by Arthur Benjamin Reeve
"Do you believe in dreams?" Constance
Dunlap looked searchingly at her interrogator,
as if her face or manner betrayed some new
side of her character.
Mrs. deForest Caswell was an attractive
woman verging on forty, a chance acquaintance
at a shoppers' tea room downtown who had
proved to be an uptown neighbor.
"I have had some rather strange experiences,
Mildred," confessed Constance tentatively. "Why?"
"Because--" the other woman hesitated,
then added, "why should I not tell you? Last
night, Constance, I had the strangest dream.
It has left such an impression on me that I
can't shake it off, although I have tried all
"Yes? Tell me about it."
Mildred Caswell paused a moment, then began
slowly, as if not to omit anything from her
"I dreamt that Forest was dying. I could
see him, could see the doctor and the nurse,
everything. And yet somehow I could not get
to him. I was afraid, with such an oppressive
fear. I tried--oh, how I tried! I struggled,
and how badly I felt!" and she shuddered at
the very recollection.
"There seemed to be a wall," she resumed,
"a narrow wall in the way and I couldn't get
over it. As often as I tried, I fell. And then I
seemed to be pursued by some kind of animal,
half bull, half snake. I ran. It followed
closely. I seemed to see a crowd of people and
I felt that if I could only get to that crowd,
somehow I would be safe, perhaps might even
get over the wall and--I woke up--almost
The woman's face was quite blanched.
"My dear," remonstrated Constance, "you
must not take it so. Remember--it was only a
"I know it was only a dream," she said,
"but you don't know what is back of it."
Mildred Caswell had from time to time hinted
to Constance of the growing incompatibility of
her married life, but as Constance was getting
used to confidences, she had kept silent, knowing
that her friend would tell her in time.
"You must have guessed," faltered Mrs.
Caswell, "that Forest and I are not--not on
the best of terms, that we are getting further
and further apart."
It rather startled Constance to hear frankly
stated what she already had observed. She
wondered how far the estrangement had gone.
The fact was that she had rather liked deForest
Caswell, although she had only met her friend's
husband a few times. In fact she was surprised
that momentarily there flashed through
her mind the query as to whether Mildred herself
might be altogether blameless in the growing
Mildred Caswell had drawn out of her
chatelaine a bit of newspaper and handed it to
Constance, not as if it was of any importance
to herself but as if it would explain better than
she could tell what she meant.
THE VEILED PROPHETESS
Born with a double veil, educated in occult
mysteries in Egypt and India. Without asking
a question, tells your name and reads your
secret troubles and the remedy. Reads your
dreams. Great questions of life quickly solved.
Failure turned to success, the separated brought
together, advice on all affairs of life, love,
marriage, divorce, business, speculation, and
investments. Overcomes all evil influences. Ever
ready to help and advise those with capital to
find a safe and paying investment. No fee
until it succeeds. Could anything be fairer!
--- W. 47th Street.
"Won't you come with me to Madame Cassandra?"
asked Mrs. Caswell, as Constance
finished reading. "She always seems to do
me so much good."
"Who is Madame Cassandra?" asked Constance,
rereading the last part of the advertisement.
"I suppose you would call her a dream
doctor," said Mildred.
It was a new idea to Constance, this of a
dream doctor to settle the affairs of life. Only
a moment she hesitated, then she answered simply,
"Yes, I'll go."
"The retreat" was just off Longacre
Square among quite a nest of fakers. A queue
of automobiles before the place testified,
however, to the prosperity of Madame Cassandra,
as they entered the bronze grilled plate glass
door and turned on the first floor toward the
home of the Adept. Constance had an uncomfortable
feeling as they entered of being
watched behind the shades of the apartment.
Still, they had no trouble in being admitted, and
a soft-voiced colored attendant welcomed them.
The esoteric flat of Madame Cassandra was
darkened except for the electric lights glowing
in amber and rose-colored shades. There were
several women there already. As they entered
Constance had noticed a peculiar, dreamy odor.
There did not seem to be any hurry, any such
thing as time here, so skilfully was the place
run. There was no noise; the feet sank in
half-inch piles of rugs, and easy-chairs and divans
were scattered about.
Once a puff of light smoke appeared, and
Constance awoke to the fact that some were
smoking little delicately gold-banded cigarettes.
Indeed it was all quite recherché.
