You know how much I'm hoping from your help, but I'm
miserably anxious over all this." "Never mind, Honey. You're not the first one to point out the
shortcomings of the medical profession. That's a game played by plenty
of physicians too." He paused at the sound of footsteps on the porch,
followed by the buzz of the doorbell. "Run along and write your letter,
dear--here comes that Tuesday hypochondriac of mine, and he's rich
enough for my careful attention." Pat flashed him a quick smile of farewell and slipped quietly into the
hall. At the door she passed the Doctor's patient--a lean, elderly
gentleman of woe-begone visage--and returned to her own home. Her spirits, mercurial to a degree, had risen again. She was suddenly
positive that the Doctor's scheme would bring results, and she darted
into the house almost buoyantly. Her mother had abandoned the desk,
and she ensconced herself before it, finding paper and pen, and staring
thoughtfully at the blank sheet. Finally she wrote. "Dear Nick--

     "Something has happened, favorable, I think, to us. I believe I
     have found the help we need. "Will you come if you can, or if that's not possible, break that
     self-given promise of yours, and communicate with me? "I love you." She signed it simply "Pat", placed it in an envelope, addressed it
hastily, and hurried out to post it. On her return she spied the
Doctor's hypochondriac in the act of leaving. He walked past her with
his lean, worry-smitten face like a study of Hogarth, and she heard him
mumbling to himself. The elation went out of her; she mounted the steps
very soberly, and went miserably inside. 19

Man or Monster? Pat suffered Wednesday through somehow, knowing that any such early
response to her letter was impossible. Still, that impossibility did
not deter her from starting at the sound of the telephone, and sorting
through the mail with an eagerness that drew a casual attention from
her mother. "Good Heavens, Patricia! You're like a child watching for an answer to
his note to Santa Claus!" "That's what I am, I guess," responded the girl ruefully. "Maybe I
expect too much from Santa Claus." Late in the afternoon she drifted over to Dr. Horker's residence, to
be informed that he was out. For distraction, she went in anyway, and
spent a while browsing among the books in the library. She blundered
into Kraft-Ebing, and read a few pages in growing indignation. "I'm ashamed to be human!" she muttered disgustedly to herself,
slamming shut the _Psychopathia Sexualis_. "I wouldn't be a doctor, or
have a child of mine become one, if I were positively certain he'd turn
into Lord Lister himself! Nick was right when he said doctors live on
people's troubles." She wondered how Dr. Horker could remain so human, so kindly and
understanding, when as he said himself his world was a parade of
misfits, incompetents, and all the nastiness of mortals. _He_ was nice;
she felt no embarrassment in confiding in him even when she might
hesitate to bare her feelings to her own mother. Or was it simply the
natural thing to do to tell one's troubles to a doctor? Not, of course, that the situation reflected any discredit on her
mother. Mrs. Lane was a very precious sort of parent, she mused,
young as Pat in spirit, appreciative and enthusiastically fond of her
daughter. That she trusted Pat, that she permitted her to do entirely
as she pleased, was exactly as the girl would have it; it argued no
lack of affection that each of them had their separate interests, and
if the girl occasionally found herself in unpleasantness such as this,
that too was her own fault. And yet, she reflected, it was a bitter thing to have no one to whom to
turn. If it weren't for Dr. Carl and his jovial willingness to commit
any sin up to malpractice to help her, she might have felt differently. But there always _was_ Dr. Carl, and that, she concluded, was that. She wandered back to her own side of the hedge, missing for the first
time in many weeks the companionship of the old crowd. There hadn't
been many idle afternoons heretofore during the summer; there'd always
been some of the collegiate vacationing in town, and Pat had never
needed other lure than her own piquant vivacity to assure herself
of ample attention. Now, of course, it was different; she had so
definitely tagged herself with the same Nicholas Devine that even the
most ardent of the group had taken the warning. "And I don't regret it either!" she told herself as she entered the
house. "Trouble, mystery, suffering and all--I don't regret it! I've
had my compensations too." She sighed and trudged upstairs to prepare for dinner. *       *       *       *       *

Morning found Pat in a fair frenzy of trepidation. She kept repeating
to herself that two days wasn't enough, that more time might be
required, that even had Nicholas Devine received her letter, he might
not have answered at once. Yet she was quivering as she darted into
the hall to examine the mail. It was there! She spied a fragment of the irregular handwriting and
seized the envelope from beneath a clutter of notes, bills, and
advertisements. She glanced at the post-mark. Chicago! He hadn't left
the city, trusting perhaps to the anonymity conferred by its colossal
swarm of humanity. Indeed, she thought as she stared at the missive,
he might have moved around the corner, and save for the chance of a
fortuitous meeting she'd never know it. She tore open the envelope and scanned the several scrawled lines. No heading, no salutation, not even a signature. Just, "Thursday
evening at our place in the park." No more; she studied the few words
intently, as if she could read into their bald phrasing the moods and
hidden emotions of the writer. A single phrase, but sufficient. The day was suddenly brighter, and
the hope which had glowed so dimly yesterday was abruptly almost more
than a hope--a certainty. All her doubts of Dr. Horker's abilities were
forgotten; already the solution of this uncanny mystery seemed assured,
and the restoration of romance imminent. She carried the letter to her
own room and tucked it carefully by the other in the drawer of the
night-table. Thursday evening--this evening! Many hours intervened between now and a
reasonable time for the meeting, but they loomed no longer drab, dull,
and hopeless. She lay on her bed and dreamed. She could meet Nick as early as possible; perhaps at eight-thirty, and
bring him directly to the Doctor's residence. No use wasting a moment,
she mused; the sooner some light could be thrown on the affliction,
the sooner they could lay the devil--exorcise it. Demon, fixed idea,
mental aberration, or whatever Dr. Carl chose to call it, it had to be
met and vanquished once and forever. And it _could_ be vanquished; in
her present mood she didn't doubt it. Then--after that--there was the
prospect of her own Nick regained, and the sweet vistas opened by that
reflection. She lunched in an abstracted manner.