A motor bus from the hotel met the train and took them to a huge pile of masonry on a hill overlooking the water. It was one of the best-known hotels in the neighborhood of New York, and much frequented by those who wished to go away from the bustle of the great city for a few days. There Crawford registered, at Nick’s suggestion, under an assumed name. They had parted, and the detective was already descending the steps, when the miner ran after him. “I’ve just thought of something that may help you to an understanding of poor old Jim’s condition,” Crawford said breathlessly. “It has occurred to me that he used to knock about the mine without his hat on last year in all that broiling sun, and I know that many years ago, when he was a boy, an axhead hit him on the skull. He was watching somebody chop wood, and the head became loosened and flew off the handle. Isn’t it possible that that injury affected him somehow, but that the trouble didn’t manifest itself until recently?” Nick nodded. “There may be something in that,” he said. “The exposure to the sun may have developed the latent disease, somewhat in the way photographic film is developed. I’m glad you told me of that. It makes it clearer than ever that your friend is a victim himself, and should not be judged harshly.” “That’s it,” Crawford agreed eagerly. “He deserves all the mercy you can show him, Carter. I’m positive that if he ever returns to his senses he will be absolutely heartbroken to hear what he has tried to do. I tell you, Jimmy Stone loves me like a brother, and he would rather cut off his right hand than harm me. You must save him—save him from Follansbee first of all, and then from himself. If you do, there’s nothing you can’t ask of me.” Nick ignored the generous promise. “The affection of man for man is a wonderful thing, Crawford,” he said quietly. “I’m glad to have known you and had this proof of what loyalty means. I must go now, though. Try to have patience and take things as quietly as you can. I’ll do my best for Stone, and telephone you from time to time.” As he returned to the station, the detective felt sure that his promise to Winthrop Crawford would greatly hamper his movements but he shrugged his shoulders philosophically. “Follansbee is a lucky rascal, and a keen one,” he thought. “He has remained in the background, and even that telltale conversation I overheard last night doesn’t seem destined to be used as a weapon against him. He’s certainly stolen a base or two, but he may yet be called out at the home plate!” CHAPTER XXXIV. A VISIT TO THE BANK. The journey to and from the suburban hotel had occupied considerable time, and it was almost one o’clock before the detective returned to the Windermere.