The ambulance entrance to the Samaritan Hospital was dimly
illuminated. Wayland, turning in from Park Avenue, sounded his horn,
then scrambled down from the box as an orderly and a watchman
appeared under the vaulted doorway. And in a few moments the
emergency case had passed out of Miss Erith's jurisdiction.

But as her car turned homeward, upon her youthful mind was stamped
the image of a pale, bruised face--of a boyish head reversed upon
her knees--of crisp, light-brown hair dusted with particles of
snow.

Within the girl's breast something deep was stirring--something
unfamiliar--not pain--not pity--yet resembling both, perhaps. She
had no other standard of comparison.

After she reached home she called up the Samaritan Hospital for
information, and learned that the man was suffering from the effects
of alcohol and chloral--the latter probably an overdose
self-administered--because he had not been robbed. Miss Erith also
learned that there were five hundred dollars in new United States
banknotes in his pockets, some English sovereigns, a number of Dutch
and Danish silver pieces, and a new cheque-book on the Schuyler
National Bank, in which was written what might be his name.

"Will he live?" inquired Miss Erith, solicitous, as are people
concerning the fate of anything they have helped to rescue.

"He seems to be in no danger," came the answer. "Are you interested
in the patient, Miss Erith?"