ate, she explained to him
what had happened.

"After you left, I stood on the steps listening to the hum of your
engine as you drove away. I was worried, Robert, to think of your
recklessness in driving around alone at night under the present
circumstances. Suddenly, I heard a report like a pistol shot, and as I
could no longer hear the sound of your engine, I feared that something
had happened to you.

"Calling Joshua, we ran along the road in the direction you had taken.
We soon saw the lights of your car, and I could see that two men were
struggling in the road. I knew that one of them must be you. I have
always carried my little automatic with me since I came to live in this
lonely neighborhood. Taking it out, I fired several shots in the air as
I ran. That frightened the man who was attacking you and he fled.

"Joshua carried you back to the house, and I telephoned for a doctor.
The doctor said that an attempt had been made to asphyxiate you. If we
had been a minute or two later he could not have saved you."

"My God!" cried Forrester, receiving a shocking revelation. "The
'Friends of the Poor’! That is how their victims have been killed! How
did you get that mask of death, Mary?"

"You had seized it with a deathlike grip. The doctor could hardly get it
out of your hands. When the man fled he had to break the tubing to carry
the rest of the apparatus away."

"What a wonderful piece of evidence!" exclaimed Forrester.

"Yes," admitted the girl, "but against whom will you use it?"



CHAPTER XVI—THE FATAL DANCE


Forrester’s splendid health, and the prompt treatment he had received,
quickly put him on his feet. The second day after his adventure he had
sufficiently recovered to drive home in his car. This had been placed in
the Bradbury barn by Joshua, who also completed the exchange of tires,
which had been interrupted.

The effect of this incident upon his family worried Forrester. It would
drive his mother into a state of hysterical fear that could not fail to
seriously impede his investigations. When he mentioned this phase of his
accident to Mary Sturtevant, however, he found that the clever and
resourceful girl had foreseen and provided against such an occurrence.

Green had been summoned shortly after Forrester was brought to the
house, the attack explained and instructions given to inform Forrester’s
family that a business proposition had called him away unexpectedly for
a few days.

"No one outside of Mr. Green and my servants will ever know of this
incident," Mary Sturtevant informed Forrester, "if _you_ remain silent.
And for my sake I know that you will."

Forrester promised, though strange doubts and misgivings battled with
his affection for the girl. But of what use was love, he reflected, if
it could not stand the fire and acid tests of life’s problematical
moments. That the girl loved him he did not question now. It was only
this dark and fearsome mystery which continued to hold them apart.

Back home again, Forrester bathed and changed his clothes; then, after
looking up his mother and sister and accounting for his absence in a
matter of fact manner, he sought Green at his station in the pergola.

"Narrow escape, Mr. Forrester," commented Green, as Forrester shook
hands with him and sat down. "Funny how that Miss Sturtevant happened to
be so handy. What do you say?"

"I came out to have a talk with you, Green, along that line," replied
Forrester. "I have found some of your ideas right to the point. In other
ways you don’t seem to get anywhere. Now, for example, your surmise
about the Italians was correct. Your theory that Lucy is not connected
with these people appears to be confirmed by the investigations of the
police. The position you take that the ’Friends of the Poor’ are located
in the vicinity of the tree grows stronger every day. But—you don’t seem
able to point your finger at a single person or thing that will give us
a solid basis upon which to work. That is what I want now—a real
suggestion that I can follow up, and through which I may hope to form
some definite conclusion or take positive action. We must have action,
Green; quick action."

"I have given you a valuable hint, Mr. Forrester, but you turned it
down. What about them two people I saw on Prentice’s lawn—what about the
man who visited Miss Sturtevant and then hid himself behind the tree and
pulled out your package while the excitement was on—what about ’em, eh?
Why, damn it all!" Green exclaimed, jumping to his feet and pounding a
big fist on the palm of his open hand, "just let me get out of here and
I’ll show you somethin’. How can I get anywhere, just sittin’ here
communin’ with the birds. If you won’t let me do it, then get out
yourself and find that man. Between him and the girl you got two
startin’ points that’ll bag the whole crew."

Forrester sat in silence after this outburst. Green was right! The
detective _had_ pointed an accusing finger at Mary Sturtevant. He _had_
given Forrester positive information that she knew something definite
about the "Friends of the Poor," and yet, blinded by his infatuation,
Forrester had done nothing.

"All right, Green," agreed Forrester, "I’ll work on your suggestions.
How can we locate that man, however?"

"If he had a date with her once, he’ll have another," asserted Green.
"Stick around—that’s all. That girl’ll solve the case for you yet. Just
get her in a tight corner." Then he leaned down to Forrester and added,
in a low, confidential tone, "And don’t forget that old story about them
sireens on the rocks."

                                  ————

A few days later Forrester met Mary Sturtevant at a dance. Though he had
promised Green that he would watch her, Forrester had dallied over
taking the first step. Now, as he chatted with her and felt the spell
she always cast over him, Forrester’s whole being revolted at the
thought of spying upon her.

"Do you wish any dances?" she inquired, after a time. Forrester’s face
flushed. Divided between his disturbing reflections and the enchantment
of her nearness, he had not thought of reserving any dances. He held out
his hand and she placed her dance card in it.

"You see, you are always late," she chided him. "Five dances are already
taken."

"I’ll take these three after young Melville," announced Forrester, and
wrote his initials on the card.

Forrester had lost his interest in dancing of late, so he held himself
in the background until it was time to claim his first dance with Mary
Sturtevant. Then he hunted for her everywhere. She was not to be found,
and even after the orchestra had begun to play, she did not appear. He
saw nothing further of her until time for his second dance, when he
suddenly became aware that she was standing by his side.

"You are like the beautiful young woman that the magician passes through
his cabinet," exclaimed Forrester.

"Do I appear and disappear so mysteriously as all that?" she laughed,
but offered no apology nor explanation.

Then the music began and they swept out on the floor.

Just before the dance ended Forrester noted a stir near the conservatory
doors. Though the doors were closed, several people were grouped about
them, apparently looking through the glass at something going on within
the conservatory. When the music stopped Forrester suggested that they
stroll in this direction and ascertain what was taking place. Before
they reached the conservatory doors, however, Mr. Melville, their host,
appeared at Forrester’s side. The man’s face was pale and drawn.

"Forrester," said Mr. Melville in a low voice, "we have had an accident
in the conservatory. I would appreciate your help. Come around by way of
the hall—the doors from this room have been locked."

Mr. Melville turned away toward the hall and Forrester excused himself
to Mary Sturtevant. He noticed that her face also had paled.

"I think I know what has happened," she said. "Please let me go with
you."

"It might not be agreeable to Mr. Melville," objected Forrester.

"Robert," she whispered, impressively, "you are safe only when I am with
you!"

