“Then you’ve actually talked with him about it?” he went on wonderingly. “Has he sought your advice?”
“Hardly,” was the reply. “I butted in, and, of course, he was up in arms in a moment. Nobody likes to be called crazy—least of all a crazy man. It had to be done, though. If I tell you something, will you give me your word not to use it in any way against Mr. Stone?”
“Of course. I’d protect Jimmy’s life at the risk of my own any day.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, but this is asking a great deal of you. Mr. Crawford, it was—it was your partner who fired that shot at you this morning.”
Crawford gave the young doctor a long, searching look, and then said quietly:
“That isn’t exactly news to me, Charlie. I guessed as much.”
“You did? And yet you could greet him as you did?”
“Why not? It was not the Jimmy Stone I’ve known for twenty years or more who did it. It was this surly, glowering chap who has stepped into his shoes. I don’t bear any ill will—I can’t. I’ve been looking for something of the sort, and of course I’ve tried to protect myself and shall continue to do so. I have no intention of having him confined, though, and you must promise me that you won’t take any such steps. There’s no danger to any one else, and if I choose to run the risk it’s my own business.”
“I knew that would be your attitude,” Floyd told him, “and I allowed myself to promise Mr. Stone that on certain conditions I would not play the part of informer.”