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! 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. In the afternoon, when the phone

rang, she jumped in a startled manner, then relaxed with a shrug.

But this time it _was_ for her. She darted into the hall to take the

call on the lower phone; she was hardly surprised but thoroughly

excited to recognize the voice of Nicholas Devine.

"Pat?"

"Nick! Oh, Nick, Honey! What is it?"

"My note to you." Even across the wire she sensed the strain in his

tense tones. "You've read it?"

"Of course, Nick! I'll be there."

"No." His voice was trembling. "You won't come, Pat. Promise you won't!"

"But why? Why not, Nick? Oh, it's terribly important that I see you!"

"You're not to come, Pat!"

"But--" An idea was struggling to her consciousness. "Nick, was it--?"

"Yes. You know now."

"But, Honey, what difference does it make? _You_ come. You must, Nick!"

"I won't meet you, I tell you!" She could hear his voice rising

excitedly in pitch, she could feel the intensity of the struggle across

unknown miles of lifeless copper wire.

"Nick," she said, "I'm going to be there, and you're going to meet me."

There was silence at the other end.

"Nick!" she cried anxiously. "Do you hear me? I'll be there. Will you?"

His voice sounded again, now flat and toneless.

"Yes," he said. "I'll be there."

The receiver clicked at the far end of the wire; there was only a

futile buzzing in Pat's ears. She replaced the instrument and sat

staring dubiously at it.

Had that been Nick, really her Nick, or--? Suppose she went to that

meeting and found--the other? Was she willing to face another evening

of indignities and terrors like those still fresh in her memory?

Still, she argued, what harm could come to her on that bench, exposed

as it was to the gaze of thousands who wandered through the park on

summer evenings? Suppose it _were_ the other who met her; there was no

way to force her into a situation such as that of Saturday night. Nick

himself had chosen that very spot for their other meeting, and for that

very reason.

"There's no risk in it," she told herself, "Nothing can possibly

happen. I'll simply go there and bring Nick back to Dr. Carl's, along a

lighted, busy street, the whole two blocks. What's there to be afraid

of?"

Nothing at all, she answered herself. But suppose--She shuddered and

deliberately abandoned her chain of thought as she rose and rejoined

her mother.

20