Stone, swinging himself out of bed, rose to his feet unsteadily. The blind, vacant look had vanished. A perplexed, troubled frown had taken its place, and Stone turned his head slowly, eying each of the occupants of the room in turn. “What is this?” he asked, in a hesitating voice. “What does it mean?” Follansbee screwed himself round on the floor and faced the man. Chick caught the look on the doctor’s face, and guessed what he was up to. “No, you don’t,” he remarked, stooping down and jerking Follansbee about by the collar. “Keep your eyes off him and cut out your Svengali tricks.” There was no doubt that Stone was coming out from the influence of the spell which had been laid upon him, but he would doubtless have succumbed again had it not been for Chick’s quick move. As it was, he had already looked at Follansbee and recognized him. The ex-miner passed his hands across his eyes. “I thought I’d seen the last of you,” he jerked out. “I remember leaving your house, but after that—after that——” His voice faltered and broke, and his look was pathetic as he turned toward Nick Carter. “I seem to recognize you,” he went on. “I wonder if you are my friend. Can you explain?” A look of hope sprang into the detective’s eyes, and he nodded his head eagerly. “I think I can,” he answered. “You have been made a victim of a cold-blooded rascal. I need not tell you what happened at the Hotel Windermere, I suppose?” James Stone’s awakening memory brought the scene back to him, and he shuddered. “I know—I know,” he said, dropping back quickly on the side of his bed. “I—I tried to murder poor old Win. But you saved me from that, didn’t you?” He looked appealingly at Follansbee. The latter could no longer bear his ignominious position on the floor. With a look of defiance he scrambled to his feet, and Carter and his assistant allowed him to do so, although they ranged themselves on either side of him. Follansbee knew that he was in desperate straits, but he believed that his star was not yet ready to set. He made one mistake, however; for he imagined that Winthrop Crawford had been inoculated with the deadly disease. “You are mistaken,” he said daringly. “By this time Crawford must be suffering from the disease that you placed in his veins.” “No, no, no! You don’t mean that—you can’t mean it!” Stone broke out, in a horrified voice. “You told me that the syringe was filled with a harmless liquid.” “That was a lie,” was the brutal answer. A groan burst from the lips of the tall man, and his lean figure seemed to shrivel. “Then Heaven help me!” he moaned. “I’ve killed the man I love best in the world.” “No, you have not!” CHAPTER XLVI. THE BOND IS MENDED. Crisply, cuttingly, the words came from Nick Carter’s lips, and Follansbee wheeled on him in a flash.