Piece by piece Kennedy went over it, putting it together as if it were a mosaic.
“Now, the woman. You say her face was hidden?”
She hesitated. “N—no. I saw it. But it was no one I knew.”
Kennedy did not dwell on the contradiction, but added, “And the crowd?”
“Dr. Maudsley is your family physician?” he questioned.
“Did he call—er—yesterday?”
“He calls every day to supervise the nurse who has Junior in charge.”
“Could one always be true to oneself in the face of any temptation?” he asked suddenly.
It was a bold question. Yet such had been the gradual manner of his leading up to it that, before she knew it, she had answered quite frankly, “Yes—if one always thought of home and her child, I cannot see how one could help controlling herself.”
She seemed to catch her breath, almost as though the words had escaped her before she knew it.
“Is there anything besides your dream that alarms you,” he asked, changing the subject quickly, “any suspicion of—say the servants?”
“No,” she said, watching him now. “But some time ago we caught a burglar upstairs here. He managed to escape. That has made me nervous. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“No,” she said positively, this time on her guard.
Kennedy saw that she had made up her mind to say no more.
“Mrs. Hazleton,” he said, rising. “I can hardly thank you too much for the manner in which you have met my questions. It will make it much easier for me to quiet your fears. And if anything else occurs to you, you may rest assured I shall violate no confidences in your telling me.”
I could not help the feeling, however, that there was just a little air of relief on her face as we left.
“H—M,” mused Kennedy as we walked along after leaving the house. “There were several ‘complexes,’ as they are called, there—the most interesting and important being the erotic, as usual. Now, take the lion in the dream, with his mane. That, I suspect, was Dr. Maudsley. If you are acquainted with him, you will recall his heavy, almost tawny beard.”
Kennedy seemed to be revolving something in his mind and I did not interrupt. I had known him too long to feel that even a dream might not have its value with him. Indeed, several times before he had given me glimpses into the fascinating possibilities of the new psychology.
“In spite of the work of thousands of years, little progress has been made in the scientific understanding of dreams,” he remarked a few moments later. “Freud, of Vienna—you recall the name?—has done most, I think in that direction.”
I recalled something of the theories of the Freudists, but said nothing.