Follansbee screwed himself round on the floor and faced the man. Chick caught the look on the doctor’s face, and guessed what he was up to.
“No, you don’t,” he remarked, stooping down and jerking Follansbee about by the collar. “Keep your eyes off him and cut out your Svengali tricks.”
There was no doubt that Stone was coming out from the influence of the spell which had been laid upon him, but he would doubtless have succumbed again had it not been for Chick’s quick move. As it was, he had already looked at Follansbee and recognized him.
The ex-miner passed his hands across his eyes. “I thought I’d seen the last of you,” he jerked out. “I remember leaving your house, but after that—after that——”
His voice faltered and broke, and his look was pathetic as he turned toward Nick Carter.
“I seem to recognize you,” he went on. “I wonder if you are my friend. Can you explain?”
A look of hope sprang into the detective’s eyes, and he nodded his head eagerly.
“I think I can,” he answered. “You have been made a victim of a cold-blooded rascal. I need not tell you what happened at the Hotel Windermere, I suppose?”
James Stone’s awakening memory brought the scene back to him, and he shuddered.
“I know—I know,” he said, dropping back quickly on the side of his bed. “I—I tried to murder poor old Win. But you saved me from that, didn’t you?”