Mrs. Caswell took one from a maid. So did
Constance, but after a puff or two managed to
put it out and later to secure another which she
Madame Cassandra herself proved to be a
tall, slender, pale woman with dark hair and a
magnetic eye, an eye that probably accounted
more than anything else for her success. She
was clad in a house gown of purplish silk which
clung tightly to her, and at her throat a diamond
pendant sparkled, as well as other brilliants on
her long, slender fingers.
She met Mildred and Constance with out-stretched
"So glad to see you, my dears," purred
Madame, leading the way into an inner sanctum.
Mrs. Caswell had seated herself with the air
of one who
worshipped at the
shrine, while Constance gazed about curiously.
"Madame," she began a little tremulously,
"I have had another of those dreadful
"You poor dear soul," soothed Madame,
stroking her hand. "Tell me of it--all."
Quickly Mrs. Caswell poured forth her story
as she had already told it to Constance.
"My dear Mrs. Caswell," remarked the
high priestess slowly, when the story was
complete, "it is all very simple. His love is dead.
That is what you fear and it is the truth. The
wall is the wall that he has erected against you.
Try to forget it--to forget him. You would be
better off. There are other things in the
"Ah, but I cannot live as I am used to without
money," murmured Mrs. Caswell.
"I know," replied Madame. "It is that
that keeps many a woman with a brute when
financial and economic independence come, then
woman will be free and only then. Now, listen.
Would you like to be free--financially! You
remember that delightful Mr. Davies who has
been here? Yes? Well, he is a regular client
of mine, now. He is a broker and never embarks
in any enterprise without first consulting
me. Just the other day I read his fortune in
United Traction. It has gone up five points
already and will go fifteen more. If you want, I
will give you a card to him. Let me see yes,
I can do that. You too will be lucky in speculation."
Constance, with one ear open, had been busy
looking about the room. In a bookcase she saw
a number of books and paused to examine their
titles. She was surprised to see among the old
style dream books several works on modern
psychology, particularly on the interpretation
"Of course, Mrs. Caswell, I don't want to
urge you," Madame was saying. "I have only
pointed out a way in which you can be
independent. And, you know, Mr. Davies is a perfect
gentleman, so courteous and reliable. I
know you will be successful if you take my advice
and go to him."
Mildred said nothing for a few moments, but
as she rose to go she remarked, "Thank you
very much. I'll think about it. Anyhow,
you've made me feel better."
"So kind of you to say it," murmured the
Adept. "I'm sorry you must go, but really I
have other appointments. Please come again--with
your friend. Good-bye."
"What do you think of her?" asked Mrs.
Caswell on the street.
"Very clever," answered Constance dubiously.
Mrs. Caswell looked up quickly. "You don't
"To tell the truth," confessed Constance
quietly, "I have had too much experience in
Wall Street myself to trust to a clairvoyant."
They had scarcely reached the corner before
Constance again had that peculiar feeling
which some psychologists have noted, of being
stared at. She turned, but saw no one. Still
the feeling persisted. She could stand it no
"Don't think me crazy, Mildred," she said,
"but I just have a desire to walk back a block."
Constance had turned suddenly. As she
glanced keenly about she was aware of a
familiar figure gazing into the window of an
art store across the street. He had stopped so
that although his back was turned he could, by
a slight shift of his position, still see by means
of a mirror in the window what was going on
across the street behind him.
One look was enough. It was Drummond,
the detective. What did it mean?
Neither woman said much as they rode uptown,
and parted on the respective floors of
their apartment house. Still Constance could
not get out of her head the recollection of the
dream doctor and of Drummond.
Restless, she determined that night to go
down to the Public Library and see whether
any of the books at the clairvoyant's were on the
shelves. Fortunately she found some, found indeed
that they were not all, as she had half suspected,
the works of fakers but that quite a
literature had been built up around the new
psychology of dreams.
Deeply she delved into the fascinating subjects
that had been opened by the studies of the
famous Dr. Sigmund Freud of Vienna, and as
she read she found that she began to understand
much about Mrs. Caswell--and, with a
start, about her own self.
