“You are well now,” it announced. “You feel your strength returning.” It was Stephen Follansbee who spoke, and the slow incisiveness of the tone seemed to cut through the stillness of the room like a knife. “Yes. I feel it. I’m much better now—almost well.” Nick hardly recognized Stone’s voice, so changed was it. It sounded thin and vague, as though the man were hardly sure of himself, as if he had been in solitary confinement for months. It was by no means the first time that the detective had witnessed a hypnotist at work, but seldom had he experienced a more dramatic thrill than he did at that moment. The uncanny power gave him the creeps. “To-morrow you will get up and go back to the Hotel Windermere,” Follansbee went on. His eyes never left those of his victim, and he was speaking slowly and distinctly, so that the entranced brain would follow each detail. “Remember that to-morrow is Monday,” he said. “The bank people will want to see you, and you must tell them that the check for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars is quite correct—that it covers not only professional fees, but a business transaction, the nature of which you are not at liberty to reveal.” Subtle and powerful though the influence was that held the poor, abused brain in thrall, Nick saw a shaft of doubt cross Stone’s face. “The check for forty-five thousand,” the miner corrected, in his far-off tone. Follansbee’s face went suddenly livid. “Not forty-five thousand!” he cried. “Four hundred and fifty thousand. Don’t you remember?” Again the clawlike hands moved in swift passes in front of the rigid features, and the doubt vanished from the reflected face as Nick watched it. “Yes, four hundred and fifty thousand,” murmured Stone mechanically, as if talking in his sleep. An expression of exultant content possessed Stephen Follansbee’s features. It was victory for him now. With this man under his complete control, ready to carry out his desires, he believed his position was secure. If Stone appeared at the bank and authorized the transaction, the chief weapon which still remained in Nicholas Carter’s grasp would be torn away. The plotter started to get up from the bed. “You are——” he began. But at that moment the faint click of some hard object sounded against the glass of the window, and was accompanied by a smothered exclamation. Follansbee wheeled abruptly and peered through the opening. Outlined against the background of glass, he—and the detective as well—saw a head and shoulders. With a swiftness that few would have given him credit for, the doctor darted across the room and threw up the sash; then his long arms shot out and closed around the intruder’s throat, strangling the words that rose to his lips. The swift movement brought Nick round, and he stared at the open window out of which Follansbee was leaning, his outstretched arm thrust into the darkness.