Forrester stared at her in astonishment. There was a beseeching look in
her eyes, however, and she held her hands out to him with a pleading
gesture which he could not resist.

"Come," he said, briefly, and taking her arm led her across the room and
around through the hall into the conservatory. Near its center, hidden
from prying eyes among palms and flowering plants, they found Mr.
Melville’s son stretched out on a bench. Near by stood the father, while
a gray-haired man leaned over the young man. The gray-haired man stood
erect at the sound of Forrester’s and the girl’s approach. Mr. Melville
was apparently too much distressed to notice Mary Sturtevant’s unbidden
presence. He turned to Forrester, informing him simply that the
gray-haired man was a doctor.

The deathly pallor on the young man’s face told the story. Forrester,
however, inquired:

"Dead?"

"Yes," replied the doctor. "Asphyxiated!"

"This is the work of the ’Friends of the Poor,’ Forrester," asserted Mr.
Melville. "I knew that you were involved and had been carrying on some
investigations in the matter. It occurred to me that there might be some
clues here of value to you. This is the story:

"About two weeks ago I was ordered by these people to place a certain
sum in that oak tree. Naturally, I ignored the demand and notified the
police. Since then I have taken every precaution to protect myself
against attack. Unable to get at me, it seems obvious that these
contemptible wretches have reached me through my son. That, I believe,
is a new angle, and shows the extremes to which these people are
prepared to go."

"When did this happen, Mr. Melville?" asked Forrester.

"About a half-hour ago, I should say, I saw my son pass into the
conservatory with this young lady," and Mr. Melville turned toward Mary
Sturtevant for the first time.

Forrester also turned and looked at the girl. She met his gaze steadily.

"Shortly after I came here," she explained, "my next dancing partner
entered and claimed me. I left young Mr. Melville sitting near that open
window over there."

Forrester gave no outward indication of the shock he had received. He
clearly remembered that after young Melville’s dance the next three
dances were his. It was during the first of these, the one she had
intimated belonged to someone else, that he had missed the girl. He
knew, therefore, that she had lied deliberately, placing it squarely up
to him to protect her. "Protect her from what?" thought Forrester. "What
was this frightful new development in the mystery?"

"I decided I wanted a smoke," continued Mr. Melville, "and so came into
the conservatory. A moment later I found my son on the floor beneath
that open window where Miss Sturtevant says she left him. My doctor was
among the guests and I summoned him at once—but too late, it seems."

"Any other facts?" asked Forrester, and received another shock when the
doctor handed him a small piece of filmy white fabric.

"I found this beside the body," said the doctor. And added, as Forrester
took it, "Note the peculiar odor."

Forrester lifted the fabric to his nose. Instantly he recognized the
same pungent, drug-like smell which he had noticed the night he was
attacked with the death mask. Examining the filmy bit of cloth,
Forrester saw that it was a part of a lady’s handkerchief which had been
torn in half. In one corner the letter "S" was embroidered. Crumpling
the handkerchief in his hand, Forrester pushed it into his waistcoat
pocket.

"I believe I can make use of this," he said.



CHAPTER XVII—AT THE DOORSTEP


Crushed beneath the weight of his secret knowledge of Mary Sturtevant’s
seemingly close connection with the infamous band of extortioners and
murderers who were literally terrorizing the city, Forrester fell into a
dull routine that held him back from making any progress in the case.
That a girl of her delicate refinement, superior intelligence and
appealing femininity should be involved with these men whose wanton
butcheries were becoming more and more appalling, was a bewildering
conundrum. Had anyone simply stated the case to Forrester, he would have
ridiculed such a suggestion, yet step by step facts had accumulated
rapidly from the day he first met her at the oak tree, culminating in
the astounding situation at the dance. The facts were so glaringly
against her then that he hardly dared review them.

At the time he put her handkerchief in his pocket he had had two objects
in view; to save her from the possible consequences of the discovery of
so definite a clue, and later to confront her with it and force a
confession. He had a wild idea that once he knew the whole story he
could persuade her to go away with him where the baleful hold these men
apparently had on her could not follow. Remembering the coincidence of
her leaving the room with young Melville, her absence when it was
Forrester’s turn to dance with her, and her untruthful statement
regarding her parting with Melville, Forrester saw clearly that her
activities in the affair were more than passive. Everything pointed to
her as a daring accomplice.

Forrester decided that as she had repulsed all his efforts to induce her
to leave, it would be better for him to stay away from her entirely and
let her work out her destiny in her own wilful way. For this reason he
refused all invitations, knowing that the wide acquaintance which her
letters of introduction had gained for her would inevitably result in
his meeting the girl at practically every place he went.

In spite of loud protests from Josephine, he had declined on this night
to attend one of the largest affairs of the season and was sitting in
the library with an open book laid face-down across his knee. After a
short chat earlier in the evening, Green had retired to his station
across the lawn and Forrester attempted to read. The printed words made
little or no impression on his perturbed mind and at length he dropped
the book. For over two hours he sat staring out through the open French
windows, wholly lost in melancholy thoughts.

Suddenly Forrester was conscious that someone was looking at him through
the open window. He started up in alarm just as Prentice strolled into
the room.

"Hello!" greeted Prentice. "Did I startle you?"

"Rather," answered Forrester, as he dropped back into his chair. "How
the deuce did you get in?"

Prentice raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That’s a strange question,"
he declared. "I just walked in, of course. Why do you look so
astonished?"

"Well, you see," explained Forrester, "I have a detective stationed out
there on the lawn. He is not supposed to allow anyone to slip in like
that."

"He has probably dropped off to sleep," laughed Prentice. "Or perhaps,
recognizing me, did not think it necessary to interfere. Are your folks
at the dance tonight, Bob?"

"Yes, and I’m a little surprised that you are not there."

"A man of my age, Bob, gets surfeited with such affairs. My wife and
daughter are there, however, and I promised to run up with the car and
bring them home. In passing, it occurred to me that you might like to go
along for the ride on such a warm night. It will give me an opportunity
to chat with you, too. You know it has been a long time since we had a
confidential talk over things."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Prentice, but I had rather not go. I
had quite a battle with Josephine over staying at home. If she found
that I had actually come as far as the door after all, there would be
high jinks. You know, I seem to be settling down terribly lately."

"You’ve taken too large and unaccustomed a burden on your shoulders,
Bob. Better drop that ’Friends of the Poor’ matter. Even the police are
not getting anywhere."

"I would not have believed a few weeks ago that criminals could go so
far without detection," said Forrester.

Prentice glanced around as though he feared being overheard. Then he
addressed Forrester in a low tone. "I’ve changed my mind about the
criminal side of this money drive. I am inclined to believe that it is
something more—something of world-wide significance." Then added, in a
louder voice, "Well, I must be going on. Good-night, Bob," and he passed
out of the window.

