“Everything—or nearly everything—is misty,” he went on, “but I know that I came to you on the recommendation of young Doctor Floyd down in Brazil. He sent me to you to get help for my trouble, but—but somehow, instead of that, we hatched a devilish plot to murder the best friend I have in the world, Win Crawford. In Heaven’s name what’s to be done? What did you mean just now when you said I had come to my senses? I have come to them, I hope, but if it’s too late to help Win, I would have been far better off as I was. If he dies now, I shall kill myself. I could not bear to live knowing that I had murdered him. You don’t know—nobody knows—how much he has meant to me. Tell me, man, what you meant? Is there—is there any hope?” His terrible anxiety was pathetic to see, but it seemed to have no effect on Stephen Follansbee. The latter looked on as if he were witnessing a play, and as soon as Stone paused, his cold voice cut like a knife through the silence. “For a considerable period, Mr. Stone—several months, I understand—your mind has been seriously affected in certain respects,” he said. “Perhaps I should say that it has been affected in one particular respect. A few days ago you came to me and seemed to jump to the conclusion that I was the archfiend himself, or something little better. If you had been sane, I would have thrown you out of the house for your insults. As it was, I listened to you and led you on until you made an extraordinary proposal; nothing less than that I should help you to put your partner out of the way. Frankly I came very near to using the telephone then and there, and having you placed in custody.” “I wish now you had!” Stone burst out. He was laboring under the greatest excitement and remorse, but he was obviously as sane as he had ever been in his life. “I did not do so, however,” Follansbee went on, ignoring the interruption, “for I saw that your trouble was monomania; serious enough in itself, but leaving you sane in all other ways. I diagnosed it also as a mere temporary derangement, and I did not feel justified in submitting you to the ordeal of publicity, or of committing you to an asylum.” “Go on! Be quick about it! What did you do? For Heaven’s sake tell me the whole thing at once!” Follansbee slipped his hand into the inside breast pocket of his coat and drew out a little leather case. “I simply played a professional trick on you, Mr. Stone,” he declared quietly. “It’s true that the drug in the vial was a powerful narcotic, and at this very moment I have no doubt that your friend is still under the influence of it.” As he spoke, he opened the case and took out the syringe. “But this,” he went on, tapping the instrument, “was charged with nothing more harmful than pure glycerine.” “Is that true?” the miner demanded, striding forward and towering above the diminutive specialist. “If it is——” “I can easily convince you that it is,” Follansbee assured him.