He strode across the room, Follansbee following him with his short, noiseless steps. When the double doors were reached and opened, the doctor put out his hand and Stone felt a cold, dry palm thrust into his own moist, hot one.
“Until this evening,” Follansbee said, with a bow that was almost courtly, despite its mocking character.
Stone passed through the reception room, and the little man closed the double doors of the office behind him.
Bending forward, Follansbee tilted his head at an angle like that of a listening bird. He remained in that position until the noise of the closing door told him that the miner had left the house; then, turning, he darted across the room toward his desk and seized upon the check. A low, disagreeable laugh broke from his lips as his eyes alighted on the face of it, for date, number, payee’s name, and amount had all disappeared, and the only words that remained were the two which constituted the signature—“James Stone.”
The doctor’s eyes turned to the desk where the “ink” which had been used had been spilled, but the mysterious volatile liquid had already disappeared from the surface, and only a little grayish powder remained.
That, too, quickly vanished, as Follansbee blew it away.
Then, dropping into a chair in front of the desk, and in a strong, bold hand—in stern contrast to his size and quick, nervous movement—he filled in the rest of the check once more. He made it out, of course, to himself, as before, and reproduced the vanished number from memory. That was an easy matter, since he had been looking over Stone’s shoulder; but this time the date put down was the twenty-fifth instead of the twenty-seventh, and the amount was not forty-five thousand dollars, but—four hundred and fifty thousand!
CHAPTER XI.
A DISTINGUISHED SCOUNDREL.
“Yes, my friend, I intend to earn my fee,” the cold voice declared to the empty room. “The only difference is that the fee is somewhat larger than I’ve given you reason to believe.”