At first she revolted against the unpleasant
feature of the new dream philosophy--the irresistible
conclusion that all humanity, underneath
the shell, is sensuous or sensual in nature,
that practically all dreams portray some
delight of the senses and that sexual dreams are
a large proportion of all visions. But the more
she thought of it, the more clearly was she able
to analyze Mrs. Caswell's dream and to get
back at the causes of it, in the estrangement
from her husband and perhaps the brutality of
his ignorance of woman. And then, too, there
was Drummond. What was he doing in the
She did not see Mildred Caswell again until
the following afternoon. But then she seemed
unusually bright in contrast with the depression
of the day before. Constance was not
surprised. Her intuition told her that something
had happened and she hardly needed to
guess that Mrs. Caswell had followed the advice
of the clairvoyant and had been to see the
wonderful Mr. Davies, to whom the mysteries
of the stock market were an open book
"Have you had any other dreams?" asked
"Yes," replied Mildred, "but not like the
one that depressed me. Last night I had a very
pleasant dream. It seemed that I was breakfasting
with Mr. Davies. I remember that
there was a hot coal fire in the grate. Then
suddenly a messenger came in with news that
United Traction had advanced twenty points.
Wasn't it strange?"
Constance said nothing. In fact it did not
seem strange to her at all. The strange thing
to her, now that she was a sort of amateur
dream reader herself, was that Mrs. Caswell
did not seem to see the real import of her own
"You have seen Mr. Davies to-day?" Constance
Mrs. Caswell laughed. "I wasn't going to
tell you. You seemed so set against speculating
in Wall Street. But since you ask me, I may as
well admit it."
"When did you see him before?" went on
Constance. "Did you have much invested with
Mrs. Caswell glanced up, startled. "My--you
are positively uncanny, Constance. How
did you know I had seen him before?"
"One seldom dreams," said Constance,
"about anything unless it has been suggested
by an event of the day before. You saw him to-day.
That would not have inspired the dream
of last night. Therefore I concluded that
you must have seen him and invested before.
Madame Cassandra's mention of him yesterday
caused the dream of last night. The dream of
last night probably influenced you to see him
again to-day, and you invested in United Traction.
That is the way dreams work. Probably
more of conduct than we know is influenced by
dream life. Now, if you should get fifteen or
twenty points you would be in a fair way to
join the ranks of those who believe that dreams
do come true."
Mrs. Caswell looked at her almost alarmed,
then attempted to turn it off with a laugh,
"And perhaps breakfast with him?"
"When I do set up as interpreter of dreams,"
answered Constance simply, "I'll tell you
On one point she had made up her mind.
That was to visit Mr. Davies herself the next
She found his office a typical bucket shop,
even down to having a section partitioned off
for women clients of the firm. She had not
intended to risk anything, and so was prepared
when Mr. Davies himself approached her courteously.
Instinctively Constance distrusted
him. He was too cordial, too polite. She could
feel the claws hidden in his velvety paw, as it
were. There was a debonaire assurance about
him, the air of a man who thought he understood
women, and indeed did understand a certain
type. But to Constance, who was essentially
a man's woman, Davies was only revolting.
She managed to talk without committing herself,
and he in his complacency was glad to
hope that he was making a new customer. She
had to he careful not to betray any of the real
and extensive knowledge about Wall Street
which she actually possessed. But the glib
misrepresentations about United Traction quite
When she rose to go, Davies accompanied her
to the door, then out into the hall to the elevator.
As he bent over to shake hands, she noted that
he held her hand just a little longer than was
"He's a swindler of the first water," she
concluded as she was whisked down in the
elevator. "I'm sure Mildred is in badly with
this crowd, one urging her on in her trouble,
the other making it worse and fleecing her into
At the entrance she paused, undecided which
was the quickest route home. As by chance she
turned just for a moment she thought she caught
a fleeting glimpse of Drummond dodging behind
a pillar. It was only for an instant but even
that apparition was enough.
"I will get her out of this safely," resolved
Constance. "I will keep one more fly from his
Constance felt as if, even now, she must see
Mildred and, although she knew nothing, at least
put her on her guard. She did not have long
to wait for her chance. It was late in the afternoon
when her door buzzer sounded.
"Constance, I've been looking for you all
day," sighed Mildred, dropping sobbing into a
chair. "I am--distracted."
"Why, my dear, what's the matter?" asked
Constance. "Let me make you a cup of
Over the steaming little cups Mildred grew
"Forest has found out in some way that I
am speculating in Wall Street," she confided at
length. "I suppose some of his friends--he has
lots down there--told him."
Momentarily the picture of Drummond back
of the post in Davies' building flashed over
"And he is awfully angry. Oh, I never knew
him to be so angry--and sarcastic, too."
