Millicent Hazleton was a very pretty little woman, in whom one saw instinctively the artistic temperament.  She had been an actress, too, when young Morton Hazleton married her, and at first, at least, they had seemed very devoted to each other.

We were admitted to see her in her own library, a tastefully furnished room on the second floor of the house, facing a garden at the side.

“Mrs. Hazleton,” began Butler, smoothing the way for us, “of course you realize that we are working in your interests.  Professor Kennedy, therefore, in a sense, represents both of us.”

“I am quite sure I shall be delighted to help you,” she said with an absent expression, though not ungraciously.

Butler, having introduced us, courteously withdrew.  “I leave this entirely in your hands,” he said, as he excused himself.  “If you want me to do anything more, call on me.”

I must say that I was much surprised at the way she had received us.  Was there in it, I wondered, an element of fear lest if she refused to talk suspicion might grow even greater?  One could see anxiety plainly enough on her face, as she waited for Kennedy to begin.

A few moments of general conversation then followed.

“Just what is it you fear?” he asked, after having gradually led around to the subject.  “Have there been any threatening letters?”

“N-no,” she hesitated, “at least nothing—­definite.”

“Gossip?” he hinted.

“No.”  She said it so positively that I fancied it might be taken for a plain “Yes.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, very deferentially, but firmly.

She had been looking out at the garden.  “You couldn’t understand,” she remarked.  “No detective—­” she stopped.

“You may be sure, Mrs. Hazleton, that I have not come here unnecessarily to intrude,” he reassured her.  “It is exactly as Mr. Butler put it.  We—­want to help you.”

I fancied there seemed to be something compelling about his manner.  It was at once sympathetic and persuasive.  Quite evidently he was taking pains to break down the prejudice in her mind which she had already shown toward the ordinary detective.

“You would think me crazy,” she remarked slowly.  “But it is just a—­a dream—­just dreams.”

I don’t think she had intended to say anything, for she stopped short and looked at him quickly as if to make sure whether he could understand.  As for myself, I must say I felt a little skeptical.  To my surprise, Kennedy seemed to take the statement at its face value.

“Ah,” he remarked, “an anxiety dream?  You will pardon me, Mrs. Hazleton, but before we go further let me tell you frankly that I am much more than an ordinary detective.  If you will permit me, I should rather have you think of me as a psychologist, a specialist, one who has come to set your mind at rest rather than to worm things from you by devious methods against which you have to be on guard.  It is just for such an unusual case as yours that Mr. Butler has called me in.  By the way, as our interview may last a few minutes, would you mind sitting down?  I think you’ll find it easier to talk if you can get your mind perfectly at rest, and for the moment trust to the nurse and the detectives who are guarding the garden, I am sure, perfectly.”