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Page 50
"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.
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