Part 2

"In Africa, I see," added Kennedy, who had been examining some striking big-game photographs that hung on a side wall.

"Once I was in Africa--yes. But I contracted a fever there. It has left me unable to stand the fatigue I used to stand. However, I'm all right--otherwise--and good for a great many years in this climate--so my doctor tells me."

"Doctor Lathrop?" suggested Kennedy, quickly.

Shattuck evaded replying. "To what am I indebted for the honor?" he queried, coldly now, still standing and not offering us seats.

"I suppose you have heard of the death of Vail Wilford?" asked Kennedy, coming directly to the point.

"Yes. I have just learned that he was found dead in his office, the lights turned on, and with a note left by him to his wife. It's very sudden."

"You were acquainted with Honora Wilford, I believe?"

Shattuck flashed a quick glance sidewise.

"We went to school together."

"And were engaged once, were you not?"

Shattuck looked at Kennedy keenly.

"Yes," he replied, hastily. "But what business of yours--or anybody's, for that matter--is that?" A moment later he caught himself. "That is," he added, "I mean--how did you know that? It was a sort of secret, I thought, between us. She broke it off--not I."

"She broke off the engagement?"

"Yes--a story about an escapade of mine, and all that sort of thing, that kind mutual friends do so well for one in repeating--but! by Jove, I like your nerve, sir, to talk about it--to me. The fact of the matter is, I prefer not to talk about it. There are some incidents in a man's life, particularly where a woman is concerned, that are a closed book."

He said it with a mixture of defiance and finality.

"Quite true," hastened Kennedy, briskly, "but a murder has been committed. The police have been called in. Everything must be gone over carefully. We can't stand on any ceremony now, you know--"

At that moment the telephone rang and Shattuck turned quickly toward the hall as his valet padded in after having answered it softly.

"You will excuse me a moment?" he begged.

Was this call what he had been waiting for? I looked about, but there was no chance to get into the hall or near enough in the den to overhear.

While Shattuck was at the telephone, Kennedy paced across the room to a bookcase. There he paused a moment and ran his eye over the titles of some of the books. They were of a most curious miscellaneous selection, showing that the reader had been interested in pretty nearly every serious subject and somewhat more than a mere dabbler. Kennedy bent down closer to be sure of one title, and from where I was standing behind him I could catch sight of it. It was a book on dreams translated from the works of Dr. Sigmund Freud.

Kennedy continued to pace up and down.

Out in the hall Shattuck was still at the telephone and we could just make out that he was talking in a very low tone, inaudible to us at a distance. I wondered with whom it might be. From his manner, which was about all we could observe, I gathered that it was a lady with whom he talked. Few of us ever get over the feeling that in some way we are in the presence of the person on the other end of the wire. Could it have been with Honora Wilford herself that he was talking?

A few moments later Shattuck returned from the telephone.

"Have you met Mrs. Wilford recently?" asked Kennedy, picking up the conversation where he had been interrupted by the call.

Shattuck eyed Kennedy with hostility and grunted a surly negative. I felt that it was a lie.

"I suppose you know that she has been suffering from nervous trouble for some time?" he continued, calmly ignoring Shattuck's answer, then adding, sarcastically, "I trust you won't consider it an impertinence, Mr. Shattuck, if I ask you whether you were aware that Doctor Lathrop was Mrs. Wilford's physician?"

"Yes, I am aware of it," returned Shattuck. "What of it?"

"He is yours, too, is he not?" asked Kennedy, pointedly.

Shattuck was plainly nettled by the question, especially as he could not seem to follow whither Kennedy was drifting.

"He was once," he answered, testily. "But I gave him up."

"You gave him up?"

It has always been a source of enjoyment to me to watch Kennedy badgering an unwilling and hostile witness. Shattuck was suddenly finding himself to be far from the man of few words he thought himself. It was not so much in what Kennedy asked as the manner in which he asked it. Shattuck was immediately placed on the defensive, much to his chagrin.

"Yes. I most strenuously object to being the subject of--what shall I call it--perhaps--this mental vivisection, I suppose," he snapped, vexed at himself for answering at all, yet finding himself under the necessity of finishing what he had unwillingly begun under the lash of Kennedy's quizzing.

