THE RAISED CHECK.
“I couldn’t ask anything more than that,” Stone admitted.
He felt sure now that Follansbee would do all he wished, despite the
fact that he had been able to pin him down. He assumed that that was
merely the doctor’s caution and cleverness, and the offer to allow him
to date the check ahead came with an unexpected sense of relief.
To be sure, Follansbee had put it with his customary vagueness. He had
not said, “if at the end of that time, Crawford is still alive,” but
only “if he’s still troubling you.”
That might mean any one of a number of things, but, as was his way,
Stone interpreted it as best suited him. He drew a check book from his
pocket, and, pulling a chair forward, seated himself at the desk. His
head was bent, and he could not see Follansbee’s face. Had he been able
to do so, he might have been struck by the curious look that was now in
the little eyes.
When Stone had filled in the check, all except the signature, he found
that the ink on the point had given out, and he stretched out his hand
to dip the pen into the inkwell again. At the same moment Follansbee
also reached out, apparently to push the well nearer to his visitor.
Between them, in some manner the well was upset, and a small quantity
of the black fluid it contained made a round patch on the top of the
desk.
“Never mind!” Follansbee hastened to say, in answer to Stone’s
regretful exclamation. “It doesn’t matter. Let it be. You can finish
with this.” As he spoke, he took another ink bottle from the back of
the desk, removed the cork, and placed it within easy reach.
Stone mechanically dipped the pen into the new receptacle and scrawled
his signature at the bottom of the check, after which he handed the
slip of paper to Follansbee.
“Thanks!” the specialist said carelessly, turning the check over and
blotting it on the pad. “Now give me the name of your hotel and the
number of your room.”
“The Hotel Windermere, room number twenty-two,” was the reply.
Follansbee jotted it down on the back of a card, and then looked at his
watch.
“I must be going now,” he said. “I’m overdue at the hospital. I will be
engaged there until six o’clock, but I’ll phone you as soon after that
as possible.”
Stone picked up his hat and peered at the inscrutable face for a
moment, as if in a last attempt to read the thoughts behind it.
“You’re sure you can do it?” he asked hoarsely.
“Nothing is absolutely sure in this world, even the performance of a
specialist,” was the cool reply. “However”—and he tapped the check, the
blank side of which was turned uppermost, with one forefinger—“there is
my fee; and you may rest assured that I shall do my best to earn it.”
Half insane though he was, James Stone was greatly impressed.
Follansbee had not showed his hand once during the interview. At best
he had only given a momentary glimpse at his cards, but there was a
hint of strength, of unusual power of one kind or another behind that
hard mask.
“Very well, doctor,” the miner returned. “I shall expect to hear from
you this evening.”
He strode across the room, Follansbee following him with his short,
noiseless steps. When the double doors were reached and opened, the
doctor put out his hand and Stone felt a cold, dry palm thrust into his
own moist, hot one.
“Until this evening,” Follansbee said, with a bow that was almost
courtly, despite its mocking character.
Stone passed through the reception room, and the little man closed the
double doors of the office behind him.
Bending forward, Follansbee tilted his head at an angle like that of
a listening bird. He remained in that position until the noise of the
closing door told him that the miner had left the house; then, turning,
he darted across the room toward his desk and seized upon the check.
A low, disagreeable laugh broke from his lips as his eyes alighted
on the face of it, for date, number, payee’s name, and amount had
all disappeared, and the only words that remained were the two which
constituted the signature—“James Stone.”
The doctor’s eyes turned to the desk where the “ink” which had been
used had been spilled, but the mysterious volatile liquid had already
disappeared from the surface, and only a little grayish powder remained.
That, too, quickly vanished, as Follansbee blew it away.
Then, dropping into a chair in front of the desk, and in a strong,
bold hand—in stern contrast to his size and quick, nervous movement—he
filled in the rest of the check once more. He made it out, of course,
to himself, as before, and reproduced the vanished number from memory.
That was an easy matter, since he had been looking over Stone’s
shoulder; but this time the date put down was the twenty-fifth instead
of the twenty-seventh, and the amount was not forty-five thousand
dollars, but—four hundred and fifty thousand!