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.