Now and then a physician—sometimes a really great one—goes wrong and plays false to the tremendous responsibility which he has assumed. Stephen Follansbee was one of the most conspicuous examples of this. He had started out with the highest motives, and worked his way up by hard work and sheer weight of ability. He had always been supremely selfish, however, and had possessed little or no heart. He had won fame in spite of his repellent appearance and his cold, unsympathetic nature. But that fame, and the reward which followed it, had not been enough for him. There was an evil streak in him, and it had become more pronounced as the years passed.
He had begun by using his position to cover up indefensible experiments on patients, especially those who were poor and obscure. Emboldened by his freedom from penalty, he had gone on and indulged in more daring and ruthless work. Most of it had been in the name of medical knowledge, to be sure, and had had the sanction of not a few fellow practitioners, but it was none the less criminal.
At length, a year or so before, he had dared to try a particularly heartless experiment on a famous author, but while it was still in one of its early stages, Nick Carter had learned of it—it doesn’t matter how—and had effectually interfered. Incidentally, the detective had prevented Follansbee from collecting fifty thousand dollars for his services, as he called them.
It had not been an indictable offense, and so Follansbee went unpunished. Carter had been obliged to content himself with a scathing denunciation, and a warning to keep straight in the future. To the best of the detective’s knowledge, Follansbee had done so. This chance, however, had been too much for the distinguished scoundrel.
While unconsciously playing into Follansbee’s hands, Floyd had opened the way for a diabolical crime.
The head of St. Swithin’s had adroitly pulled the wool over James Stone’s eyes, and kept the half-crazed miner from knowing just what to expect; but nevertheless the specialist’s mind had been made up from the beginning. He had planned it all out after receiving the letter.
As for his recognition of the miner, which had so startled his visitor, it had been a very simple matter, and quite within the capacity of one much less shrewd than Stephen Follansbee. Floyd had announced that Stone and Crawford had taken passage on the _Cortez_. Follansbee had taken pains to learn when the vessel had docked, and when, later, the big, bronzed man had presented himself, the caller’s name had, to the doctor, been as good as written over his face.