Rawley walked back to the
table and laid down two thousand dollars.
"I only wanted two thousand," he said, and put the other two thousand in
his pocket.
The evil eyes gloated, the long fingers clutched the pile, and swept it
into a great inside pocket. Then the shaggy head bent forwards.
"You said it was for Dan," he said--"Dan Welldon?"
Rawley hesitated. "What is that to you?" he replied at last.
With a sudden impulse the old impostor lurched round, opened a box, drew
out a roll, and threw it on the table.
"It's got to be known sometime," he said, "and you'll be my lawyer when
I'm put into the ground--you're clever. They call me a quack.
Malpractice--bah! There's my diploma--James Clifton Welldon. Right
enough, isn't it?"
Rawley was petrified. He knew the forgotten story of James Clifton
Welldon, the specialist, turned gambler, who had almost ruined his own
brother--the father of Dan and Diana--at cards and dice, and had then
ruined himself and disappeared. Here, where his brother had died, he had
come years ago, and practised medicine as a quack.
"Oh, there's plenty of proof, if it's wanted!" he said. "I've got it
here." He tapped the box behind him. "Why did I do it? Because it's my
way.
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