THE CLAIRVOYANTS
"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 day."
"Yes? Tell me about it."
Mildred Caswell paused a moment, then began slowly, as if not to omit
anything from her story.
"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 screaming."
The woman's face was quite blanched.
"My dear," remonstrated Constance, "you must not take it so.
Remember--it was only a dream.
"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
uncongeniality.
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.
Constance read:
MME. CASSANDRA,
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?
THE RETREAT,
-- 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 recherche.
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 kept.
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 outstretched hands.
"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 worshiped at
the shrine, while Constance gazed about curiously.
"Madame," she began a little tremulously, "I have had another of those
dreadful dreams."
"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 world--"
"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 dreams.
"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 like her?"
"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 longer.
"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 case?
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 Constance casually.
"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 dream.
"You have seen Mr. Davies to-day?" Constance ventured.
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 him already?"
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 today. 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 more."
On one point she had made up her mind. That was to visit Mr. Davies
herself the next day.
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 debonnaire 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 be 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 amazed her.
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 necessary.
"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 the bargain."
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 web."
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 coffee."
Over the steaming little cups Mildred grew more calm.
"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 Constance.
"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 something else."
"Mr. Davies?"
Mildred had risen. "Don't--don't--" she cried.
"Then you do really--care for him!" asked Constance mercilessly.
"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 say."
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 finish first.
"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 the couplet:
"'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?" she faltered.
Constance nodded.
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
portieres into the drawing room.
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 doctor--and
worse?"
He had put Constance on the defensive in a sentence.
"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, defend it?"
"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 asked.
"Sometimes," he admitted reluctantly.
"Ever 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 me finish."
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.
"Smoke it."
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, "this woman----"
"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 utterly.
"Mr. Caswell," he said bitterly, "in those reports--"
"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 portieres 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 wife.
"I've been a brute," he said simply.
Something almost akin to jealousy rose in Constance's heart as she saw
Mildred, safe at last.
Then Caswell turned slowly to her. "You," he said, stroking his wife's
hand gently but looking at Constance, "you are a REAL clairvoyant."