Doctor Stephen Follansbee walked along at a slow pace, but his movements were not characteristic. His hands were not folded behind him, and his head was erect, as if he were peering into the distance in front, instead of casting his eyes on the ground as he usually did.  
He had walked down Amsterdam Avenue for several blocks when a faint monosyllable issued from his lips.
 
“Ah!” he murmured, and sightly quickened his pace.
 
 
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.
 
Under ordinary circumstances, the unfortunate Stone would have been taken to another hospital—one with an emergency ward—but at Follansbee’s suggestion the inert, heavily-breathing form was lifted into the machine, and one of the policeman took his place beside it. Up Amsterdam Avenue, toward the big hospital over which Follansbee presided, the cab made its way. Follansbee himself had climbed into the seat beside the driver, and the ragged young man who had been following him looked uncertainly after the dwindling vehicle.
 
From that the vagrant’s gaze shifted to the remaining policeman, who was eying him suspiciously.
 
“This is no place for me,” thought the young fellow; and he made off hurriedly along the side street before the officer had time to accost him.
 
It was Patsy Garvan, Nick Carter’s second assistant, and he was doing an almost unheard-of thing. In other words, he was there without his chief’s knowledge or sanction. It was not as much of a breach of discipline ............