Forrester listened to his steps fade away along the terrace and then sat
pondering over Green’s noninterference with Prentice’s approach. It was
unusual and peculiar. If the detective were getting careless he was of
no further use. Happily, in this instance, it had been only Prentice,
but might not one of his enemies come in on him just as easily?

Forrester jumped up and strode across the lawn to the pergola.

"Green!" he called, sharply.

The breeze whispering through the leaves and the splash of tiny wavelets
on the beach below were the only sounds Forrester heard. He stepped into
the pergola and struck a match. Green was in his chair, but huddled down
in a loose and helpless bundle. Forrester shook him without result,
though the man’s labored breathing showed that he was not dead.

"My God!" cried Forrester. "I believe he has been attacked with the
death mask!"

He ran part way to the garage before remembering that the chauffeur was
with the car and waiting several miles away to bring Mrs. Forrester and
Josephine home. Green must be gotten out of the way before they arrived.
Returning to the pergola Forrester placed Green’s inert form over his
shoulder and carried the detective to his room over the garage. Laying
the man carefully on the bed Forrester hurried to the house to
telephone.

"Yes," said the doctor, a half-hour later, "I think he will live. We got
him just in time. Peculiar thing, Mr. Forrester, how a man can be
asphyxiated in the open air—yet this fellow shows every symptom of
asphyxia."

"Please don’t mention the matter at the house, doctor," requested
Forrester. "My mother and sister might be unnecessarily alarmed over
it."

"I understand," agreed the doctor. "Mum’s the word." Then, turning to
William, who had returned and stood in the room, he added, "Are you
going to watch him?"

"My wife and I will take turns," replied William.

"Well, if there is a change that does not look favorable, telephone me
at once. I’ll be back in the morning. Good-night."

                                  ————

During the period of Green’s convalescence Forrester emerged from his
lethargy, passing to the other extreme. He became restless and uneasy.
The doctor advised him against discussing any serious matters with
Green, stating that the man had received a mental as well as a physical
shock and that complete recovery could come only through both mental and
bodily rest. Forrester remained away from Green, therefore, and finding
himself unable to concentrate upon his reading or to focus his thoughts
for any length of time, he spent many hours walking along North Shore
roads, or discovering new bypaths through the woods.

On one of these occasions he found himself unexpectedly in the rear of
Lucy’s cottage. As he retained lingering suspicions of the Jamaica
colored woman it seemed to Forrester an opportune time to pay her
another visit. He walked around the end of the building through the
neglected, weed-grown clearing to the door and knocked. No noisy dog
greeted him this time, and in the quiet and gloomy woods the place
seemed to exhale an atmosphere of insidious mystery. He knocked twice
before Lucy opened the door and stood as he remembered her
before—silent, distrustfully observant, her peculiar eyes with their
oddly drooping lids vaguely suggestive of furtive evil.

"Good afternoon," Forrester greeted her, cheerfully.

"You here again?" and a scowl added to the forbidding aspect of her
face.

"Yes; after more news," replied Forrester.

She smiled sneeringly, and Forrester suspected that she was now well
aware that he was not connected with a newspaper.

"Well, what sort of news do you want this time?" she snapped.

An inspiration came to Forrester. Perhaps if aroused and angered she
might let something slip. "Your opinion of the detectives and police,"
he answered.

The effect was contrary to his anticipations. She smiled, her face
assuming a more cheerful expression than he had ever seen upon it.

"Stupid fools!" she said, briefly, emphasizing in two words of similar
import, the depth of her contempt for the representatives of the law. It
was a revelation to Forrester, which, more than anything else,
influenced some of his subsequent actions.

"What has become of your dog?" he asked. "I missed his friendly
reception."

Again her face glowered. "The police shot him," she answered. Then
added, "I’m busy; you’d better run along," thus ending the interview
abruptly as she had before.

"I think I will," assented Forrester. "Good-bye," and he walked away
along the path that led by the tree, conscious that the inscrutable eyes
of the negress were following him in speculation.

Forrester returned home, but instead of going directly into the house he
strolled across the lawn to the pergola. There he sat down to smoke his
pipe, and analyze his impressions of Lucy.

A golden glow from the late afternoon sun hung over the lake. Here and
there a sailing craft with sun-gilded sails moved lazily along before
the gentle offshore breeze. Birds chirped in the trees at his back, and
humming insects hovered around him. Nature breathed peace and
restfulness. Only man—and woman—created the turmoil and misery that
disturbed life’s predestined course. If only human beings would realize
that when His work was done all that was needed had been accomplished,
and cease their ineffectual attempts to check or alter the inevitable.
Yet, while man continued to battle, man must also fight back.

Forrester’s reveries were interrupted by the spluttering roar of a motor
and he glanced toward the garage. William, seated in the big car, was
tuning up his engine, while a man, pale, haggard and unsteady on his
feet, trudged across the lawn toward the pergola. Forrester was
surprised to see Green up and in action.

The detective entered and sank weakly into a chair near Forrester.

"What’s up, Green?" cried Forrester. "I thought you were still confined
to your bed."

"I’m goin’ back to bed when I get home," replied Green. "I’m goin’, Mr.
Forrester; I’m through!"

"You mean you are going to leave me?" queried Forrester.

"Yes," assented Green. "I ain’t got any wife or children, but I may have
some day, and I don’t want to disappoint ’em by being bumped off now.
Besides, it ain’t dignified for a detective to be gassed off while his
back is turned—without a chance. If I _have_ to die, I’m goin’ to die
fightin’. So I’m goin’, Mr. Forrester. That’s final."

"I’m sorry, Green," admitted Forrester, earnestly. "You have become
almost like one of the family. You have been a help, too. Some of your
ideas have been tip-top, and I may yet profit by hints you have given
me. If I do, I’ll not forget that bonus I promised you."

"I ain’t worryin’ about no bonus," returned Green, "but I am sort o’
worryin’ about you. Do you know what that day was that I nearly got took
off?"

"Do you mean what day of the week or month?" inquired Forrester.

"That was the _last day_ o’ the ten days them guys give us! The only
thing that saved you was probably the accidental droppin’ in o’ that
friend o’ yours, Prentice, that night. He must’ve come while they was
operatin’ on me. They’ve been gettin’ closer and and closer, Mr.
Forrester, _but they’re at the doorstep now_!"

Green rose to go. Forrester jumped from his chair and shook the man’s
hand warmly.

"One last piece o’ advice," whispered Green. "Watch the girl! Maybe she
ain’t an actual criminal, but somebody’s got a good hold on her. What
she knows about them people would most likely be an eye opener for you."



