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.
 
Doctor Follansbee muttered something under his breath, seemingly derogatory to the volunteer, and he and Stone crossed the pavement and vanished through the doorway while the car went on up the street.
 
Apparently disgusted by his bad luck in not obtaining a tip, the disreputable-looking young man crossed the street and disappeared into the shadows of an areaway, which primitive lodging place seemed to be his choice for the night.
 
Meanwhile, Follansbee had unlocked the door with his latchkey, switched on the lights in the hall and office, and motioned his companion to enter the latter. The lights shone brightly on the former mine owner’s face, and the doctor was almost startled by the change in it. The hard, sour, brooding expression that had so characterized the tanned features had vanished now, and in its place was a very sane anxiety, coupled with shocked recollection. James Stone was plainly suffering in a way that few men are called upon to suffer. “Now,” he said at once, refusing the proffered chair, “tell me what you mean.”
 
Even his voice had subtly changed. It was still deep, but the hoarseness had gone from it, and it had taken on a little of the mellowness of Crawford’s own.
 
Follansbee advanced to his desk and dropped into a chair.
 
“Won’t you sit down?” he repeated, with perfect self-possession. “It’s a rather long story.”
 
“No, no! I would rather stand,” Stone replied, pressing his hand to his brow. “I feel dazed and sick; I feel as though a great gap had come into my life, and that I was only returning to the world again after a long absence.”
 
He stared down at Follansbee with anguished eyes.
 
“Everything—or nearly everything—is misty,” he went on, “but I know that I came to you on the recommendation of young Doctor Floyd down in Brazil. He sent me to you to get help for my trouble, but—but somehow, instead of that, we hatched a devilish plot to murder the best friend I have in the world, Win Crawford. In Heaven’s name what’s to be done? What did you mean just now when you said I had come to my senses? I have come to them, I hope, but if it’s too late to help Win, I would have been far better off as I was. If he dies now, I shall kil............