The head of St. Swithin’s Hospital studied Stone for some moments without showing the slightest sign of emotion as a result of the astounding proposition which had just been made to him. His long, capable, surgeon’s fingers tapped against one another, and his cold, dark eyes seemed to have no more feeling in them than a couple of highly polished stones.
“You take a great deal for granted, Mr. James Stone,” he remarked at last, in his thin, squeaking tones. “I might have you confined in an asylum for that, you know—or turned over to the police.”
“You might, but you won’t,” his caller said, with a half growl. “I’ve taken your measure, Follansbee, and if your time is as valuable as you say, you’ll stop wasting it. I asked your price, and I’m prepared to pay anything in reason to have this business taken off my hands.”
The faint semblance of a smile twisted Follansbee’s thin lips.
“Rough and ready,” he murmured. “A South American edition of the old ‘wild and woolly’ Westerner. He wants what he wants when he wants it, and he isn’t bashful about asking for it.”
He paused for a moment and then went on:
“Well, my genial friend, I won’t abuse your confidence. Professional ethics forbid. As for your opinion of me, I care nothing for that. Perhaps I look upon it as only another evidence of mental disease.”
“Will you help me or won’t you?” Stone broke in.
“Most assuredly I will,” was the quiet answer. “I’ll help you in my own way, and if I’m to do so, you must put yourself wholly in my hands. Will you promise?”
Stone’s heart sank, and he looked askance at Follansbee for a few moments. The latter’s words sounded a little too professional to suit him. His belief that the physician was a rascal was rooted deep, however, and overshadowed everything else.