Stone mechanically thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew the leather case. There was a look of satisfaction in the physician’s eyes as he took charge of his property again. “I was worried for fear you might have left that behind,” he said, in his thin voice. “The most careful of us make slips now and then.” “I made no slip,” came the answer, in a strange voice. “If that thing was charged with death as you told me, then Winthrop Crawford is doomed.” “You need have no fear of the potency of my preparation,” Follansbee assured him. “From to-night you may look upon yourself as virtually a millionaire.” “I don’t care so much about that,” the miner began. “It was——” His tall, raw-boned form stiffened suddenly, and he drew in a deep, noisy breath—just such a breath as a man might take when awakened from a long sleep. He turned swiftly upon the astonished Follansbee, and the latter involuntarily shrank away. He feared that Stone might do him some harm, and knew that he was far from a physical match for the hard-muscled miner. Nothing was further from Stone’s thoughts, though. His unexpected move had another meaning. “What was it that made me want to kill my best friend?” he demanded, in tragic bewilderment. Quick as a flash the truth burst on Doctor Follansbee. The strain and intense excitement under which Stone had labored must have wrought a startling but by no means unprecedented change in his mental condition. He was indeed a sleeper awakened. It had probably been some subtle excitement that had unhinged his brain in the first place, and now, thanks to the law of balance, a more powerful excitement had come near to bringing him back to his senses. “What was it? What was it?” the poor fellow gasped, leaning forward and peering at Follansbee through the half gloom of the limousine. “Why did I want to kill Win? By heavens, man, speak—speak! There must have been a reason!” The strained voice rose almost to a shriek, and Follansbee began to fear that his companion might attract attention and call down a demand to stop the car for an investigation. Although it was past three o’clock in the morning, the streets were not quite empty, for New York’s streets rarely are. They flashed past a brightly lighted corner, and the doctor saw the uniformed figure of a policeman pacing slowly along and looking in their direction. At any moment Stone might burst out into a storm of self-reproach, and there was no telling to what lengths his remorse might carry him. It was a situation which required a master hand, and the way in which Follansbee tackled it was typical of his shrewdness and lack of conscience. Instead of attempting to explain to Stone, he leaned forward suddenly and gave the miner a hearty clap on the shoulder. “At last!” he ejaculated, in tones of the greatest relief and satisfaction. “Thank Heaven you’ve come back to your senses.”