“Plot Number Two approved.  Have wired one hundred thousand to Kent’s order Security Bank.  Have him draw as he needs.”

“So now you see,” she went on, “you have the sinews of war.  But you must regard it as an advance and name your fee to the Boston folk so you can pay it back.”

He protested again, rather weakly.

“It looks like extortion; like another graft,” he said; and now she lost patience with him.

“Of all the Puritan fanatics!” she cried.  “If it were a simple commercial transaction by which you would save your clients a round seventy million dollars, which would otherwise be lost, would you scruple to take a proportionate fee?”

“No; certainly not.”

“Well, then; you go and tell Mr. Loring to wire his Advisory Board, and to do it to-night.”

“But I’ll have to name a figure,” said Kent.

“Of course,” she replied.

Kent thought about it for a long minute.  Then he said:  “I wonder if ten thousand dollars, and expenses, would paralyze them?”

Miss Van Brock’s comment was a little shriek of derision.

“I knew you’d make difficulties when it came to the paying part of it, and since I didn’t know, myself, I wired Mr. Ormsby again.  Here is what he says,” and she untwisted a second telegram and read it to him.

“’Fee should not be less than five per cent. of bonded indebtedness; four-fifths in stock at par; one-fifth cash; no cure, no pay.’”

“Three million five hundred thousand dollars!” gasped Kent.

“It’s only nominally that much,” she laughed.  “The stock part of it is merely your guaranty of good faith:  it is worth next to nothing now, and it will be many a long day before it goes to par, even if you are successful in saving its life.  So your magnificent fee shrinks to seven hundred thousand dollars, less your expenses.”

“But heavens and earth! that’s awful!” said Kent.

“Not when you consider it as a surgeon’s risk.  You happen to be the one man who has the idea, and if it isn’t carried out, the patient is going to die to-morrow night, permanently.  You are the specialist in this case, and specialists come high.  Now you may go and attend to the preliminary details, if you like.”

He found his hat and stood up.  She stood with him; but when he took her hand she made him sit down again.

“You have at least three degrees of fever!” she exclaimed; “or is it only the three-million-five-hundred-thousand-dollar shock?  What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Nothing, I assure you.  I haven’t been sleeping very well for a few nights.  But that is only natural.”

“And I said you must have a cool head!  Will you do exactly as I tell you to?”

“If you don’t make it too hard.”

“Take the car down-town—­don’t walk—­and after you have made Mr. Loring send his message to Boston, you go straight to Doctor Biddle.  Tell him what is the matter with you, and that you need to sleep the clock around.”