"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.