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.