The young man who was keeping him in sight from the other side of the street—and who was evidently the same one who had opened the limousine door some time earlier—could not hear the ejaculation, but he noted the quickened steps and glanced ahead in search of a reason.
Half a block beyond was a little group of men gathered on the sidewalk. When Follansbee approached, he found that it consisted of a couple of policemen, and the driver of a taxicab was bending over the figure of a tall man lying prone on the sidewalk. The physician had no need to do more than glance at the figure, for, as the policeman lifted the body, the rigid features of James Stone were revealed.
Clearing his throat, Follansbee stepped forward. “What’s the trouble, officer?” he asked. “Has there been any accident?”
One of the men in uniform turned and looked at Follansbee in a questioning way.
“I’m Doctor Stephen Follansbee, of St. Swithin’s Hospital,” the specialist went on. “Here’s my card. If I can help you in any way, I shall be only too glad to do so.”
The patrolman took the card and glanced at it in the light of a near-by street lamp. When he saw the name and the string of letters after it, his attitude instantly changed to one of great respect. It was a name to conjure with in New York City.
“It’s lucky you happened along, Doctor Follansbee,” the spokesman declared, making way for the newcomer, who stooped and seemed to make an examination.
“It seems to be a paralytic stroke,” Follansbee announced presently. “You had better call an ambulance and have him taken somewhere at once.” Then, as if struck by a new idea, he went on: “Come to think of it, you might as well send him to St. Swithin’s. I was going there in a few minutes, anyway. There’s a special case that needs watching. Why not put him in this taxi?”
The cool cunning of the man had its reward.