Bending forward, Follansbee tilted his head at an angle like that of a listening bird. He remained in that position until the noise of the closing door told him that the miner had left the house; then, turning, he darted across the room toward his desk and seized upon the check. A low, disagreeable laugh broke from his lips as his eyes alighted on the face of it, for date, number, payee’s name, and amount had all disappeared, and the only words that remained were the two which constituted the signature—“James Stone.” The doctor’s eyes turned to the desk where the “ink” which had been used had been spilled, but the mysterious volatile liquid had already disappeared from the surface, and only a little grayish powder remained. That, too, quickly vanished, as Follansbee blew it away. Then, dropping into a chair in front of the desk, and in a strong, bold hand—in stern contrast to his size and quick, nervous movement—he filled in the rest of the check once more. He made it out, of course, to himself, as before, and reproduced the vanished number from memory. That was an easy matter, since he had been looking over Stone’s shoulder; but this time the date put down was the twenty-fifth instead of the twenty-seventh, and the amount was not forty-five thousand dollars, but—four hundred and fifty thousand! CHAPTER XI. A DISTINGUISHED SCOUNDREL. “Yes, my friend, I intend to earn my fee,” the cold voice declared to the empty room. “The only difference is that the fee is somewhat larger than I’ve given you reason to believe.” Leaning back in his chair, Doctor Stephen Follansbee blotted the check, then, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the top drawer of the desk and slipped the check into a small leather-bound book which lay inside. “Just to make sure that I receive my just dues,” he went on, “I’ll turn this check in on Saturday instead of Monday. You’re mad enough on one point, James Stone, but you’re a shrewd man outside of that, and it might occur to you to stop payment on that check.” His short, cackling laugh rang out anew. Half an hour later he left his house. He did not seem to be in as much of a hurry as he had said, as he made his way leisurely, and on foot, to his destination. He made a striking figure as he proceeded. His face alone would have attracted attention anywhere, but his dress was eccentric in its shabbiness. His arms were folded behind his back in a very unusual, but thoroughly characteristic way, and his little, lashless eyes were bent on the ground. Many passers-by stopped to stare at him as he passed, and not a few recognized him. “He’s the great Doctor Follansbee, the head of St. Swithin’s Hospital!” they told one another. “You’d never think it to look at him, would you? He looks more like a mummy than anything else.”