So long as Joan had been a desperate case she had no individuality at all, except scientifically.

She was bathed, and eventually her hair was cut, not shaved—­the nurse put in a plea at the cutting point—­and she was fed and made to sleep; but gradually, as she emerged from the shadowy boundary, she assumed different proportions.

Cameron concluded that her reticence, now her brain was growing clearer, came from a determined effort to cover her tracks and perhaps those of a man—­unworthy, undoubtedly, and Cameron believed this man to be the “Pat” to whom his patient had so frantically referred in her raving.

There had evidently been a strenuous scene in which Pat had figured and through which he and the girl had emerged rather deplorably.

Cameron also arrived at the conclusion that the young woman in his care must be made to take a keener interest in life than she seemed to be taking, or her recovery would be slower than it ought to be, according to physical indications.  The growing silence worried him; he wished that he could gain her confidence, not in order to gratify curiosity, but to enable him to be of real service.

One afternoon he called at the hospital reinforced with a box of roses.

The flowers had an immediate effect upon Joan.  She buried her face in them and closed her eyes, and then Cameron saw large, slow tears escaping the close-shut lids.  He welcomed these.  Presently Joan asked: 

“How is—­is—­Cuff?”

“Oh! he’s ripping,” Cameron replied; “after seeing you he seemed to size up the situation and come to terms.”

“How—­how did you happen to know his name?” This had been a burning curiosity for the past week.

“You happened to mention it when you keeled over in my office.  Cuff was apparently your one responsibility.  We found your name in a letter—­Miss Lamb.”

The roses hid the quivering face while a new and hurting question for the first time entered in.  Then: 

“Did—­did I go to your office?  I thought I—­was brought here from——­”

“You were brought here, all right,” Cameron felt his way slowly along the opening path; “Miss Brown and I had rather a vigorous trip with you—­in my automobile.”

“Cuff belonged to—­to Pat!” Joan remarked, irrelevantly.  She was forcing her thought back to the blank period lying between the hotel and the hospital.  Gradually it brightened and a smothered sob found place in the roses.

“So that is why they have left me alone!” Joan reflected; “but oh! how frightened they must be!”

“I rather imagine Pat must be fairly well used up wondering about you,” Cameron was saying as if the whole matter were an everyday affair, but rather annoying; “queer things happen in a big city.  We’ve done our best to locate your friends; I think some of the officials I have consulted have their doubts as to my mental condition.  I kept under cover as well as I could until you were well enough to act for yourself.”