"Was it wholly over your money?" asked
Constance. "Was there nothing else?"
Mrs. Caswell started. "You grow more
weird, every day, Constance. Yes--there was
Mildred had risen. "Don't--don't--" she
"Then you do really care for him?" asked
"No--no, a thousand times--no. How can I?
I have put all such thoughts out of my
mind--long ago." She paused, then went on more
calmly, "Constance, believe me or not--I am
just as good a woman to-day as I was the day
I married Forest. No--I would not even let
the thought enter my head--never!"
For perhaps an hour after her friend had
gone, Constance sat thinking. What should she
do? Something must be done and soon. As she
thought, suddenly the truth flashed over her.
Caswell had employed Drummond to shadow
his wife in the hope that he might unearth something
that might lead to a divorce. Drummond,
like so many divorce detectives, was not averse
to guiding events, to put it mildly. He had
ingratiated himself, perhaps, with the clairvoyant
and Davies. Constance had often heard before
of clairvoyants and brokers who worked in conjunction
to fleece the credulous. Now another
and more serious element than the loss of money
was involved. Added to them was a divorce
detective and honor itself was at stake. She
remembered the doped cigarettes. She had
heard of them before at clairvoyants'. She saw
it all--Madame Cassandra playing on Mildred's
wounded affections, the broker on both that and
her desire to be independent--and Drummond
pulling the wires that all might take advantage
of her woman's frailty.
That moment Constance determined on action.
First she telephoned to deForest Caswell at
his office. It was an unconventional thing to do
to ask him to call, but she made some plausible
pretext. She was surprised to find that he accepted
it without hesitating. It set her thinking.
Drummond must have told him something of her
and he had thought this as good a time as any
to face her. In that case Drummond would
probably come too. She was prepared.
She had intended to have one last talk with
Mildred, but had no need to call her. Utterly
wretched, the poor little woman came in again
to see her as she had done scores of times before,
to pour out her heart. Forest had not come
home to dinner, had not even taken the trouble
to telephone. Constance did not say that she
herself was responsible.
"Do you really want to know the truth about
your dreams?" asked Constance, after she had
prevailed upon Mildred to eat a little.
"I do know," she returned.
"No, you don't, " went on Constance, now
determined to tell her the truth whether she liked
it or not. "That clairvoyant and Mr. Davies
are in league, playing you for a sucker, as they
Mrs. Caswell did not reply for a moment.
Then she drew a long breath and shut her eyes.
"Oh, you don't know how true what she says
is to me. She--"
"Listen," interrupted Constance. "Mildred,
I'm going to be frank, brutally frank.
Madame Cassandra has read your character,
not the character as you think it is, but your
unconscious, subconscious self. She knows that
there is no better way to enter into the intimate
life of a client, according to the new psychology,
than by getting at and analyzing the dreams.
And she knows that you can't go far in dream
analysis without finding sex. It is one of the
strongest natural impulses, yet subject to the
strongest repression, and hence one of the
weakest points of our culture.
"She is actually helping along your alienation
for that broker. You yourself have given
me the clue in your dreams. Only I am telling
you the truth about them. She holds it back
and tells you plausible falsehoods to help her
own ends. She is trying to arouse in you those
passions which you have suppressed, and she
has not scrupled to use drugged cigarettes with
you and others to do it. You remember the
breakfast dream, when I said that much could
be traced back to dreams? A thing happens.
It causes a dream. That in turn sometimes
causes action. No, don't interrupt. Let me
"Take that first dream," continued Constance,
rapidly thrusting home her interpretation
so that it would have its full effect. "You
dreamed that your husband was dying and you
were afraid. She said it meant love was dead.
It did not. The fact is that neurotic fear in a
woman has its origin in repressed, unsatisfied
love, love which for one reason or another is
turned away from its object and has not succeeded
in being applied. Then his death. That
simply means that you have a feeling that you
might be happier if he were away and didn't
devil you. It is a survival of childhood, when
death is synonymous with absence. I know
you don't believe it. But if you had studied
the subject as I have in the last few days
you'd understand. Madame Cassandra understands.
"And the wall. That was Wall Street,
probably, which does divide you two. You
tried to get over it and you fell. That means
your fear of actually falling, morally, of being
a fallen woman."
Mildred was staring wildly. She might deny
but in her heart she must admit.
