“Thanks!” the specialist said carelessly, turning the check over and blotting it on the pad. “Now give me the name of your hotel and the number of your room.”
“The Hotel Windermere, room number twenty-two,” was the reply.
Follansbee jotted it down on the back of a card, and then looked at his watch.
“I must be going now,” he said. “I’m overdue at the hospital. I will be engaged there until six o’clock, but I’ll phone you as soon after that as possible.”
Stone picked up his hat and peered at the inscrutable face for a moment, as if in a last attempt to read the thoughts behind it.
“You’re sure you can do it?” he asked hoarsely.
“Nothing is absolutely sure in this world, even the performance of a specialist,” was the cool reply. “However”—and he tapped the check, the blank side of which was turned uppermost, with one forefinger—“there is my fee; and you may rest assured that I shall do my best to earn it.”
Half insane though he was, James Stone was greatly impressed. Follansbee had not showed his hand once during the interview. At best he had only given a momentary glimpse at his cards, but there was a hint of strength, of unusual power of one kind or another behind that hard mask.
“Very well, doctor,” the miner returned. “I shall expect to hear from you this evening.”