Kennedy did not hesitate. "Why?" he asked. "Do you think that he sometimes oversteps his mark in trying to find out about the mental life of his patients?"

Shattuck managed to control a sharp reply that was trembling on his tongue.

"I would rather say nothing about it," he shrugged.

"I see you are a student of Freud yourself," switched Kennedy, quickly, with a nod toward the bookcase.

"And of many other things," retorted Shattuck. "You'll find about a ton of literature in that bookcase."

"But it was about her dreams," persisted Kennedy, "that she consulted Doctor Lathrop, I believe. Are you acquainted with the nature of the dreams?"

Shattuck eyed him in silence. It was evident that he realized that the only refuge from the quizzing lay in that direction.

"Really, sir," he said, at last, "I don't care to discuss a thing I know nothing about any further."

He turned, as though only by a studied insult could he find escape. I expected Kennedy to flare up, but he did not. Instead, he was ominously polite.

"Thank you," he said, with a mocking sarcasm that angered Shattuck the more. "I suppose I may reach you at your place of business, later, if I need?"

Shattuck nodded, but I knew there was a mental reservation back of it and that his switchboard operator would be given instructions to scrutinize every call carefully, and that, should we call up, Mr. Shattuck would have "just stepped out." As for Kennedy's tone, I was sure that it boded no good for Shattuck himself. Perhaps Kennedy reasoned that there would be plenty of other interviews later and that it was not worth while fighting on the first.

On his part Shattuck could do no less than assume an equal politeness as he bowed us out, though I know that inwardly he was ready to consign us to the infernal regions.

Kennedy was no sooner in the street than he hastened to a near-by telephone-booth. Evidently the same thought had been in his mind as had been in mine. He called up Doyle at the Wilford apartment immediately and inquired whether Honora Wilford had made any telephone calls recently. To my surprise, though I will not say to his own, he found out that she had not.

"Then who was it called Shattuck?" I queried. "I could have sworn from his manner that he was talking to a woman. Could it have been to the maid?"

He shook his head. "Celeste is watched, too, you know. No, it was not Celeste that called up. He would never have talked that long nor as deferentially to her. Never mind. We shall see."

Back on the Drive again, we walked hastily up-town a few squares until we came to another apartment, where, in a first-floor window, I saw a little sign in black letters on white, "Dr. Irvin Lathrop."

Fortunately it was at a time when Lathrop was just finishing his office hours, and we had not long to wait until the last patient had left after a consultation.

As we waited I could see that even his waiting-room was handsomely furnished and I knew that it must be expensive, for our own small apartment, a little farther up-town and around the corner from the Drive, cost quite enough, though Kennedy insisted on keeping it because it was so close to the university where he had his laboratory and his class work.

As Lathrop flung the door to his inner office open I saw that he was a tall and commanding-looking man with a Vandyke beard. One would instinctively have picked him out anywhere as a physician.

Lathrop, I knew, was not only well known as a specialist in nervous diseases, but also as a man about town. In spite of his large and lucrative practice, he always seemed to have time enough to visit the many clubs to which he belonged and to hold a prominent place in the social life of the city.

Not only was he well known as a club-man, but he was very popular with the ladies. In fact, it was probably due to the very life that he led that his practice as a physician to the many ills of society had grown.

"I suppose you know of the suicide of Vail Wilford?" asked Kennedy, as he explained briefly, without telling too much, our connection with the case.

Doctor Lathrop signified that he did know, but, like Shattuck, I could see that he was inclined to be cautious about it.

"I've just been talking to Honora Wilford," went on Craig, when we were settled in the doctor's inner office. "I believe she was a patient of yours?"

"Yes," he admitted, with some reluctance.

"And that she had been greatly troubled by nervousness--insomnia--her dreams--and that sort of thing."

The doctor nodded, but did not volunteer any information. However, his was not the hostility of Shattuck. I set it down to professional reticence and, as such, perhaps hard to overcome.

"I understand, also," pursued Kennedy, affecting not to notice anything lacking in the readiness of the answer, "that Vance Shattuck was friendly with her."

