AN ASTOUNDING STATEMENT.
James Stone’s questions, both uttered and unexpressed, were not to be
answered just then. A sudden swerve of the car made Follansbee look out
of the window. The machine had turned into Amsterdam Avenue, and a few
moments later had come to a halt before the physician’s door.
A ragged, shuffling figure, that of a hollow-cheeked young man, was
passing at the moment. The young fellow, apparently a homeless vagrant,
or worse, paused as the car drew up to the curb, then darted forward
and opened the door.
Doctor Follansbee muttered something under his breath, seemingly
derogatory to the volunteer, and he and Stone crossed the pavement and
vanished through the doorway while the car went on up the street.
Apparently disgusted by his bad luck in not obtaining a tip, the
disreputable-looking young man crossed the street and disappeared into
the shadows of an areaway, which primitive lodging place seemed to be
his choice for the night.
Meanwhile, Follansbee had unlocked the door with his latchkey, switched
on the lights in the hall and office, and motioned his companion to
enter the latter. The lights shone brightly on the former mine owner’s
face, and the doctor was almost startled by the change in it. The
hard, sour, brooding expression that had so characterized the tanned
features had vanished now, and in its place was a very sane anxiety,
coupled with shocked recollection. James Stone was plainly suffering in
a way that few men are called upon to suffer. “Now,” he said at once,
refusing the proffered chair, “tell me what you mean.”
Even his voice had subtly changed. It was still deep, but the
hoarseness had gone from it, and it had taken on a little of the
mellowness of Crawford’s own.
Follansbee advanced to his desk and dropped into a chair.
“Won’t you sit down?” he repeated, with perfect self-possession. “It’s
a rather long story.”
“No, no! I would rather stand,” Stone replied, pressing his hand to his
brow. “I feel dazed and sick; I feel as though a great gap had come
into my life, and that I was only returning to the world again after a
long absence.”
He stared down at Follansbee with anguished eyes.
“Everything—or nearly everything—is misty,” he went on, “but I know
that I came to you on the recommendation of young Doctor Floyd down in
Brazil. He sent me to you to get help for my trouble, but—but somehow,
instead of that, we hatched a devilish plot to murder the best friend
I have in the world, Win Crawford. In Heaven’s name what’s to be done?
What did you mean just now when you said I had come to my senses? I
have come to them, I hope, but if it’s too late to help Win, I would
have been far better off as I was. If he dies now, I shall kill myself.
I could not bear to live knowing that I had murdered him. You don’t
know—nobody knows—how much he has meant to me. Tell me, man, what you
meant? Is there—is there any hope?”
His terrible anxiety was pathetic to see, but it seemed to have no
effect on Stephen Follansbee. The latter looked on as if he were
witnessing a play, and as soon as Stone paused, his cold voice cut like
a knife through the silence.
“For a considerable period, Mr. Stone—several months, I understand—your
mind has been seriously affected in certain respects,” he said.
“Perhaps I should say that it has been affected in one particular
respect. A few days ago you came to me and seemed to jump to the
conclusion that I was the archfiend himself, or something little
better. If you had been sane, I would have thrown you out of the house
for your insults. As it was, I listened to you and led you on until you
made an extraordinary proposal; nothing less than that I should help
you to put your partner out of the way. Frankly I came very near to
using the telephone then and there, and having you placed in custody.”
“I wish now you had!” Stone burst out.
He was laboring under the greatest excitement and remorse, but he was
obviously as sane as he had ever been in his life.
“I did not do so, however,” Follansbee went on, ignoring the
interruption, “for I saw that your trouble was monomania; serious
enough in itself, but leaving you sane in all other ways. I diagnosed
it also as a mere temporary derangement, and I did not feel justified
in submitting you to the ordeal of publicity, or of committing you to
an asylum.”
“Go on! Be quick about it! What did you do? For Heaven’s sake tell me
the whole thing at once!”
Follansbee slipped his hand into the inside breast pocket of his coat
and drew out a little leather case.
“I simply played a professional trick on you, Mr. Stone,” he declared
quietly. “It’s true that the drug in the vial was a powerful narcotic,
and at this very moment I have no doubt that your friend is still under
the influence of it.”
As he spoke, he opened the case and took out the syringe.
“But this,” he went on, tapping the instrument, “was charged with
nothing more harmful than pure glycerine.”
“Is that true?” the miner demanded, striding forward and towering above
the diminutive specialist. “If it is——”
“I can easily convince you that it is,” Follansbee assured him.
He unfastened his cuff link and pulled up his cuff, revealing a lean,
yellow forearm.
“Watch!” he said.