CHAPTER XVIII—TRIANGULATION


Green’s sudden departure, following the enforced and trying separation
from Mary Sturtevant, depressed Forrester and left him with a sense of
helpless loneliness. He ate dinner that night in a morose silence that
called forth several cutting remarks from Josephine. After dinner
Forrester sought the seclusion of his room in preference to the library.
He wanted to be isolated in order to work out his problem, for Green’s
words, coupled with the afternoon visit to Lucy, had aroused a
determination to end the suspense quickly and finally. He had
information that was unknown to the police—information which Green
claimed to be vital—and he wanted to decide how to use it to the best
advantage.

Green’s intimation that Mary Sturtevant might not be an actual criminal
gave a different twist to the situation. To conceive of her being a
bandit queen had seemed preposterous, yet what other construction could
be placed on her actions?

But Forrester also recalled Prentice’s vague reference to a new angle in
the case—a phase that had hitherto not been thought of. "Something of
world-wide significance," were his words. What connection could there be
between these local, cold-blooded murders and the rest of the world?

Unexpectedly a great light seemed to come—swift, overwhelming, terrific
in its magnitude. Forrester caught his breath.

_Red interests!_

Why not? Was not the long arm of Bolshevism reaching out everywhere in
an effort to destroy nations and bring about a new order of things;
could not some master mind have devised, with grim humor, a plan to make
so-called Capitalism pay the cost of its own destruction? Forrester’s
head swam with these thoughts. He saw now that the savage reprisals for
refusal to pay could not possibly be the work of ordinary men. Not even
the most desperate criminal would take the risk of so arousing public
wrath. On the other hand, would not the wholesale fear aroused among
wealthy men by this method be part of Red propaganda?

How many perplexing things seemed to assume a new and easily explained
meaning. "Friend of the POOR"—an appropriate title seen from the
viewpoint of Red schemers. Lucy, a woman close to the soil, her color a
bar to progress, despite her education, would be an easy convert.
Forrester was sure the mystery embraced her at some point, yet Green had
said she could not resist the temptation of displaying her prosperity.
But working fanatically for what she believed a great cause, would
explain it. It was possible that she was the one who collected the money
and passed it on.

And Mary Sturtevant’s part became less blameworthy. Many women of her
class had dabbled in amateur Bolshevism. In her case she had, perhaps,
gone a little too far, and the Red tentacles were reaching out and
seeking to draw her closer. Probably she was making a brave struggle to
free herself and hoping at any moment to win.

But at what point could he begin his attack in the light of this new
development? There must be something more tangible than theories and
fanciful ideas to lay before the police. The responsibility must be laid
upon some one, with facts to back up the accusation. Forrester thought
of Humphrey and his triangulation theory. It seemed as whimsical as
tossing a coin, but Forrester decided to try.

Taking a pad and pencil he first placed a small circle for the oak tree.
His recent speculative conclusions led him to draw a small square for
Lucy’s cottage in its approximate position near the tree. Obviously,
Mary Sturtevant was the next most prominent figure in the case, and with
a mental measurement of the probable location of the house she occupied,
he drew another square. The connecting of these three points with lines
astounded Forrester. He saw that he had an obtuse-angled triangle, _with
Lucy occupying the controlling point_.

However, there must be one or more additional triangles that would
overlap, for Humphrey, in explaining his theory, had said: "At some
point the lines will _cross_."

Forrester mused over this for a time. He could not decide on other
points which would be near enough to these to form an overlapping
triangle. He tried several ideas without result. His own home was too
far away. But how about other victims? Suddenly it came to him. The
first and last victims, so far as he knew, were Prentice and Melville,
and the homes of these were reasonably near. So Forrester placed a
square for each of these men’s homes on his sketch. That still left a
third point for his triangle. He finally decided to use the tree again
for this point. The lines did not cross, at least in the way he imagined
Humphrey had in mind, but they did serve to increase the size of his
original triangle and bring it to a perfect form of the isosceles
triangle. It was significant, moreover, that the line from Prentice, the
_first_ victim, led directly through Lucy’s cottage to the tree, and he
noted with a start that the line from the Melville home, where the girl
had been deeply involved, led through Mary Sturtevant’s house.

This is the rough sketch as Forrester completed it:

The way to a solution unquestionably led through Lucy and Mary
Sturtevant, if there were anything at all to Humphrey’s idea. Green
pointed at the girl. Forrester’s inclinations led him to the negress,
and the odd working out of the triangle theory seemed to confirm him in
his impressions. Forrester decided to investigate Lucy at once. His
reference to the police had amused instead of angered her. She had
pithily expressed her disdain of them. Was it not possible that these
feelings arose from a sense of victory? In searching her house, the
police had failed to find something that she knew was there! Whatever it
was, Forrester intended to locate it, and use his information for what
it might be worth.

Forrester took an electric pocket lamp from the top of his chiffonier,
and a dark muffler from a drawer. These he placed in his pocket. Then he
selected a cap of an unobtrusive shade and went down to the laundry.
There he cut off a short length of clothesline, wound it around his body
and buttoned up his coat.

Unlocking the laundry door, which opened at the southern end of the
house, Forrester looked carefully around. He could hear William
whistling at his work in the garage, while above him his sister was
playing the piano in the music room. No other sound reached him and no
one was in sight. Forrester closed the laundry door softly and stole
across the lawn to the road.



CHAPTER XIX—FACE TO FACE


It was bright moonlight when Forrester left the house and walked south
on Sheridan Road. He had decided to walk to Lucy’s, believing that he
would attract less attention, both on the way and after reaching his
destination, than if he used his roadster. Though wayside trees cast
great shadows across the road, and the gloom near bordering hedgerows,
or the underbrush of vacant tracts, afforded partial concealment,
Forrester looked with apprehension upon the brilliancy of the night.
Fortunately for his plans, large clouds began shortly to drift over the
moon. The gloom was more intense during these moments of darkness
because of the transition from periods of strong moonlight.

The night was unusually still, undoubtedly because of an approaching
storm, and few people seemed to be abroad. Only two motor cars passed
him during the journey between his home and Jasper lane. One of these
passed at a time when the moon was shining brightly and Forrester was
sure that it was Melville’s limousine. At the moment, he was walking in
the deep shadow of a high hedge and was probably invisible to the
occupants of the car. It was a providential circumstance, for to be
stopped and questioned at this time would not only cause delay, but
might attract undesirable attention.

Reaching Jasper lane, Forrester kept to the grass at the side, and
walking slowly, succeeded in approaching the oak tree without any sound
that would be audible to others than himself. He paused, listening long
and intently. The silence seemed almost palpable, its noiseless fingers
clutching at him from the darkness. A momentary flash of the moon gave
him his bearings. During the succeeding darkness, Forrester, stooping
low, carefully felt his way past the tree and down the path toward
Lucy’s cottage. Unless the colored woman had secured another dog,
Forrester was sure that he could reach her door unnoticed. It was then
his purpose to tie her fast and either frighten her into some helpful
admission or else discover for himself some clue possibly overlooked by
the police.

