“Not at all,” Floyd hastened to say in a soothing tone. “Doctor Follansbee isn’t very keen on asylums, except as a last resort. He’s a famous specialist in nervous and mental diseases, but his chief aim is always to keep people out of asylums, if possible; in other words, to cure them without interfering with their liberty or branding them as insane. I desire you to go to him—in fact, I must insist upon your doing so, if I’m to shield you from the consequences of this morning’s act. If, as I suspect, your mind is slightly affected in this one respect, he may be able to help you very easily, and if he does, you’ll never cease to be grateful to him. If, on the other hand, he finds you perfectly sane, there will be nothing more to be said, and I’ll continue to keep silence unless you make some further attempt on Mr. Crawford. You need not fear to consult Doctor Follansbee. As I say, he’ll never think of sending a man like you to an asylum, and, as people go to him for all sorts of nervous troubles as well as for operations, no one outside will draw any conclusions if your visit to him is known. Will you promise to call on him as soon as you reach New York?” “I suppose so,” Stone agreed reluctantly. “It’s mighty hard lines to be ordered about like this, and sent to one of those confounded alienist fellows, but you’ve got the whip hand just now, Charlie, and it’s up to me to take my medicine. Where will I find the wonderful Follansbee?” Doctor Floyd took a letter from his pocket, removed the envelope, and scribbled the name and address on the back. When he handed it to Stone the latter read: “Doctor Stephen Follansbee, St. Swithin’s Hospital, Amsterdam Avenue, New York City.” “There you are,” Floyd said. “I know you don’t want to do this, Mr. Stone, and that it’s all you can stand to have me make this condition, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with it. It’s that—or the other, and I imagine you would find a trial and conviction for attempted murder a little more irksome than either of the things I have asked you to do.” “I guess that’s right,” admitted the miner. “You’re a good fellow, Charlie, and I know you mean well. You’ve rubbed it in pretty thoroughly, and there’s a lot you don’t understand; but I reckon I’m lucky at that. I’ll keep my hands off Win Crawford until I’ve the chance to see this Follansbee person. After that—well, we’ll see what we shall see.”