Immediately the doctor addressed Hagan.
"I think you had better come, sir," he said.
"Oh, I'll go!" grated the Irishman, giving Merry a savage glare. "I'll make no trouble about that. Good day to ye, Mr. Merriwell. Make the best of your success now, but remember that Hagan is no easy mark, and he'll get a rap at you yet."
His face purple with rage, the schemer strode out of the room and soon left the hospital.
Outside the gate he paused, removed his hat, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Although it was nipping cold, he seemed to be burning with the heat of an inward furnace.
"I'll walk a bit to cool off," he said, and set out, his head down, his face grim, his manner absorbed.
As he was crossing a street a cab whirled up beside him and stopped. He swore at the driver for his carelessness, but his profanity ended abruptly when the door of the cab swung open and he saw a pair of midnight eyes looking at him.
"By all the saints," gasped Bantry Hagan, actually staggering, "it is the dead alive again!"
The man in the cab lifted a hand and motioned to him. In a low, musical voice, he said:
"Señor Hagan, get in quickly. Come."