“It’s past office hours,” stammered the girl, a little scared; “but perhaps if you come in——­”

Joan staggered in and, seeing a door open at the end of the hall, reached it, entered, and sank down in a chair with the astonished eyes of Clive Cameron upon her!

He was ready for his rounds—­was on the way, then, to his hospital; it was Martin’s pet institution and Cameron’s first care in the morning.

“I’m—­tired,” Joan informed him.  “Please take care of—­Cuff!”

And then everything went black and quiet.

Never in all his life had Cameron had anything so surprising happen to him.  He looked at the girl, whom he managed to carry to the couch; he turned to the dog whose faithful eyes rather steadied him, then he applied all the remedies that one does at such times.  Eventually Joan revived, but she stared vacantly at the face above her and did not attempt to speak.

Presently Cameron called in his nurse.

“I think it is brain fever,” he explained to the cool, capable woman who asked naturally: 

“Who is she?”

“The Lord knows.”

“Where did she come from?  Where does she belong?”

“The Lord knows.  She just came in with the dog and then dropped after asking me to care for—­for Cuff—­yes, that’s what she called him—­then she went off.”

“It’s a duck of a dog,” the nurse remarked as one does make inane remarks at a critical time.  Then: 

“Have you looked in her bag?”

“Certainly not!”

“We had better.”  And they did.

There was a trunk key, seventy-five dollars, and a letter signed “Syl,” and frivolously dilating upon a man named John and loads of love to Miss Lamb!

“Well!” said the nurse, “and as one might expect, no heading, date, or any sensible clue—­and the envelope missing.  We must label this patient, I suppose, as Miss Lamb.  The articles of clothing are unmarked.  Queer all around!”

“We must get her into the hospital at once,” Cameron replied.  The doctor in him was getting into action.

“Can we manage her in my car?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Then get busy.  Call her Miss Lamb when you have to answer questions.  We can find out about her later.  Where’s that dog?”

Cuff was making himself invisible.  He was under the couch.

“Have him fed and taken care of, Miss Brown—­tell the maid.”

Joan leaned against Cameron on the way to the hospital while Miss Brown kept a finger on her pulse.  The girl’s body acted mechanically, but the brain was clogged.

Day by day in the white, quiet hospital room the battle for her life went on; day by day outside effort was made to trace her and find her friends.

“You wise-looking brute,” Cameron often thought as he regarded Cuff at the day’s end; “why can’t you tell what you know?”

But Cuff simply wagged his stump and slunk off.  Life was becoming too puzzling for him.