Doctor Follansbee stiffened a little. “Realized on my crime?” he cried. “What do you mean by that?”
“Precisely what I say,” Nick answered coolly. “I happened to make a call early this afternoon at a certain bank not far from the Hotel Windermere, and I had a very interesting interview with its cashier. He showed me three decidedly noteworthy documents—a note from you, one from James Stone, and last, but not least, a check signed by Stone, but otherwise filled in by you. It called for a huge amount, and had been cashed just before the bank closed.”
Follansbee’s control was amazing.
“Well, what of it?” he snarled. “Everything was regular, wasn’t it? Surely you haven’t any doubt of the genuineness of Stone’s note? As for the check, it was for a large sum, I’ll admit, but every one knows that I exact large fees, and if a patient chooses to consider my services worth that much, it’s none of your business.”
“Isn’t it? I’m afraid you’re mistaken there, Follansbee. Picture to yourself what it will mean when this thing comes out; when the world learns that you have obtained nearly half a million dollars by swindling a patient who trusted himself to you, and whose unsound mind made him an easy victim. How long do you think you will hold your position at the head of St. Swithin’s? And how many of your rich patients will employ you again when it is known that you used disappearing ink to gain your unscrupulous ends? Ah, I see that gets under your skin!”
The detective paused for a moment and watched the discomfited rascal through narrowed lids.
“I thought at first that Stone had merely signed the check in blank,” he continued, “which would have implied a greater mental lack on his part and a lesser degree of criminality on yours; but now I know better. I took that check home with me, Follansbee, and examined it under a microscope. Thanks to that, I discovered that there had been other writing on it—doubtless in Stone’s hand. Your trick ink had quite disappeared, but the point of the pen had slightly scratched the surface of the paper; and, moreover, the application of a chemical on one or two spots revealed traces of the ink originally used. As soon as the bank gives me permission to do so, I shall apply that chemical—you can doubtless guess what it is—to the whole check, and thereby bring out the original writing once more. And when I do so, I’m sure I shall find that, as Stone made it out, the check originally called for a much smaller sum. Doubtless you found some excuse to change inks when it came to the signature, with the result that it alone was written with ordinary ink. What do you say to that?”
Apparently Follansbee had nothing to say. His hands were clenched on his desk and he was biting his under lip and glaring fearfully at the detective. Nick returned look for look and allowed his glance to play over the surface of the desk. As it did so, it fell upon a letter which Follansbee had been writing before his visitor’s entrance. The doctor’s name and address were engraved in the upper left-hand corner, and the ink in which the beginning of the letter was written was of the same shade as that used on the three documents which the detective had obtained at the bank.
“That reminds me,” said Nick, looking from the unfinished letter to the open ink bottle.
He paused, and then with a swift movement thrust his hand out, picked up the bottle, corked it, and started to drop it into his pocket.