"Dr. Carl," she murmured, "I'm a nasty, ill-tempered, vicious little
shrew, and I'm sorry, and I apologize. You know I'm crazy about you,
and," she whispered in his ear, "so's Mother!" 18

Vanished


"He doesn't answer! I'm too late," thought Pat disconsolately as she
replaced the telephone. The cheerfulness with which she had awakened
vanished like a patch of April sunshine. Now, with the failure of her
third attempt in as many hours to communicate with Nicholas Devine,
she was ready to confess defeat. She had waited too long. Despite Dr.
Horker's confidence in Mueller, she should have called last night--at
once. "He's gone!" she murmured distractedly. She realized now the
impossibility of finding him. His solitary habits, his dearth of
friends, his lonely existence, left her without the least idea of how
to commence a search. She knew, actually, so little about him--not
even the source of the apparently sufficient income on which he
subsisted. She felt herself completely at a loss, puzzled, lonesome,
and disheartened. The futile buzzing of the telephone signal symbolized
her frustration. Perhaps, she thought, Dr. Horker might suggest something to do;
perhaps, even, Mueller had reported Nick's whereabouts. She seized
the hope eagerly. A glance at her wrist-watch revealed the time as
ten-thirty; squarely in the midst of the Doctor's morning office hours,
but no matter. If he were busy she could wait. She rose, bounding
hastily down the stairs. She glimpsed her mother opening mail in the library, and paused
momentarily at the door. Mrs. Lane glanced up as she appeared. "Hello," said the mother. "You've been on the telephone all morning,
and what did Carl want of you last night?" "Argument," responded Pat briefly. "Carl's a gem! He's been of inestimable assistance in developing you
into a very charming and clever daughter, and Heaven knows what I'd
have raised without him!" "Cain, probably," suggested Pat. She passed into the hall and out the
door, blinking in the brilliant August sunshine. She crossed the strip
of turf, picked her way through the break in the hedge, and approached
the Doctor's door. It was open; it often was in summer time, especially
during his brief office hours. She entered and went into the chamber
used as waiting room. His office door was closed; the faint hum of his voice sounded. She sat
impatiently in a chair and forced herself to wait. Fortunately, the delay was nominal; it was but a few minutes when the
door opened and an opulent, middle-aged lady swept past her and away. Pat recognized her as Mrs. Lowry, some sort of cousin of the Brock pair. "Good morning!" boomed the Doctor. "Professional call, I take it, since
you're here during office hours." He settled his great form in a chair
beside her. "He's gone!" said Pat plaintively. "I can't reach him." "Humph!" grunted Horker helpfully. "I've tried all morning--he's always home in the morning." "Listen, you little scatter-brain!" rumbled the Doctor. "Why didn't you
tell me Mueller brought you home last night? I thought he was on the
job." "I didn't think of it," she wailed. "Nick said he'd have to make some
preparations, and I never dreamed he'd skip away like this." "He must have gone home directly after you left him, and skipped out
immediately," said the Doctor ruminatively. "Mueller never caught up
with him." "But what'll we do?" she cried desperately. "He can't have gone far with no more preparation than this," soothed
Horker. "He'll write you in a day or two." "He won't! He said he wouldn't. He doesn't want me to know where he
is!" She was on the verge of tears. "Now, now," said the Doctor still in his soothing tones. "It isn't as
bad as all that." "Take off your bed-side manner!" she snapped, blinking to keep back the
tears. "It's worse! What ever can we do? Dr. Carl," she changed to a
pleading tone, "can't you think of something?" "Of course, Pat! I can think of several things to do if you'll quiet
down for a moment or so." "I'm sorry, Dr. Carl--but what _can_ we do?" "First, perhaps Mueller can trace him. That's his business, you know." "But suppose he can't--what then?" "Well, I'd suggest you write him a letter." "But I don't know where to write!" she wailed. "I don't know his
address!" "Be still a moment, scatter-brain! Address it to his last residence;
you know that, don't you? Of course you do. Now, don't you suppose
he'll leave a forwarding address? He must receive some sort of mail
about his income, or estate, or whatever he lives on. Your letter'll
find him, Honey; don't you doubt it." "Oh, do you think so?" she asked, suddenly hopeful. "Do you really
think so?" "I really think so. You would too if you didn't fly into a panic every
time some little difficulty confronts you. Sometimes even my psychiatry
is puzzled to explain how you can be so clever and so stupid, so
self-reliant and so dependent, so capable and so helpless--all at one
and the same time. Your Nick can't be as much of a paradox as you are!" "I wonder if a letter _will_ reach him," she said eagerly, ignoring the
Doctor's remarks. "I'll try. I'll try immediately." "I sort of had a feeling you would," said Horker amiably. "I hope you
succeed; and not only for your sake, Pat, because God knows how this
thing will work out. But I'm anxious to examine this youngster of yours
on my own account; he must be a remarkable specimen to account for all
the perturbation he's managed to cause you. And this Jekyll-and-Hyde
angle sounds interesting, too." "Jekyll and Hyde!" echoed Pat. "Dr. Carl, is that possible?" "Not literally," chuckled the other, "though in a sense, Stevenson
anticipated Freud in his thesis that liberating the evil serves also to
release the good." "But--It was a drug that caused that change in the story, wasn't it?" "Well? Do you suspect your friend of being addicted to some mysterious
drug? Is that the latest hypothesis?" "_Is_ there such a drug? One that could change a person's character?" "_All_ alkaloids do that, Honey. Some of them stimulate, some depress,
some breed frenzies, and some give visions of delight--but all of
them influence one's mental and emotional organization, which you call
character. So for that matter, does a square meal, or a cup of coffee,
or even a rainy day." "But isn't there a drug that can separate good qualities from evil,
like the story?" "Emphatically not, Pat! That's not the trouble with this pesky boy
friend of yours." "Well," said the girl doubtfully, "I only wish I had as much faith in
your psychologies as you have. If you brain-doctors know it all, why do
you switch theories every year?" "We _don't_ know it all. On the other hand, there are a few things to
be said in our favor." "What are they?" "For one," replied the Doctor, "we do cure people occasionally. You'll
admit that." "Sure," said Pat. "So did the Salem witches--occasionally." She
gave him a suddenly worried look. "Oh, Dr. Carl, don't think I'm
not grateful!