The strained voice rose almost to a shriek, and Follansbee began to fear that his companion might attract attention and call down a demand to stop the car for an investigation. Although it was past three o’clock in the morning, the streets were not quite empty, for New York’s streets rarely are. They flashed past a brightly lighted corner, and the doctor saw the uniformed figure of a policeman pacing slowly along and looking in their direction. At any moment Stone might burst out into a storm of self-reproach, and there was no telling to what lengths his remorse might carry him. It was a situation which required a master hand, and the way in which Follansbee tackled it was typical of his shrewdness and lack of conscience.
Instead of attempting to explain to Stone, he leaned forward suddenly and gave the miner a hearty clap on the shoulder.
“At last!” he ejaculated, in tones of the greatest relief and satisfaction. “Thank Heaven you’ve come back to your senses.”
He was playing a deep game now, and the way in which the haggard eyes of his companion turned upon him might have touched his heart had anything been there to touch.
“Come back to my senses!” Stone repeated uncomprehendingly. “What do you mean by that?”
Then a great hope flamed up in his eyes. Had Follansbee been merely humoring him, seeming to fall in with his madness? Had the hypodermic been harmless after all?
CHAPTER XXVII.
AN ASTOUNDING STATEMENT.
James Stone’s questions, both uttered and unexpressed, were not to be answered just then. A sudden swerve of the car made Follansbee look out of the window. The machine had turned into Amsterdam Avenue, and a few moments later had come to a halt before the physician’s door.
A ragged, shuffling figure, that of a hollow-cheeked young man, was passing at the moment. The young fellow, apparently a homeless vagrant, or worse, paused as the car drew up to the curb, then darted forward and opened the door.