When Stone had filled in the check, all except the signature, he found that the ink on the point had given out, and he stretched out his hand to dip the pen into the inkwell again. At the same moment Follansbee also reached out, apparently to push the well nearer to his visitor. Between them, in some manner the well was upset, and a small quantity of the black fluid it contained made a round patch on the top of the desk. “Never mind!” Follansbee hastened to say, in answer to Stone’s regretful exclamation. “It doesn’t matter. Let it be. You can finish with this.” As he spoke, he took another ink bottle from the back of the desk, removed the cork, and placed it within easy reach. Stone mechanically dipped the pen into the new receptacle and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the check, after which he handed the slip of paper to Follansbee. “Thanks!” the specialist said carelessly, turning the check over and blotting it on the pad. “Now give me the name of your hotel and the number of your room.” “The Hotel Windermere, room number twenty-two,” was the reply. Follansbee jotted it down on the back of a card, and then looked at his watch. “I must be going now,” he said. “I’m overdue at the hospital. I will be engaged there until six o’clock, but I’ll phone you as soon after that as possible.” Stone picked up his hat and peered at the inscrutable face for a moment, as if in a last attempt to read the thoughts behind it. “You’re sure you can do it?” he asked hoarsely. “Nothing is absolutely sure in this world, even the performance of a specialist,” was the cool reply. “However”—and he tapped the check, the blank side of which was turned uppermost, with one forefinger—“there is my fee; and you may rest assured that I shall do my best to earn it.” Half insane though he was, James Stone was greatly impressed. Follansbee had not showed his hand once during the interview. At best he had only given a momentary glimpse at his cards, but there was a hint of strength, of unusual power of one kind or another behind that hard mask. “Very well, doctor,” the miner returned. “I shall expect to hear from you this evening.” He strode across the room, Follansbee following him with his short, noiseless steps. When the double doors were reached and opened, the doctor put out his hand and Stone felt a cold, dry palm thrust into his own moist, hot one. “Until this evening,” Follansbee said, with a bow that was almost courtly, despite its mocking character. Stone passed through the reception room, and the little man closed the double doors of the office behind him.