“You are right, Doctor Follansbee,” he said. “I can’t figure out how you know, but I want to get rid of Win Crawford. I—I want to get rid of him before he gets rid of me.” His heavy face was wrinkled into a mask of cunning—the foolish, vacant cunning of the insane. “He thinks he’s clever,” Stone went on; “thinks I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I’m as cute as he is, and I’ve tumbled to him.” Follansbee had folded his long, flexible fingers and was leaning his shoulders on the arms of his chair. His evil-looking eyes were slowly taking on a mocking twinkle as they looked at the features of the man in front of him. The skilled specialist had no further doubt about the matter. At that moment he knew to a certainty that James Stone was mad, and that his was the most dangerous form of insanity, for it centered only on one object. Outwardly and in his everyday life, Stone might move and conduct himself as an ordinary individual, but lurking always in his diseased brain was one wild and terrible fancy—an insane fear and hatred of the man who in the brighter, if less prosperous, past he had once risked his life to save. It remained to be seen, however, in what Follansbee’s treatment of the case would consist. “So you think that your partner is going to kill you, do you?” the specialist asked. “I don’t think—I know!” the husky voice returned. “All this is only a game of his. He has brought me to New York because he was afraid to do it in Brazil. I have too many friends there, but he’ll find I’m too much for him. Ha, ha! He’ll find out!” The laugh was so ugly and hollow, and the man so obviously getting more and more excited that Follansbee decided to stave off a further outburst. “That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure you will be able to look after yourself.” “I’m going to do more than that,” Stone announced malignantly. “I’m going to kill him before he has a chance to kill me.” It was clear that he had thrown off all fear of Follansbee, either under the influence of his own misguided desires or his belief that the head of St. Swithin’s was not what he seemed to the world. With a quick movement he rose to his feet, and, leaning over the desk, looked down into the physician’s eyes with a face that worked convulsively. “And you’ve got to help me!” he added. “I’ve tried three times to do it, twice on board the _Cortez_, but luck was against me every time.” “Three times!” Follansbee repeated, in astonishment. “Then Crawford knows what you’re up to?” “Yes, he knows,” Stone answered, “but that doesn’t make any difference. He’s a fool, and he thinks he’s got to stick by me to wait his own chance. He and I are staying at the same hotel in connecting rooms. We breakfasted at the same table this morning, and I had hard work to get away from him.” “That’s queer,” the specialist remarked thoughtfully. “He must be a fool!”