"The thing that pursued you, half bull, half
snake, was Davies and his blandishments. I
have seen him. I know what he is. The crowd
in a dream always denotes a secret. He is
pursuing you, as in the dream. But he hasn't
caught you. He thinks there is in you the same
wild demimondaine instinct that with many an
ardent woman slumbers unknown in the back
of her mind.
"Whatever you may say, you do think of
him. When a woman dreams of breakfasting
cozily with some one other than her husband
it has an obvious meaning. As for the messenger
and the message about the United Traction,
there, too, was a plain wish, and, as you
must see, wishes in one form or another,
disguised or distorted, lie at the basis of dreams.
Take the coal fire. That, too, is susceptible
of interpretation. I think you must have heard
"'No coal, no fire so hotly glows
As the secret love that no one knows.'"
Mildred Caswell had risen, an indignant
flush on her face.
Constance put her hand on her arm gently
to restrain her, knowing that such indignation
was the first sign that she had struck at the
core of truth in her interpretation.
"My dear," she urged, "I'm only telling
you the truth, for your own sake, and not to
take advantage of you as Madame Cassandra
is doing. Please remember that the best
evidence of your normal condition is just what
I find, that absence of love would be abnormal.
My dear, you are what the psychologists call a
consciously frigid, unconsciously passionate
woman. Consciously you reject this Davies;
unconsciously you accept him. And it is the
more dangerous, although you do not know it,
because some one else is watching. It was
not one of his friends who told your husband----"
Mrs. Caswell had paled. "Is--is there a--detective?"
Mildred had collapsed completely. She was
sobbing in a chair, her head bowed in her
hands, her little lace handkerchief soaked.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?"
There was a sudden tap at the door.
"Quick--in there," whispered Constance,
shoving her through the portières into the
It was Forest Caswell.
For a moment Constance stood irresolute,
wondering just how to meet him, then she said,
"Good evening, Mr. Caswell. I hope you will
pardon me for asking you to call on me, but,
as you know, I've come to know your wife
perhaps better than you do."
"Not better," he corrected, seeming to see
that it was directness that she was aiming at.
"It is bad enough to get mixed up badly in
Wall Street, but what would you yourself
say--you are a business woman--what would you say
about getting into the clutches of a--a dream
He had put Constance on the defensive in a
"Don't you ever dream?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her a moment as if doubting
even her mentality.
"Lord," he exclaimed in disgust, "you, too,
"But, don't you dream?" she persisted.
"Why, of course I dream," he answered
somewhat petulantly. "What of it? I don't
guide my actions by it."
"Do you ever dream of Mildred?" she
"Sometimes," he admitted reluctantly.
"Never of other--er--people?" she pursued.
"Yes," he replied, "sometimes of other
people. But what has that to do with it? I
cannot help my dreams. My conduct I can help
and I do help."
Constance had not expected him to be frank
to the extent of taking her into his confidence.
Still, she felt that he had told her just enough.
She discerned a vague sense of jealousy in his
tone which told her more than words that whatever
he might have said or done to Mildred he
resented, unconsciously, the manner in which
she had striven to gain sympathy outside.
"Fortunately he knows nothing of the new
theories," she said to herself.
"Mrs. Dunlap," he resumed, "since you
have been frank with me, I must be equally
frank with you. I think you are far too sensible
a woman not to understand in just what a
peculiar position my wife has placed me."
He had taken out of his pocket a few sheets
of closely typewritten tissue paper. He did not
look at them. Evidently he knew the contents
by heart. Constance did not need to be told
that this was a sheaf of the daily reports of the
agency for which Drummond worked.
He paused. She had been watching him
searchingly. She was determined not to let him
justify himself first.
"Mr. Caswell," she persisted in a low,
earnest tone, "don't be so sure that there is
nothing in this dream business. Before you
read me those reports from Mr. Drummond, let
Forest Caswell almost dropped them in surprise.
"Dreams," she continued, seeing her advantage,
"are wishes, either suppressed or expressed.
Sometimes the dream is frank and
shows an expressed wish. Other times it shows
a suppressed wish, or a wish which in its fulfilment
in the dream is disguised or distorted.
"You are the cause of your wife's dreams.
She feels in them anxiety. And, according to
the modern psychologists who have studied
dreams carefully and scientifically, fear and
anxiety represent love repressed or suppressed."
She paused to emphasize the point, glad to
note that he was following her.