The cottage stood dark and silent in its little clearing. Forrester
reached it without hearing a sound, but he had a momentary feeling of
uneasiness when the moon shone full upon him as he crossed the clearing.
At the door he paused to consider. Was the woman away? Or had she
retired for the night? If the latter, then he would probably be able to
surprise her while she slept. Forrester placed his hand on the doorknob
and turned it slowly and quietly. Then he exerted a gentle pressure, and
was gratified, though astonished, to find that the door opened. Fearful
of squeaking hinges Forrester moved the door inward an inch at a time,
and entering, closed it in the same careful way. There was no key in the
lock, but running his hand along the edge of the door, Forrester
discovered a bolt which he softly pushed into place.

Forrester took out the muffler and wound it about his neck and face
until only his eyes were exposed. Then he pulled his cap down so that
its vizor shadowed even these. With intermittent and cautious flashes of
his pocket lamp he found that the room was unoccupied and the door
leading to what he believed to be Lucy’s bedroom closed. This he
approached with wary tread and opened the door slowly and softly. A
flash of his light showed that the bedroom was also deserted. Lucy was
not at home! It was a wonderful opportunity that might be interrupted at
any moment, so Forrester worked fast. He considered it immaterial what
the woman might discover after he was gone. Any disorder she would
probably attribute to another visit by the police.

Forrester tore the coverings from the bed and scattered the contents of
drawers on the floor. His search was unrewarded. There was not a line of
writing anywhere; no concealed arms, Bolshevik literature or suspicious
bottles; absolutely nothing to form the slightest clue. He then carried
his search into the sitting room with equally unsuccessful results.
Forrester received an uncomfortable shock as he turned his pocket lamp
into the aquarium and saw the slimy bodies of the snakes writhe uneasily
under the glare of the light.

Thus far the search had been fruitless and discouraging, but the sight
of the snakes in their glass prison started Forrester’s mind to working.
What was the real purpose of these snakes? Their uncanny, loathsome
bodies were repellent to the strongest man. _Repellent!_ The word was
illuminative. Was not one of its definitions "drive back"? Was this the
actual purpose of the snakes?

Forrester fixed the button on his pocket lamp to keep the light steady,
and laid it on the center table to illumine his work. Lifting the stand
on which the aquarium rested he placed it near the middle of the room
and pulled aside the heavy rug.

_Directly beneath the spot where the aquarium stood was a square
trapdoor in the floor!_

Forrester stooped, placed two fingers in a hole, evidently provided for
the purpose, lifted the section of carefully fitted flooring and set it
to one side. Taking his light from the table and turning its rays into
the opening Forrester saw a ladder leading into a cellar beneath the
cottage. Swiftly he dropped his legs through the hole and descended.

The underground room in which he found himself was smaller than the
space covered by the cottage. The walls were of large rough stones,
showing evidence of dampness. Along these walls was piled litter of a
varied nature—old barrels, boxes, empty food tins and the broken remains
of furniture. Against the front wall, at a point almost under the
entrance door, stood an old, dilapidated sideboard. It attracted
Forrester’s attention because he could not conceive how such a large
object had been brought into the cellar through the small trap. It was
the only thing in the cellar that could be readily moved, and Forrester
had an inspiration to look behind it. At the first effort the sideboard
swung out from the wall on smooth-running casters that strangely had
apparently not been affected by the dampness of the cellar.

Moving the sideboard disclosed a small, rough-board door in the wall.
This Forrester opened and flashed his light into the space beyond. It
seemed to be a narrow passage, the floor a little below the level of the
cellar. Forrester dropped into the passage and started along it,
throwing his light about him and studying its formation. The floor was
sandy, the walls of solid rock, and the roof appeared to have been
formed by a multitude of interlacing tree and plant roots. The average
width of the passage was about five feet and its height somewhere
between ten and twelve. Forrester’s trained eye saw instantly that it
was the work of Nature, not of man. At some remote period a cleft had
been riven in the solid rock and the intertwined roots above prevented
the caving in of the surface soil.

A momentary sparkle on the ceiling caught Forrester’s eye. He then
discovered that electric lights were hung from the roof at regular
intervals. They were beyond his reach, and as no connection or switch
along the walls had been discovered, Forrester concluded that the lights
could be operated only from some point inside the cottage.

Presently Forrester came to an indentation in the wall on his right,
forming a sort of shelf. On this rested two bright steel cylinders about
the size of the small fire extinguisher he carried in his car. To one of
the cylinders was attached a five-foot length of a slender rubber tubing
which connected it with one of the rubber death masks he knew only too
well. Here at last was evidence beyond dispute. Forrester did not meddle
with the cylinders. The slightest mistake made by one unaccustomed to
them might release the deadly gas he had reason to believe they
contained. In that confined space its action would be swift and sure.

Continuing along the passage Forrester finally came to the end. At this
point it widened out slightly into a small chamber. At one side a ladder
led up into a mass of tangled tree roots that hung in fantastic shapes,
which gave Forrester an uncomfortable feeling that he had stumbled into
a veritable den of snakes. Forcing back this feeling of revulsion he
climbed the ladder.

Here the handiwork of man was in evidence. He was ascending into a space
that had been hollowed out of the heart of a tree. Above his head was a
small wooden trapdoor held in place by a wood slide or bolt. Releasing
the bolt allowed the door to drop silently downward on hinges formed of
stiff leather. A package fell into his hands, followed by a draft of air
laden with the scent of summer woods. Pushing up his light Forrester
recognized the hollow in the oak tree. He saw also that the upper side
of the trapdoor was so prepared that it would seem like part of the tree
to anyone investigating from above.

At last the most vital secret of the "Friends of the Poor" was in his
hands—the method by which they had so mysteriously secured their toll
under the very eyes of the detectives.

Forrester examined the small, flat package in his hand. Someone had
placed a contribution in the tree that night. Then Forrester shivered.
The scoundrels would come to collect at any moment! He was shut in at
the far end of a narrow passage, the only way of escape leading back
through the cottage where they would enter. If they met him here his end
would be sure and his disappearance a mystery forever. Hastily he
climbed down the ladder and was about to go when several objects drew
his attention. The temptation to investigate these before he left was
too strong to resist and Forrester lingered a moment or two longer.

