Floyd, in his misguided effort to be thorough, had sent a number of details which might well have been omitted. They had enabled Follansbee to make a great show of knowledge, and by his evasions in respect to the source of it had greatly contributed to Stone’s bewilderment. They had also made it possible for the unscrupulous head of St. Swithin’s to fill in the check for the amount that was only fifty thousand dollars short of the entire sum which Stone was supposed to have realized from the sale of the Condor Mine. He would have liked to claim even more, but he did not dare, for fear of overdrawing the miner’s account and thereby creating a difficulty when the time came for the bank to honor the check. Therefore he had shrewdly fixed his “fee” at that sum, in order to allow for any reasonable withdrawals on Stone’s part. In that and other ways Floyd’s letter had been of the greatest assistance, and had served a purpose the nature of which its writer had never dreamed. It would have seemed incredible to the young physician, whose profession was sacred to him, and in whose eyes Stephen Follansbee was everything that was desirable—except in external appearances. Well he might. Few would have been willing to believe for a moment that the famous specialist could be guilty of such juggling with checks, and much less that he would consent to engage in a criminal conspiracy, the end of which was scientific murder, with any man—least of all one he knew to be mentally diseased. Yet, such was the fact. Now and then a physician—sometimes a really great one—goes wrong and plays false to the tremendous responsibility which he has assumed. Stephen Follansbee was one of the most conspicuous examples of this. He had started out with the highest motives, and worked his way up by hard work and sheer weight of ability. He had always been supremely selfish, however, and had possessed little or no heart. He had won fame in spite of his repellent appearance and his cold, unsympathetic nature. But that fame, and the reward which followed it, had not been enough for him. There was an evil streak in him, and it had become more pronounced as the years passed. He had begun by using his position to cover up indefensible experiments on patients, especially those who were poor and obscure. Emboldened by his freedom from penalty, he had gone on and indulged in more daring and ruthless work. Most of it had been in the name of medical knowledge, to be sure, and had had the sanction of not a few fellow practitioners, but it was none the less criminal. At length, a year or so before, he had dared to try a particularly heartless experiment on a famous author, but while it was still in one of its early stages, Nick Carter had learned of it—it doesn’t matter how—and had effectually interfered. Incidentally, the detective had prevented Follansbee from collecting fifty thousand dollars for his services, as he called them.