“Do you care for my work?” he asked, astonished and moved.

“I?  Yes, of course I do.  Who does not?”

“Many,” he replied simply.

“I am sorry for them,” she said.

They sat silent for a long while.

At first his overwhelming desire was to tell her of the deception practiced upon her; but he could not do that, because in exposing himself he must fail in loyalty to the Tracer of Lost Persons.  Besides, she would not believe him.  She would think him mad if he told her that the old gentleman she had taken for Dr. Atwood was probably Mr. Keen, the Tracer of Lost Persons.  Also, he himself was not absolutely certain about it.  He had merely deduced as much.

“Tell me,” he said very gently, “what is the malady from which you believe I am suffering?”

For a moment she remained silent, then, face averted, laid her finger on the book beside her.

“That,” she said unsteadily.

He read aloud:  “Lamour’s Disease.  A Treatise in sixteen volumes by Ero S. Lamour, M.D., M.S., F.B.A., M.F.H.”

“All that?” he asked guiltily.

“I don’t know, Mr. Carden.  Are you laughing at me?  Do you not believe me?” She had turned suddenly to confront him, surprising a humorous glimmer in his eyes.

“I really do not believe I am seriously ill,” he said, laughing in spite of her grave eyes.

“Then perhaps you had better read a little about what Lamour describes as the symptoms of this malady,” she said sadly.

“Is it fatal?” he inquired.

“Ultimately.  That is why I desire to spend my life in studying means to combat it.  That is why I desire you so earnestly to place yourself under my observation and let me try.”

“Tell me one thing,” he said; “is it contagious?  Is it infectious?  No?  Then I don’t mind your studying me all you wish, Dr. Hollis.  You may take my temperature every ten minutes if you care to.  You may observe my pulse every five minutes if you desire.  Only please tell me how this is to be accomplished; because, you see, I live in the Sherwood Studio Building, and you live on Madison Avenue.”

“I—­I have a ward—­a room—­fitted up with every modern surgical device—­every improvement,” she said.  “It adjoins my office. Would you mind living there for a while—­say for a week at first—­until I can be perfectly certain in my diagnosis?”

“Do you intend to put me to bed?” he asked, appalled.

“Oh, no!  Only I wish to watch you carefully and note your symptoms from moment to moment.  I also desire to try the effects of certain medicines on you—­”

“What kind of medicines?” he asked uneasily.

“I cannot tell yet.  Perhaps antitoxin; I don’t know; perhaps formalin later.  Truly, Mr. Carden, this case has taken on a graver, a more intimate significance since I have learned who you are.  I would have worked hard to save any life; I shall put my very heart and soul into my work to save you, who have done so much for us all.”