All the paraphernalia that had made possible the ghostly illusions,
which had frightened others and puzzled him, now lay revealed as nothing
but mean claptrap. On the wall hung a group of rusty chains, a small
megaphone for throwing the voice and an old locomotive bell. In one
corner stood a tin similar to a paint can. This, Forrester found,
contained a preparation commonly known as phosphorescent paint and a
nearby glove, which smelled strongly of the substance, solved the riddle
of the flaming hand which had impressed even the phlegmatic Green. The
greatest curiosity of all, however, was a black tube standing against
the wall. Forrester instantly remembered the appearance of something of
this kind in Humphrey’s photograph. On examination it proved to be a
homemade periscope. By pushing it up into the opening in the oak tree it
was probably possible for a person in the cave to ascertain what was
occurring on the surface. Forrester did not wait to experiment, for he
was sure that on the night of the Italians’ visit someone was taking in
the scene and the projecting end of the periscope had been picked up by
the camera.

Forrester now hurried down the passage. Unquestionably he had lingered
longer than was wise, and a quick escape was imperative. As he passed
back through the passage Forrester’s engineering training caused him to
note certain things about him. Though the rocky walls and the sand
beneath his feet were now dry, he saw indications that the cleft must
serve as a drain for the neighborhood. In the winter it was probably a
well; full of cold, stagnant water, which, he surmised, accounted for
the peculiar inactivity of the "Friends of the Poor" after the winter
rains and snow fell.

Before he reached the end of the passage Forrester was startled to hear
a grating sound, followed by a slight thud.

Like a flash the truth came to him. Someone had discovered the moved
sideboard and open door and surmising that the visitor was still in the
cave had shut him in.

Forrester paused to reflect. It would be useless to try and force his
way out. Even if he could get through the door, which he doubted, there
was no telling how many of the band were in the cottage. Forrester was
unarmed, as he had expected to deal only with Lucy, and a battle with
more than one man would be an unequal struggle. To make matters worse,
his electric lamp, which had been in constant use since he entered the
cottage, now gave out. The bulb still glowed, but with a dull light that
had no power. Forrester flung the lamp down and felt his way back toward
the tree. He reasoned that as a package had been placed in the tree it
was more than probable that detectives were concealed nearby. To climb
into the opening in the tree, attract their attention by shouting, and
then give directions for reaching him, seemed the only solution.

Continued calls, however, brought no response. Either there were no
detectives there, or else his cries for help, which necessarily had to
be subdued, were acting on superstitious minds and accomplishing just
the opposite of what he intended—driving help away. Forrester ceased his
calls and climbed slowly down into the cave once more.

Suddenly the place was brilliantly illuminated by the turning on of the
electric lights over his head. The meaning of this was clear. The time
had come when he must fight for his life and Forrester looked about for
a weapon. There was nothing that would serve his purpose. Then he
recollected the cylinders. Who knew better than these men their
death-dealing power? With these cylinders in his hands would it not be
possible to hold his assailants at bay—even to overcome them? Forrester
dashed down the passage to reach the cylinders before his enemies. It
was too late! As he rounded a slight curve in the rocky cleft he saw the
figure of a man only a short distance away. Still there might be time.
He could see the depression where the cylinders rested and the man was
some distance on the other side. Forrester kept on, but his hopes fell
as he saw the man reach the spot first and stop.

Forrester also came to a halt and the two men surveyed each other in
silence. Completely covering the man’s head and shoulders was a black
hood. Through two slits Forrester could see the sparkle of his eyes.
Forrester recalled Prentice’s description of the two hooded men who had
attacked him and realized that at last he was face to face with the
"Friends of the Poor."

The man moved forward. As he approached, his body slightly crouched like
a wrestler waiting for his opening, Forrester took heart. If it was
simply to be a hand to hand contest and the men came only one at a time,
then there was some hope.

Forrester kept the man off at first with his fists, but at length they
closed and a desperate struggle began. Back and forth they tugged and
pulled, neither man seemingly gaining any advantage. All at once
Forrester saw the cylinders at his side and suddenly realized that
throughout the struggle the man had been slowly dragging him along
toward these death machines. And with the realization he saw the man
reach out and seize the one with the rubber mask attached.

From that moment the battle changed. Forrester’s one thought was to keep
the mask away from his face, while the man’s main effort was evidently
directed toward placing it there. Presently Forrester detected the
peculiar odor of the gas. Either the cylinder had been accidentally
opened in the struggle or the man had intentionally released the gas. As
the mask was directed toward Forrester, and only a few inches from his
face, he received the full effect of the fumes, while the man was
partially protected from its effect. Forrester felt himself weakening,
as he had on the night of the battle in Jasper lane.

With a last despairing effort he tripped his antagonist and as they fell
Forrester managed to come down on top. Slowly he forced the mask over
the man’s hooded face and just as he had it in place Forrester sank down
unconscious.



CHAPTER XX—THE INVISIBLE DETECTIVE


Forrester awoke to find himself in the same bedroom in which he had
recovered consciousness after the attack made upon him in Jasper lane.
The recognition of his surroundings was a shocking stimulant. Like a
flash the whole scene in the underground passage was recalled.

That he should again have been rescued by the girl possessed a
significance which permitted of no alleviating doubt. Mary Sturtevant
was unquestionably hand and glove with the "Friends of the Poor."
Forrester closed his eyes and groaned. He loved her—would have redeemed
her from their clutches—but she had not listened to him. _Now the whole
terrible secret was within his grasp and yet that love for her must hold
him back!_

How could he expose the "Friends of the Poor" and drag her down in the
crash? Bolshevik they _might_ be—murderers they surely were. Public
opinion, aroused now to fever heat, would see that not one escaped the
full penalty. Unless the girl were part and parcel with the organization
and knew their inmost secrets—their every move—she would never have been
close at hand to save him from that hidden passage where no one knew
that he had gone.

Suddenly he felt a cool, soft hand upon his forehead. He opened his eyes
and turned his head. Mary Sturtevant sat by the bedside, gazing down at
him with bright eyes as she gently stroked his head.

"Mary," he whispered, reproachfully, "I can’t believe it!"

"Oh, Robert," she exclaimed, "are you feeling all right again? I have
been so worried. It is two days since we brought you here. Each time you
awoke you were delirious and we had to give you sleeping powders to keep
you quiet."

Then she seized his hands in her own and held them close to her.
"Robert," she murmured, "now that it is all over, I can answer you. _I
love you!_"

He drew her hands back to him and pressed them to his lips. "All over?"
he queried, at last. "What do you mean?"

"I know it is against the doctor’s orders to excite you," she answered,
"but I cannot stand this dreadful suspense any longer. There is a man
waiting downstairs who can explain all. I have made him stay close at
hand every day so that when your mind became clear you could know the
whole story immediately. I will bring him up now," and Mary Sturtevant
withdrew her hands from Forrester’s clasp and ran out of the room.