"That clairvoyant," she went on, "has
found out the truth. True, it may not have been
the part of wisdom for Mildred to have gone to
her in the first place. I pass over that. I do
not know whether you or she was most to blame
at the start. But that woman, in the guise of
being her friend, has played on every string of
your wife's lonely heart, which you have wrung
until it vibrates.
"Then," she hastened on, "came your
precious friend Drummond, Drummond who
has, no doubt, told you a pack of lies about me.
You see that?"
She had flung down on the table a cigarette
which she had managed to get at Madame Cassandra's.
He lighted it gingerly, took a puff or two,
puckered his face, frowned, and rubbed the
lighted end on the fireplace to extinguish it.
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.
"Hashish," she answered tersely. "Things
were not going fast enough to suit either
Madame Cassandra or Drummond. Madame
Cassandra helped along the dreams by a drug
noted for its effect on the passions. More than
that," added Constance, leaning over toward
him and catching his eye, "Madame Cassandra
was working in league with a broker, as so many
of the fakers do. Drummond knew it, whether
he told you the truth about it or not. That
broker was a swindler named Davies."
She was watching the effect on him. She saw
that he had been reserving this for a last shot
at her, that he realized she had stolen his own
ammunition and appropriated it to herself.
"They were only too glad when Drummond
approached them. There you are, three against
that poor little woman--no, four, including
yourself. Perhaps she was foolish. But it was
not so much to her discredit as to those who
cast her adrift when she had a natural right to
protection. Here was a woman with passions
which she herself did not understand, and a
little money--alone. Her case appealed to me.
I knew her dreams. I studied them."
Caswell was listening in amazement. "It is
dangerous to be with a person who pays attention
to such little things," he said.
Evidently Drummond himself must have been
listening. The door buzzer sounded and he
stepped in, perhaps to bolster up his client in
case he should be weakening.
As he met Constance's eye he smiled superciliously
and was about to speak. But she did
not give him time even to say good evening.
"Ask him," she cried, her eyes flashing, for
she realized that it had been part of the plan
to confront her, perhaps worm out of her just
enough to confirm Drummond's own story to
Caswell, "ask him to tell the truth--if he is
capable of it--not the truth that will make a
good daily report of a hired shadow who colors
his report the way he thinks his client desires
it, but the real truth."
"Mr. Caswell," interrupted Drummond.
"Mr. Drummond," cried Constance, rising
and shaking the burnt stub of the little
gold-banded cigarette at him to impress it on his
mind, "Mr. Drummond, I don't care whether
I am a--a she-devil"--she almost hissed the
words at him--"but I have evidence enough
to go before the district attorney of this city
and the grand jury and get indictments for
conspiracy against a certain clairvoyant and a
bucket shop operator. To save themselves, they
will probably tell all they know about a certain
crook who has been using them."
Caswell looked at her, amazed at her denunciation
of the detective. As for Drummond,
he turned his back on her as if to ignore her
"Mr. Caswell," he said bitterly, "in those
"Forest Caswell," insisted Constance, rising
and facing him, "if you have in that heart
of yours one shred of manhood it should move
you. You--this man--the others--have placed
in the path of a woman every provocation, every
temptation for financial, physical, and moral
ruin. She has consulted a clairvoyant--yes.
She has speculated--yes. Yet she was proof
against something greater than that. And I
know--because I know her unconscious self
which her dreams reveal, her inmost soul--I
know her better than you do, better than she
does herself. I know that even now she is as
good and true and would be as loving as--"
Constance had paused and taken a step toward
the drawing room. Before she knew it,
the portières flew apart and an eager little
woman had rushed past her and flung her arms
about the neck of the man.
Caswell's features were working, as he gently
disengaged her arms, still keeping one hand.
Half shoving her aside, ignoring Constance, he
had faced Drummond. For a moment the
brazen detective flinched.
As he did so, deForest Caswell crumpled up
the mass of tissue paper reports and flung them
into the fireplace.
"Get out!" he said, suppressing his voice
with difficulty. "Send me your bill. I'll pay
it--but, mind, if it is one penny more than it
should be, I'll--I'll fight if it takes me from
the district attorney and the grand jury to the
highest court of the State. Now--go!"
Caswell turned slowly again toward his
"I've been a brute," he said simply.
Something almost akin to jealousy rose in
Constance's heart as she saw Mildred, safe at
Then Caswell turned slowly to her. "You,"
he said, stroking his wife's hand gently but
looking at Constance, "you are a real clairvoyant."