Colonel Kent seemed to have been lost for almost a week.  During that time no word had been received from him and Madame’s daily bulletin:  “No change for the worse,” had been returned, marked “not found.”  She was vaguely troubled and uneasy, fearing that something might have happened to him, but forebore to speak of her fears.

One morning, while Allison was still asleep, the nurse wakened him gently.  “A new man, Mr. Allison; can you see him now?”

“I don’t care,” he replied.  “Bring him in.”

The newcomer was a young man—­one would have guessed that the ink was scarcely dry on his diploma.  He had a determined mouth, a square chin, kind eyes, and the buoyant youthful courage that, by itself, carries one far upon any chosen path.

He smiled at Allison and Allison smiled back at him, in friendly fashion.  “Now,” said the young man, “let’s see.”

His big fingers were astonishingly gentle, they worked with marvellous dexterity, and, for the first time, the dreaded examination was almost painless.  He asked innumerable questions both of Allison and the nurse, and wanted to know who had been there previously.

The nurse had kept no record, but she knew some of the men, and mentioned their names—­names to conjure with in the professional world.  Even the two great Germans had said it was of no use.

The young man wrinkled his brows in deep thought.  “What have you been using?” he inquired, of the nurse.

“Everything.  Come here.”

She led him into the next room, where a formidable array of bottles and boxes almost covered a large table.  He looked them all over, carefully, scrutinising the names on the druggist’s labels, sniffing here and there, occasionally holding some one bottle to the light, and finally, out of sheer youthful curiosity, counting them.

Then he laughed—­a cheery, hearty laugh that woke long-sleeping echoes in the old house and made Allison smile, in the next room.  “It seems,” he commented, “that a doctor has to leave a prescription as other men leave cards—­just as a polite reminder of the call.”

“What shall I do with them?”

“Dump ’em all out—­I don’t care.  Or, wait a minute; there’s no rush.”

He went back to Allison.  “I see you’ve got quite a drug store here.  Are you particularly attached to any special concoction?”

“Indeed I’m not.  Most of ’em have hurt—­sinfully.”

“I don’t know that anything has to be painful or disagreeable in order to be healing,” remarked the young man, thoughtfully.  “Would you like to throw ’em all out of the window?”

“I certainly would.”

“All right—­that’ll be good business.”  He swung Allison’s bed around so that his right arm rested easily on the window sill, requested the nurse to wheel the drug store within easy reach, and rapidly uncorked bottle after bottle with his own hands.

“Now then, get busy.”