In a few minutes she returned, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man,
with kindly brown eyes and streaks of gray in his thick, dark hair. He
smiled down reassuringly at Forrester as the girl introduced him.

"This," she announced, happily, "is Mr. Keith Marten, whom I call the
invisible detective."

Marten took Forrester’s hand and held it for a moment with a warm,
friendly clasp, as he said, "I am very glad to meet you face to face,
Mr. Forrester. I have known you well for weeks, but chiefly from some
distance. As Miss Sturtevant says, I have endeavored to remain
invisible."

Marten then drew a chair near the bed and sat down.

"Do either of you mind my smoking?" he asked, taking a cigar from his
pocket. "Tobacco is my principal failing—one, however, which I believe I
share in common with all who must draw deeply upon nervous force in
their work."

Both urged him to smoke, and while Marten lighted his cigar, Mary
Sturtevant explained his connection with the case to Forrester.

"Mr. Marten was in the Government Secret Service for many years, and has
had his own investigative service for some time.

"You probably noticed that the majority of the men victimized by this
supposed band of extortioners were prominent in banking circles. That
constituted a direct assault upon the banking fraternity. While people
outside of banking circles did not know of it, this persecution was
gradually bringing on an actual financial panic. When it was rumored
that a banker had given up a large sum to this supposed society, or his
murder was reported, a mild run resulted at the bank with which he was
associated. If there had been only one or two cases this would have had
little effect, but as numerous banks were brought into the matter there
was a tendency to spread this fear and the germs of a panic were
insidiously gripping financial circles. The matter was finally taken up
at a special conference of the _Midland Bankers’ Association_.

"Shortly before you were selected as a victim, the M. B. A. engaged Mr.
Marten to solve the riddle of the ’Friends of the Poor,’ and the secret
toll which they were imposing upon bankers. Mr. Marten has been the
invisible detective, working behind the scenes in this case. Just how he
accomplished his great work I shall leave to Mr. Marten to tell you."

"Your story will certainly interest me," declared Forrester, smiling at
Marten, and elated at the thought that Mary Sturtevant had been working
in a good cause. "I had about lost faith in the supposed abilities of
detectives."

"There are many able detectives," replied Marten. "You made your first
mistake in not going to a high-class detective agency. You cannot judge
the ability of all detectives by ex-policemen like Green, or by the
average city men. To become a city detective, a man must put in long
service as a policeman; and even then he has no guarantee that he will
ever be promoted to the detective section. The peculiar type of brain,
the scientific turn of mind, and the education which make an efficient
detective, naturally render long preliminary service as a policeman
abhorrent to the men who make the best detectives. Moreover, the
physical requirements of the police department shut out many brilliant
thinkers. Consequently, the best detective material seldom, if ever,
reaches city police departments.

"The whole principle is wrong, and until some other system is
established we will continue to see fine specimens of physical
development, whose very appearance advertises their calling, trying to
solve intricate criminal cases by muscle-power instead of brain-power.
It is analogous to placing a prize fighter in the chair of higher
mathematics at some university.

"Forgive me, Mr. Forrester, if I bore you with these extraneous
comments, but it is a subject that takes up much of my leisure time. I
hope, by educating influential men like you, that the system will be
changed; that eventually we will have a great central department like
Scotland Yard, or that the detective bureaus of large cities will be
separate from the regular police departments."

"You do not bore me, Mr. Marten," returned Forrester. "On the contrary,
I am deeply interested; especially because of what happened in the
present case."

"Well, enough of that," said Marten. "Now for the story I came here to
tell.

"Unlike police detectives, I do not immediately ascribe a crime to the
lower criminal classes. I _know_ that criminal tendencies extend upward
through every stratum of society. My first effort, therefore, is to
place the possible social standing of the criminal, and thus learn
approximately _where_ to look for him.

"In the present instance I took all the available data and analyzed the
situation. Two points impressed me at once. One, that for approximately
a year not a single clue had been discovered. Second, the enormous
amount of money which had been extorted. This had reached the sum of
nearly a quarter of a million dollars."

"I considered those points," said Forrester, "but they gave me no clue."

"Ah, because you lacked two things," returned Marten. "Experience and
the outside viewpoint. Now, in analyzing the first point, I seriously
doubted the existence of a _group_ of men as implied by the name
'Friends of the Poor.’ When a gang is operating it is difficult to hold
the men together. Something slips sooner or later, just as in the case
of those West Side Italians who were caught by the police. I became
convinced that we had to deal _with one man only_. I was even more
convinced of this when I considered the amount of money involved. To
have attempted to split so vast an amount in an equitable way among a
number of ordinary criminals would eventually have led to dissensions
and exposure.

"Then, in considering this second point by itself, I saw that we had to
deal with no ordinary criminal. It was a vast sum, and the ordinary
criminal type does not think in such large figures. The result of this
analysis gave me two clues: first, that we probably had to deal with not
more than one man; and second, that this man was a much higher type than
the common malefactor.

"Another point to consider was the manner of death of those victims who
failed to make their payments. These men were all asphyxiated. I did not
know the exact method at the time, as I know it now, but the principle
remained the same. To accomplish this asphyxiation, I reasoned that the
victim must be lured to some place for the purpose. If only one man were
engaged in the work, it was obvious that he was not only acquainted with
the victims’ habits, but probably sufficiently well acquainted with the
victims themselves to possess their confidence. All this pointed to a
man of high social position.

"My next step, therefore, was to make a list of the victims and all
their business and social acquaintances. I then compared these lists to
ascertain the men known in common to all, or the majority of the
victims. In this way I discovered a certain number of men known to all
the victims. The lives and habits of these men were investigated in
search of a possible clue. No definite results. Finally, pondering over
the case one day, the initials of one man impressed themselves upon me.
His initials were F. P.—the same initials that would stand for ’Friends
of the Poor.’ Such a clue might seem fantastic. In criminal
investigation, however, clues are often the result of inspiration, and I
could not afford to let this coincidence pass. I made a more thorough
investigation into the history and actions of Frederick Prentice."

"Frederick Prentice!" gasped Forrester, starting up in bed.

"Exactly," returned Marten, "the supposed first victim."

"Our families have been friends for years," groaned Forrester. "His
daughter, Diana, and myself were childhood companions. How could he
attempt _my_ life?"

"The man was mentally unsound," explained Marten. "The successful
operation of his scheme excited his weakening brain until it became an
obsession with him. Although he had achieved his original purpose of
recuperating his broken fortunes, I believe he continued his threats and
killing for the sheer insane joy of playing with his victim and then
killing him. Possibly, the attendant mystery and notoriety also appealed
to some perverted side of his nature."

"Go on with your story," said Forrester.

