"Don't let him talk much," whispered the physician. "Don't say anything that will worry him."
"How are things going?" asked the man in the bed.
"Very well," replied Fellows.
The head turned, and two eyes peered searchingly at Fellows. Under that glance the insurance broker felt uneasy. Cranston was pale and weak, but his eyes seemed twin fires that pierced through the wanness.
"Fellows," said the millionaire, in a slow voice, "in my vest pocket you will find a slip of paper. It bears a telephone number. Call it. Tell the man who answers you that I am — that I am not well. Ask him to come here. He is a wireless operator. I want him to take charge of my set — upstairs."
Lamont Cranston closed his eyes wearily.
"The man I want," he said, "is an old friend of mine — a friend whom you have never met. I shall ask him to write you — regarding insurance policies — and other matters. Be sure that he comes here. Be sure to reply immediately to any letters that he sends you."
The millionaire ceased speaking. He seemed to be half asleep.
"Come," whispered Doctor Wells.
The insurance broker found the paper in the vest pocket. He opened it at the telephone table downstairs.