Day by day in the white, quiet hospital room the battle for her life went on; day by day outside effort was made to trace her and find her friends.
"You wise-looking brute," Cameron often thought as he regarded Cuff at the day's end; "why can't you tell what you know?"
But Cuff simply wagged his stump and slunk off. Life was becoming too puzzling for him.
Cameron studied advertisements and certain columns in the papers, but no one seemed to have missed the pretty young creature in the Martin Sanatorium.
"It's the very devil of a case!" Cameron declared, and set about erecting some sort of foundation upon which "Miss Lamb" might repose without causing too much unhealthy curiosity.
Eventually, Joan was simply a bad case of Doctor Cameron's. One from out of town. Her folks trusted him, but were too distant to visit the girl.
Cameron considered telegraphing for Martin, who was at The Gap, but he knew that sooner or later he must rely upon himself alone, and so he began with "Miss Lamb."
The days and weeks dragged on. There were ups and downs, hopes and discouragements, but through them all Joan looked dazedly at Cameron, and if she ever showed intelligence it was when he spoke to her in a perfectly new set of tones that were being incorporated into his voice and which seemed to disturb her. To all questions, as to names, the girl in the dim room returned a dull stare and silence, but there were times when she deliriously rambled intimate confidences. When these times occurred, Cameron, if he chanced to be present, ordered the nurse from the room and listened alone. He was relieved to hear that the patient rarely spoke when he was not with her.
Joan dwelt upon her failure—her longing to go to Pat.
These items Cameron recorded in a small red book, for his memory was none too good and he was busy to a dangerous degree.