Moreover, he coveted wealth, more wealth than he had been able to amass through the many handsome fees that were pouring in all the time from the rich and great who were numbered among his patients. He wished to build a hospital of his own, of which he should be even more the master than was possible at St. Swithin’s. He longed for expensive laboratories built and equipped along new lines, not for the good of humanity, but to further his own peculiar ambitions. Stone’s money, with what he already possessed, would go far toward realizing these ambitions, and he was willing to take almost any risk to further his conscienceless aims. The hours passed away swiftly, and at about seven o’clock in the evening Follansbee, returning from a round of the wards, entered his private office and went to the telephone. He rang up the Hotel Windermere and asked for Stone. The clerk informed him that Mr. Stone was not in the hotel at that time, but might return at any moment. “If you care to leave a message, it will be delivered to him as soon as he arrives,” the man went on. “Very well,” Follansbee returned, after a pause. “Tell him that the gentleman whom he visited on Amsterdam Avenue this morning will be at the hotel about half past seven, and will wait for him in the lobby.” The clerk took down the message and repeated it, after which Follansbee replaced the receiver and prepared to leave the hospital. By means of an intercommunicating phone, he called up St. Swithin’s garage and had his car, which he kept there, brought round to the entrance. As he crossed the pavement to enter it, he lifted one long, lean hand and pressed a smooth, round object in his breast pocket. Little did the passers-by dream that, concealed in the clothing of that sinister, shabbily dressed, but nevertheless distinguished figure, was a tube containing deadly bacilli in a quantity sufficient to spread death for miles around—even, if unchecked, to sweep throughout the entire country. Thus, like the shadow of death itself, the vulturelike form of Stephen Follansbee slipped into the big limousine, and was winged away to the Hotel Windermere. CHAPTER XIII. CHICK SIGHTS THE “BUZZARD.” “Who is it, please?” Chick Carter, with his ear to the receiver, waited for the reply. “This is Winthrop Crawford. I wish to speak to Mr. Nick Carter, if I may.” It was about two o’clock in the afternoon of the same day that had witnessed the meeting of Stone and Doctor Follansbee. Unfortunately, Nick had just left the house, but his assistant had heard about Crawford. “The chief isn’t in just now, Mr. Crawford,” he said, “but I don’t think he’ll be gone very long. Is there anything I can do for you? I’m his assistant.” “Are you the man who was with him on board the _Cortez_?” “Yes.” “Perhaps you’ll do as well, then. Are you busy just now?” “No.”