“All right, Crawford,” he said, and his voice was deep and vibrating. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s the kind of mistake one can’t help honoring you for. I look upon you as one of the bravest men I have ever met, and you may be sure that I will keep your secret.” Crawford wrung the outstretched hand. “I thank you with all my heart,” he said, “and I—I won’t forget that you saved my life. Some day I hope to be able to repay you. In any event, we’ll meet again in New York.” But neither he nor Nick dreamed of the curious circumstances that were to draw them together again in the great city. CHAPTER VII. FOLLANSBEE HITS THE NAIL. It was little after eleven o’clock in the morning when a broad-shouldered man turned into Amsterdam Avenue and began to move slowly along the pavement, glancing now and then at the houses as he passed. His tanned face suggested that he was a man from a warmer land, and the stubborn chin and hard, sour look about the eyes were mute tokens of the surly temper that ruled the stranger. He was wearing a soft hat with a wide brim, and he had tilted it forward to shade his eyes from the sun. Once he took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment. Evidently he was looking for an address. Presently he caught sight of what he sought—the big bulk of St. Swithin’s Hospital, which occupied an entire block. He quickened his pace and approached the great building. In the reception room, however, a disappointment awaited him. When he asked for Doctor Stephen Follansbee, he was told that that distinguished individual had not yet arrived at the hospital that day. But after some argument he obtained Follansbee’s private address, which proved to be also on Amsterdam Avenue and not more than half a dozen blocks away. The stranger retraced his steps, therefore, and sought the new number. He soon found it over the door of a house that was one of a row of solid but by no means impressive residences. A maid admitted him and asked if he had an appointment with the doctor. When informed that he had not, she invited him into the empty reception room and told him Doctor Follansbee was busy, but that he would be free in a few minutes. The visitor seated himself, picked up a magazine, and began mechanically glancing it over. After ten or fifteen minutes, the folding doors at the rear of the reception room were opened and a patient emerged. Over the latter’s shoulder the waiting man caught a glimpse of a stern, repellent figure in the doorway. The caller rose expectantly, but before he had a chance to step forward or utter a word he was greeted in an unexpected, almost uncanny, fashion. “Come in, Mr. Stone!” were the words which came from the man in the doorway.