“Something has gone wrong with Jimmy Stone,” he said quietly. “You don’t know him as I do, Carter. Up to a short six months ago he was like a brother to me. Man, I tell you that Jim Stone is the only person in the world that I—I care two straws about. You know what it means to men who have lived and starved together.”
The rich voice stopped, and Nick caught something that was suspiciously like a suppressed sob. Involuntarily he paused, and Crawford halted for a moment, his shoulders shaking.
A strong man’s grief is a terrible thing to witness, and the detective felt himself tongue-tied.
“My friend—my old comrade!” Crawford went on huskily. “Trying to murder me! By Heaven, Carter, it almost breaks my heart!”
He swung around suddenly and caught Nick by the arm again.
“I want you to keep this thing a secret,” he said earnestly. “Jim isn’t accountable for this mood that has been on him for the last few months—he isn’t accountable for his actions. I had feared for some time that there was a little trouble with his brain, and my suspicions were confirmed before we left South America.”
He then went on to tell in detail of Stone’s attempt to shoot him, as revealed by the young physician; of the latter’s opinion of Stone’s sanity—or, rather, insanity—and finally of the promise Floyd had wrung from the misguided man.
He told the detective that Stone had reluctantly agreed to consult a famous specialist, but only because he had felt compelled to do so in order to stop Floyd’s mouth. Unfortunately, however, he had forgotten the specialist’s name and that of the hospital of which he was the head.
Had Nick learned those important facts, there might have been a different story to tell.