Forty miles away he had found him.
The Cure was perplexed.

What was there to do?
He believed what Jo said.
So far as he knew, Jo had never lied to him before, and he thought he understood Jo's interest in this man with the look of a child and no memory: Jo's life was terribly lonely; he had no one to care for, and no one cared for him; here was what might comfort him! Through this helpless man might come a way to Jo's own good.

So he argued with himself.
What to do?
Tell the story to the world by writing to the newspaper at Quebec?
Jo pooh-poohed this.

Wait till the man's memory came back?
Would it come back--what chance was there of its ever coming back?
Jo said that they ought to wait and see--wait awhile, and then, if his memory did not return, they would try to find his friends, by publishing his story abroad.
Chaudiere was far from anywhere: it knew little of the world, and the world knew naught of it, and this was a large problem for the Cure.
Perhaps Jo was right, he thought.

The man was being well cared for, and what more could be wished at the moment?
The Cure was a simple man, and when Jo urged that if the sick man could get well anywhere in the world it would be at Vadrome Mountain in Chaudiere, the Cure's parochial pride was roused, and he was ready to believe all Jo said.