u,"
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."

"Thank you--oh! thank you." This very faintly and brokenly.

"You see, you are one of the cases that prove that an impossibility
is--possible. Truth-stronger-than-fiction idea. But if you would like me
to communicate with Pat, I'll be glad to help you."

"No--I will wait now." Joan drew her lips close.

Cameron controlled his features while he listened, but he never referred
to Pat again.

"I've sometimes thought," Cameron spoke calmly, "that you might have
been looking for my uncle, Doctor Martin, when you stumbled into his old
office. I could not flatter myself that you were bent upon obtaining my
services."

At this Joan astonished Cameron almost as much as if she had sat up in
her coffin.

She rose, as though propelled by a spring, she stared at him and then,
as slowly, sank back, still holding him with her eyes that seemed
preternaturally large.

"Oh! come now!" Cameron exclaimed. "What's up?" He took her hand and
bent over her and to his amaze discovered that she was laughing! He
touched the bell. Things were bewildering him--Miss Brown always managed
trying situations by reducing them to normal. She responded at once;
cool, serene, and capable.

"Nerves?" she asked. And then took command. She raised Joan and settled
the pillows into new lines; she removed the roses almost sternly--she
disliked the nuisance of flowers in a sick room.

"There, now!" she whispered to Joan, "take this drink and go to sleep
like a good girl."

In the face of this sound common sense laughing was out of the question.
Joan pretended sleep rather than risk another: "There, now!"

But her recovery was rapid after that day. Like a veil withdrawn she
reflected upon the past as if it were, not a story that was told, but a
preface to the real story that her life must be.

The folly, the irresponsibility, no longer dismayed her, but gave her
reasons and arguments.

She wanted to live at last! She wanted to go home and separate herself
forever from the cheap, theatrical thing she had believed was freedom!
She saw the folly of it all; she seemed an old woman regarding the
dangerous