THE HYPNOTIC SPELL.
“That fiend is slowly killing him!” It was Sunday evening, just after
eight o’clock, and the little ward in which Nick Carter found himself
was deserted save for its two inmates. On his bed lay James Stone,
motionless and mute, just as he had lain there all through the day.
Over him bent Nick, and there was a pitying look in the detective’s
eyes as they rested on the white face.
Dropping his hand gently on Stone’s eyelids, he lifted them and looked
at the set, fixed pupils. They were small, almost the size of pin heads.
“There isn’t the slightest doubt about it,” the detective decided,
“this man is under some powerful narcotic, which means that Follansbee
has his own reasons for keeping him thus. I’d give a good deal to know
just what is at the bottom of it, but, after all, it doesn’t greatly
matter. I know that Follansbee means no good, and I’m here to see that
he fails; that’s the important thing.”
During the day Nick had kept to his room, and the nurse, a gentle
little woman, had decided that he was a model patient. He had, however,
ventured to make a few inquiries about the inanimate man in the next
bed, and the nurse had given him several details.
“He came from St. Swithin’s,” she said. “Doctor Follansbee—the head
there you know—is looking after him, so he must consider it a very
important case. The doctor says that he doesn’t expect the patient to
awaken for at least another twenty-four hours. He’s in an unusual sort
of coma.”
There was nothing to be gained by revealing his suspicions to the
nurse; therefore Nick kept his peace. He knew, however, that Follansbee
would have to return again to see the man, and it was for that visit he
was waiting—waiting with an impatience which proved the hold the case
had upon him.
Another hour passed before Stephen Follansbee’s voice warned him that
the long-looked-for moment had arrived. The detective had been sitting
up much of the time, but at the sound he stripped off his bath robe and
jumped into bed, the nurse being absent. In a few seconds the covers
were pulled up to his chin and his face was turned to the wall.
It would have taken a clever observer to notice that on the wall,
almost level with his head, hung a small mirror. It had been tilted at
such an angle that the detective, although he had his back to the bed
occupied by Stone, could see everything that happened there.
The door opened, and he heard a soft footfall. He lay quite still,
breathing easily and regularly.
There was only one light in the room, a shaded bulb, which was
suspended above a small table that stood close to Stone’s bed. The rest
of the little ward was in semidarkness.
“Another patient?”
The detective recognized an undercurrent of disagreeable surprise, if
not of anger, in Follansbee’s voice.
Miss Worth had accompanied the physician into the room. “Yes, a typhoid
convalescent,” she answered, in a low voice. “He came last night, and
there was no other place to put him. He seems to be asleep now.”
Nick could hear Follansbee’s footfalls as the latter came across the
room and halted by the side of the bed. The hawklike face bent over him
and the beady eyes searched his features for a few moments.
The pains which Nick had taken in his disguise justified themselves,
however, and Follansbee presently straightened up.
“Very well, Miss Worth,” he said, turning to the matron, “you need not
wait. If I want the nurse I shall call her.”
The woman left the ward. Nick heard the door close softly behind her,
and then he cautiously opened his eyes a little and glanced up at the
tilted mirror. It caught the glow from the electric bulb, and he could
see every movement that the doctor made—could even mark the sinister
expression on Follansbee’s face. The head of St. Swithin’s had been
carrying a little bag, and this he placed on the table, bringing out
various articles and placing them in readiness. Then, from the inside
pocket, the scientific criminal withdrew a small case containing a
number of glass tubes.
When his preparations were completed, Follansbee seated himself on the
bed and made a swift examination of the helpless man. The expression
on his face was almost fiendish now, and the lids were curled in a
mocking smile. Evidently the callous scoundrel was gloating over his
triumph.
Nick held his breath as he watched, for Follansbee had set to work
now. The swift, capable fingers reached out toward the little table,
selected one of the vials, and dropped its contents on a little pad of
cotton. When the pad was saturated, the doctor bent closer over Stone
in such a way that the detective was unable to see what happened; but a
moment later, when Follansbee straightened up, the first sign of life
appeared in the motionless figure.
The head moved restlessly from side to side and the eyes fluttered
open. Very slowly Stone lifted himself up until he was in a sitting
position. His eyes were wide and staring now, and he looked about him
with the half-vacant expression of a dazed man.
Follansbee had stepped back as Stone sat up, and now, reseating himself
on the edge of the bed, the criminal craned his lean neck forward, so
that his face was on a level with that of his victim.
Stone’s eyes, which had been wavering about the room, seemed to
fix themselves on the hard, little ones which met them; whereupon
Follansbee raised his hands and began to make passes in front of the
staring, intent face.
The meaning of his actions was at once revealed to the detective:
Follansbee had brought his man back to life only to hypnotize him. For
what purpose?