It was little after eleven o’clock in the morning when a broad-shouldered man turned into Amsterdam Avenue and began to move slowly along the pavement, glancing now and then at the houses as he passed. His tanned face suggested that he was a man from a warmer land, and the stubborn chin and hard, sour look about the eyes were mute tokens of the surly temper that ruled the stranger. He was wearing a soft hat with a wide brim, and he had tilted it forward to shade his eyes from the sun. Once he took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment. Evidently he was looking for an address.  
Presently he caught sight of what he sought—the big bulk of St. Swithin’s Hospital, which occupied an entire block. He quickened his pace and approached the great building. In the reception room, however, a disappointment awaited him. When he asked for Doctor Stephen Follansbee, he was told that that distinguished individual had not yet arrived at the hospital that day. But after some argument he obtained Follansbee’s private address, which proved to be also on Amsterdam Avenue and not more than half a dozen blocks away.
 
The stranger retraced his steps, therefore, and sought the new number. He soon found it over the door of a house that was one of a row of solid but by no means impressive residences.
 
A maid admitted him and asked if he had an appointment with the doctor. When informed that he had not, she invited him into the empty reception room and told him Doctor Follansbee was busy, but that he would be free in a few minutes. The visitor seated himself, picked up a magazine, and began mechanically glancing it over. After ten or fifteen minutes, the folding doors at the rear of the reception room were opened and a patient emerged. Over the latter’s shoulder the waiting man caught a glimpse of a stern, repellent figure in the doorway.
 
The caller rose expectantly, but before he had a chance to step forward or utter a word he was greeted in an unexpected, almost uncanny, fashion.
 
“Come in, Mr. Stone!” were the words which came from the man in the doorway.
 
With a start, James Stone grasped his hat and stepped forward. He could not imagine by what black art the master of the house knew his name, and he eyed his host apprehensively as he passed him and entered the room beyond.
 
He was doubtless face to face with the famous Doctor Stephen Follansbee, but it was hard, indeed, to believe it. The man before him could not have been more than five feet high. His head was as bare as a billiard ball and curiously elongated in shape. The vulturelike face, the almost fringeless eyelids, and the long, thin, hawklike nose held him mute.
 
Into the black, beady eyes there flickered a sudden mirth, and the thin lips twisted into what was the ghost of a smile.
 
“It’s all right, Stone!” the extraordinary individual declared. “You have come to the right place. You may not think it, but I’m Doctor Follansbee.”
 
Was it possible? The man looked like some sinister bird of prey, and yet he was at the head of a celebrated hospital and enjoyed the most enviable reputation as an authority whose fame was countrywide.
 
 
In response to a gesture from Follansbee the visitor dropped into a chair close beside a small desk that stood by a window. The specialist crossed the room with quick, birdlike steps and took his seat behind the desk. In the momentary pause that followed, the two men eyed each other, but what their thoughts were remained their respective secrets. At least, Stone could not read the physician’s.
 
“You expected to see some one very different, I suppose?” Follansbee remarked, with a mocking smile. “A big, well-groomed figurehead with an impressive manner and a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard? Confess, now.”
 
Stone relaxed and laughed. It was a short, grating laugh, and the physician’s eyes dilated slightly as he heard it.
 
It was hardly the laugh of a sane person, and as Follansbee leaned forward he noted that the pupils of Stone’s eyes were fixed and round, a sign which the initiated always searches for in mental cases.
 
“That’s about it,” the visitor admitted, in his harsh voice. “The—the young man who spoke to me about you told me that you were the head of a big hospital, and I’ve just been there.”
 
Follansbee nodded.
 
“I understand,” he said. “I can assure you that your friend was quite correct, as you’ve doubtless found out for yourself, if you’ve been at St. Swithin’s. I’ve never been called handsome, but I haven’t found that a drawback, and I suspect that you didn’t come to see me for my looks. Did you have a pleasant voyage on the Cortez?”
 
Stone looked at him in open-mouthed amazement.
 
“What do you know about me?” he demanded. “You nearly floored me by calling me by my name, and now you——”
 
“Oh, that isn’t all I know about you,” Follansbee assured him maliciously. “I can tell you all about the Condor Mine and of your partner, Winthrop Crawford—or shall we call him your ex-partner? I know that you and he recently sold the Condor for a million, and that you have both come back to your old stamping ground after an absence of a quarter of a century or so. I know several other things, too, but we won’t speak of them just yet.”
 
Stone bit his lip and paled a little under his tan.
 
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he muttered. “I suppose Floyd must have written to you about me. How in thunder you knew me, though, when I came in, is more than I can understand.”
 
“Who may ‘Floyd’ be?” queried Follansbee, as if he had never heard the name before.
 
His visitor looked at him in bewilderment, but again failed to read that baffling countenance.
 
“Why, he’s the young American doctor down in Brazil who advised me to come to you,” he explained wonderingly. “He said he had studied under you in medical school.”
 
“Indeed! That’s very interesting,” murmured the specialist. “Hundreds of young men have studied under me, however. I suppose I might say thousands. It is gratifying to be remembered by one of them, of course, but I cannot be expected——”
 
“Then how in the world——”
 
“Let’s not waste time over things out of our immediate concern,” Follansbee interrupted. “Please remember that my time is valuable, very valuable. You seem to be slow in getting to the point. I’ll help you out. I happen to know the nature of your errand, but am also perfectly well aware that your heart isn’t in it. Your real desires are of a very different sort. Isn’t that so?”
 
James Stone looked alarmed, as well he might. His conscience was by no means clear, and the conversation seemed to be getting on decidedly dangerous ground.
 
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he faltered, moistening his lips. “Doctor Floyd had a fool notion that I was going crazy, or something like that. I naturally didn’t take very kindly to the idea, but I was more or less under obligations to him, and he was so insistent that I promised to look you up. He said you would help me. Of course, I don’t think I need any help—of that sort—but I’m a man of my word, and that’s why I’m here.”
 
“Very commendable!” murmured the head of St. Swithin’s. “Doctor Boyd, or whatever his name is, was quite right. I can help you, in more ways than one, and I perceive that what you really want is to be rid of your former partner, Winthrop Crawford. Have I hit the nail on the head?”
 
A meaning smile crossed the sinister face, and Follansbee leaned back in his chair, the glance from his hard little eyes playing over his caller’s face.