"These were the facts which I discovered about Prentice," continued
Marten. "His mother died years ago in a private sanitarium for the
insane on Long Island, New York. This showed a possibility that
Prentice’s mind might be affected, and in its weakness assume a criminal
trend. I found that Prentice’s father had willed him a certain amount of
money, and that Prentice had lost approximately this amount in the stock
market. That showed a possible reason for his step, for Prentice had a
rather expensive wife and daughter to maintain, and he knew absolutely
nothing of business. Prentice’s father also willed him the piece of
property upon which the oak tree stands. A few weeks before the affair
started, Prentice ostensibly sold this property to a man named Hans
Eckmeier, who in turn quickly sold it to a colored woman who lived in a
small cottage on the property—a woman, by the way, without visible means
of support, and without any financial resources which could be located.
This unquestionably indicated preliminary preparation designed to
eliminate any connection of Prentice with the property. There were
rumors, too, that this woman had murdered her husband. Rumors are hardly
to be considered as evidence, yet this story offered a possible basis
for Prentice having a hold over the negress.

"Further investigation revealed the fact that Hans Eckmeier had received
considerable financial assistance at different periods from Prentice,
and was under obligation to him. Moreover, this man, who was a chemist,
had invented a deadly poison gas, the formula of which he sold to the
German Government just previous to the war. Here, Mr. Forrester, were a
remarkable series of clues.

"If we could back these with a few pieces of actual evidence, our case
was closed. That was the problem; how to get the evidence. I dared not
appear in the case myself, nor have ordinary detectives come into
contact with Prentice, without the danger of arousing his suspicions;
yet it was imperative that someone possessing investigative instincts
should come into close association with this man.

"During the war, while I was engaged in secret service work in New York,
Miss Sturtevant, like many other women of her station in life, was of
great assistance to the Government. Because of her social position it
was possible for her to take her place in Prentice’s social set without
arousing any suspicion as to her purpose. It was arranged through the
M.B.A. for her to rent the Bradbury house for the summer. This house was
located sufficiently near the tree for her to watch it, and also within
easy reach of Prentice’s home. The M.B.A. arranged for Miss Sturtevant
to receive letters of introduction to Chicago people who would be most
helpful to her. The stage was completely set for our work just about the
time you received your notice, and we hoped, through Prentice’s attack
upon you, to get the definite evidence we desired. That explains, for
example, the telephone calls you received. I attempted to find out about
the time you would place the money in the tree so as to make proper
arrangements. When you refused the information Miss Sturtevant obtained
it for me. We expected Prentice to go to the tree, and Miss Sturtevant
was placed in a very fortunate position to watch him that night by being
invited to a dinner and dance at his home; his family, of course, being
entirely ignorant of his schemes. I received a report from her on
Prentice’s lawn, shortly after you left, and hurried to the tree. I was
standing only a short distance back of the tree during the whole affair.

"You are familiar with the fiasco which the city detectives brought
about that night. The package mysteriously disappeared, and as I learned
later through Miss Sturtevant that Prentice left the dance for
approximately three-quarters of an hour, he undoubtedly secured it. We
were absolutely sure then that Prentice was the chief conspirator,
probably being assisted by the chemist and the negress, Lucy. But we had
no actual evidence.

"Our next opportunity was furnished by the Melville incident."

"Tell me one thing," interrupted Forrester. "What was Mary’s connection
with that affair?"

"I can explain that, Robert," replied the girl. "I knew that Mr.
Melville was in danger when I saw Prentice there. After going to the
conservatory with his son, it suddenly occurred to me that I might find
some evidence in Prentice’s car—particularly as I now knew about the gas
and the mask through your adventure. Knowing that my next dances were
with you, I felt that no special attention would be drawn to my absence,
so I excused myself and slipped out. In the compartment under the front
seat of Prentice’s car I found one of the gas cylinders with the mask
attached. Hoping to avert another murder I tried to stuff my
handkerchief into the tube. The handkerchief was too large, so I tore it
in half and then succeeded."

"And," completed Marten, "the gas being forced into the cylinder under
pressure, it naturally blew out the handkerchief when released; a
mechanical condition which did not occur to Miss Sturtevant. Your
curious suspicions of Miss Sturtevant, by the way, made it very hard for
her at times. We dared not let you into the secret, because a hot-headed
young man like you might have upset our carefully laid plans. It should
be unnecessary now for us to explain in detail the various little
incidents which aroused your suspicions of her. With your present
knowledge of the case you can easily understand the underlying cause in
each instance.

"Incidentally, Mr. Forrester," added Marten, soothingly, "I want to
compliment you upon some of your amateur detective work. You frequently
showed fine detective instincts, and it was entirely due to you that we
discovered how the money was obtained from the tree. Without your visit
to the cottage, that point at least might have remained a mystery."

"But you have not told me how the case finally worked out, Mr. Marten,"
reminded Forrester.

"I was coming to that," returned Marten. "We had definitely decided that
the money was obtained from the tree in some way through the agency of
Lucy. It was arranged with Melville to make a pretense of putting money
in the tree. Miss Sturtevant managed to convey the information to
Prentice that Melville would do this on a certain night—the night of
your visit, to be exact.

"Then, instead of watching the tree, as all had done before, _we watched
the woman’s cottage_. At the time you entered, the cottage was
surrounded by my men and Miss Sturtevant and I were close at hand. You
may be sure you gave us a shock, but we planned to let all who wished to
do so, enter the cottage, but none would be allowed to leave. You were
the first. Later, Lucy appeared, and it is assumed that she discovered
you in the cave. When Prentice arrived, Lucy warned him, and between
them they hastily prepared the hood with which he disguised himself.
Yes," added Marten, noting Forrester’s astounded expression, "that was
Prentice with whom you fought. We entered the passage just as you
conquered him."

"And you have captured them all!" exclaimed Forrester.

"On the contrary," replied Marten, "they are all dead—but the case is
solved."

"Dead!" repeated Forrester.

"Yes," said Marten. "You killed Prentice with his own gas. Lucy escaped
and went to warn the chemist. He, probably realizing that escape was
impossible, killed both Lucy and himself with the gas. We found their
bodies when we went to his place. The most intricate case of my career,
therefore, has been satisfactorily solved and a terrible menace
removed."

"And Prentice’s family," murmured Forrester. "What about them?"

"Mrs. Prentice turned everything over to the M.B.A. She had a small
private income, however, which the association refused to touch. She and
her daughter, Diana, left this morning to go to Europe, where they will
remain indefinitely.

"Now," terminated Marten, rising, "I am sure that I have cleared Miss
Sturtevant of any suspicion in your eyes, and I will leave you two
together to solve any further problems you may have in your own way."

Marten shook hands with Forrester and Mary Sturtevant and left the room.
A minute later they heard the thrumming of the engine as he drove away
in his car.



                                THE END





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Secret Toll" ***

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