er. 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 re