Cameron studied advertisements and certain columns in the papers, but no one seemed to have missed the pretty young creature in the Martin Sanatorium.

“It’s the very devil of a case!” Cameron declared, and set about erecting some sort of foundation upon which “Miss Lamb” might repose without causing too much unhealthy curiosity.

Eventually, Joan was simply a bad case of Doctor Cameron’s.  One from out of town.  Her folks trusted him, but were too distant to visit the girl.

Cameron considered telegraphing for Martin, who was at The Gap, but he knew that sooner or later he must rely upon himself alone, and so he began with “Miss Lamb.”

The days and weeks dragged on.  There were ups and downs, hopes and discouragements, but through them all Joan looked dazedly at Cameron, and if she ever showed intelligence it was when he spoke to her in a perfectly new set of tones that were being incorporated into his voice and which seemed to disturb her.  To all questions, as to names, the girl in the dim room returned a dull stare and silence, but there were times when she deliriously rambled intimate confidences.  When these times occurred, Cameron, if he chanced to be present, ordered the nurse from the room and listened alone.  He was relieved to hear that the patient rarely spoke when he was not with her.

Joan dwelt upon her failure—­her longing to go to Pat.

These items Cameron recorded in a small red book, for his memory was none too good and he was busy to a dangerous degree.

Then, again, the sick girl depicted the night of the storm—­the shock and consequent flight.

“But,” she pleaded piteously, holding the strong hand that anchored her to life, “he won! he won, and it is always going to be all right.  Oh! if he could only know!”

There would be a pause always ending in:  “I want Pat.”

“Where is—­Pat?” Cameron ventured.

“Home!” And then, weakly, but with a wrenching pathos, Joan sang—­“I’ll get to—­Scotland—­no! home—­before you!”

“Come, come, now!” Cameron pressed the thin form down.  “You know you’ve got to live—­for Pat.”

“Yes—­for Pat.”  And then Joan would sleep.

It was a day in late May that Cameron noticed a change in his case.  She was weaker, but steadier.  She seemed to connect him with something in the recent past, and that encouraged him.  All her previous conscious moments had been like detached flashes.

“What was it you said I must live for?” she asked Cameron.  “I’ve forgotten.”

“For everything,” he replied, throwing off his coat and gripping the promising moment.  “You’re not the kind to slink out.  Besides, you’ve got to tell me about your folks.  Give them a chance to prove themselves and set things straight.”  Cameron watched the struggle on the thin face.  “And there is—­Pat!” he added.

Joan looked amazed and then quivered.