His surprise was genuine. He was not capable of fathoming the true cause of Crawford’s devotion to his old comrade—could not understand that Stone’s partner had forgiven and deliberately left his life in jeopardy for the sake of other days. And in James Stone’s distorted brain there was no more idea of the truth. He stabbed at the desk with one thick finger. “That’s his cursed cunning, I tell you!” he declared. “He’s waiting until he gets good and ready to strike. By Heaven, I can’t sleep at night, sometimes, for thinking of it! That’s why he doesn’t leave me, even though I’ve tried three times to kill him. He’s just waiting his chance, waiting his chance.” The hoarse voice was lifted until it broke. “But his chance isn’t going to come!” the demented man insisted. “He won’t live to get it! You’ve got to help me, I tell you. Floyd sent me to you because he caught me trying to shoot Crawford out there, and thought I was crazy. You know better, though, and I know something about you. Floyd thinks you’re only a great doctor, but he’s a kid, and he doesn’t know the world as I do. I ain’t crazy, Doctor Stephen Follansbee; I ain’t a fool. Maybe New York thinks you’re a saint, for all I know—though I don’t see how it can when it looks at that face of yours! But I know you’re not. You may be the king-pin of your profession, but you’re a crook as well—as big a rascal as ever walked the earth! I know something about men, and you can’t fool me. “Now, let’s get down to business,” he continued. “Charlie Floyd sent me here for one kind of help, but you’ve opened the way for another—and that’s the kind I want. I ain’t very good at this sort of thing, I’ll admit. I’ve failed three times, but if you take it on, I guess you’ll get your man at the first crack. If you can’t I’ve got you wrong. I’m willing to pay well, but I don’t want any backing and filling about it. So name your price and let’s get busy, Doctor Stephen Follansbee, for time is on the wing.” CHAPTER IX. A “FAIR” OFFER. “Sit down and cool off,” Doctor Follansbee advised; and under his compelling gaze his visitor subsided and sank into a chair. The head of St. Swithin’s Hospital studied Stone for some moments without showing the slightest sign of emotion as a result of the astounding proposition which had just been made to him. His long, capable, surgeon’s fingers tapped against one another, and his cold, dark eyes seemed to have no more feeling in them than a couple of highly polished stones. “You take a great deal for granted, Mr. James Stone,” he remarked at last, in his thin, squeaking tones. “I might have you confined in an asylum for that, you know—or turned over to the police.”