A “FAIR” OFFER.
“Sit down and cool off,” Doctor Follansbee advised; and under his
compelling gaze his visitor subsided and sank into a chair.
The head of St. Swithin’s Hospital studied Stone for some moments
without showing the slightest sign of emotion as a result of the
astounding proposition which had just been made to him. His long,
capable, surgeon’s fingers tapped against one another, and his cold,
dark eyes seemed to have no more feeling in them than a couple of
highly polished stones.
“You take a great deal for granted, Mr. James Stone,” he remarked at
last, in his thin, squeaking tones. “I might have you confined in an
asylum for that, you know—or turned over to the police.”
“You might, but you won’t,” his caller said, with a half growl. “I’ve
taken your measure, Follansbee, and if your time is as valuable as you
say, you’ll stop wasting it. I asked your price, and I’m prepared to
pay anything in reason to have this business taken off my hands.”
The faint semblance of a smile twisted Follansbee’s thin lips.
“Rough and ready,” he murmured. “A South American edition of the old
‘wild and woolly’ Westerner. He wants what he wants when he wants it,
and he isn’t bashful about asking for it.”
He paused for a moment and then went on:
“Well, my genial friend, I won’t abuse your confidence. Professional
ethics forbid. As for your opinion of me, I care nothing for that.
Perhaps I look upon it as only another evidence of mental disease.”
“Will you help me or won’t you?” Stone broke in.
“Most assuredly I will,” was the quiet answer. “I’ll help you in my own
way, and if I’m to do so, you must put yourself wholly in my hands.
Will you promise?”
Stone’s heart sank, and he looked askance at Follansbee for a few
moments. The latter’s words sounded a little too professional to suit
him. His belief that the physician was a rascal was rooted deep,
however, and overshadowed everything else.
“I’ll agree to almost anything if you’ll do what I want done,” he said.
“I’ll do what needs to be done,” was the evasive answer. “You asked
my terms, though, and I must warn you that they’re high. Some of the
richest men in the world come to me, and I have no time to waste with
those who cannot afford to pay my price. You can, if you’re willing to
do so.”
“How much?” Stone asked, in a more subdued tone.
Follansbee’s preamble sounded formidable.
“I don’t expect to get you for nothing,” the miner went on. “You must
know of a thousand ways of—of getting rid of people—ways by which no
one would be any the wiser. I’m willing to pay for that knowledge, but
I’m not a millionaire, you know.”
“I’m aware of that,” piped Follansbee, “and shall take the fact into
account. That being so, my fee will be only forty-five thousand
dollars!”
James Stone started at the mention of this enormous sum.
“That is the best I can do,” Doctor Follansbee went on, in his cold
tones. “Remember that if I assist you to get rid of your partner, I
also assist you to add his share of the proceeds from the sale of the
Condor to your own.” The hawklike face was very hard now, and the beady
eyes glowed sternly. “You will receive at least four hundred and fifty
thousand dollars after the death of Winthrop Crawford,” he continued.
“I’m only asking ten per cent of that amount.”
His tone was calm and calculating. Stone saw the point which Follansbee
had made, but he could not penetrate the latter’s armor.
Follansbee had not said in so many words that he would help him to get
rid of his partner. He had promised to help “in his own way.” To be
sure, this calculation, based on Crawford’s death, seemed to commit
him, but Stone found himself wondering if he were only being played
with. Had the doctor merely mentioned that in order to draw him on
and get his own price? Of what was the promise of help to consist? He
voiced his doubts, but his words were met in the same sphinxlike way.
“I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you as to that,” Follansbee told him. “It
isn’t proper for a physician to make definite promises, and it’s very
unprofessional to outline methods. I have agreed to take your case for
forty-five thousand dollars, and I promise to give it my best attention
and the benefit of my long knowledge. That is all anybody but a quack
can say. You’ll have to take it or leave it. If you’re so thoroughly
persuaded that I’m a scoundrel, you oughtn’t to hesitate.”
His smile was a maddening enigma.
Under the influence of this skillful handling, the tanned face widened
into a smile, and Stone nodded his head. “All right,” he said. “I
forgot about the money. Crawford has made his will in my favor, and if
he dies without involving me I’ll get his share, of course.”
“That’s my understanding of the situation,” Follansbee agreed.
“That’s right—that’s right! How you got on to it, though, Heaven only
knows!”
“Then you’re willing to pay me the fee I demand?”
“I suppose it’s worth it. Yes, I’ll pay it.”
“A wise decision,” murmured Follansbee.
He reached out a lean hand and swung a pad of blotting paper round,
then placed a pen and inkwell beside it.
“Now I want you to sit down here and write me out a check for
forty-five thousand dollars. To-day is the seventeenth, and I want you
to date your check the twenty-seventh. That gives me ten days, and if
at the end of that time Winthrop Crawford is still troubling you, all
you have to do is to go to your bank and stop payment on your check. Is
that fair?”