The doctor looked at him a moment, as though studying him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, evasively. "What makes you say that?"

"But he was, wasn't he? At least, she was friendly with him?" Kennedy repeated, reversing the form of the question to see what effect it might have.

"I shouldn't say so," returned the doctor, slowly, though not frankly.

Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the sonnet which he had taken from Doyle back at the Wilford apartment.

"You will recognize the handwriting in that notation on the margin," he remarked, quietly. "It is Mrs. Wilford's. Her sentiment, taken from the poem, is interesting."

Lathrop read it and then reread it to gain time, for it was some moments before he could look up, as though he had to make up his mind just what to say.

"Very pretty thought." He nodded, scarcely committing himself.

Lathrop seemed a trifle uneasy.

"I thought it a rather strange coincidence, taken with the bit I learned of her dreams," remarked Kennedy.

Lathrop's glance at Kennedy was one of estimation, but I saw that Kennedy was carefully concealing just how much, or rather at present how little, he actually knew.

"Ordinarily," remarked Lathrop, clearing his throat, "professional ethics would seal my lips, but in this instance, since you seem to think that you know so much, I will tell you--something. I don't like to talk about my patients, and I won't, but, in justice to Mrs. Wilford, I cannot let this pass."

He cleared his throat again and leaned back in his chair, regarding Kennedy watchfully through his glasses as he spoke.

"Some time ago," he resumed, slowly, "Mrs. Wilford came to me to be treated. She said that she suffered from sleeplessness--and then when she slept that her rest was broken by such horrible fantasies."

Kennedy nodded, as though fully conversant already with what the doctor had said.

"There were dreams of her husband," he continued, "morbid fears. One very frequent dream was of him engaged in what seemed to be a terrific struggle, although she has never been able to tell me just with what or whom he seemed to struggle. She told me she always had a feeling of powerlessness when in that dream, as though unable to run to him and help him. Then there were other dreams that she had, especially the dreams of a funeral procession, and always in the coffin she saw his face."

Kennedy nodded again. "Yes, I know of those dreams," he remarked, casually. "And of some others."

For a moment Kennedy's manner seemed to take the doctor off his professional guard--or did he intend it to seem so?

"Only the other day," Lathrop went on, a moment later, "she told me of another dream. In it she seemed to be attacked by a bull. She fled from it, but as it pursued her it seemed to gain on her, and she said she could even feel its hot breath--it was so close. Then, in her dream, in fright, as she ran over the field, hoping to gain a clump of woods, she stumbled and almost fell. She caught herself and ran on. She expected momentarily to be gored by the bull, but, strangely enough, the dream went no farther. It changed. She seemed, she said, to be in the midst of a crowd and in place of the bull pursuing her was now a serpent. It crept over the ground after her and hissed, seemed to fascinate her, and she trembled so that she could no longer run. Her terror, by this time, was so great that she awoke. She tells me that as often as she dreamed them she never finished either dream."

"Very peculiar," commented Kennedy. "You have records of what she has told you?"

"Yes. I may say that I have asked her to make a record of her dreams, as well as other data which I thought might be of use in the diagnosis and treatment of her nervous troubles."

"Might I see them?"

Lathrop shook his head emphatically.

"By no means. I consider that they are privileged, confidential communications between patient and physician--not only illegal, but absolutely unethical to divulge. There's one strange thing, though, that I may be at liberty to add, since you know something already. Always, she says, these animals in the dreams seemed to be endowed with a sort of human personality. Both the bull and the serpent seemed to have human faces."

Kennedy nodded at the surprising information. If I had expected him to refer to the dream of Doctor Lathrop which she herself had told, I was mistaken.

"What do you think is the trouble?" asked Kennedy, at length, quite as though he had no idea what to make of it.

"Trouble? Nervousness, of course. I readily surmised that not the dreams were the cause of her nervousness, but that her nervousness was the cause of her dreams. As for the dreams, they are perfectly simple, I think you will agree. Her nervousness brought back into her recollection something that had once worried her. By careful questioning I think I discovered what was back of her dreams, at least in part. It's nothing you won't discover soon, if you haven't already discovered it. It was an engagement broken before her marriage to Wilford."

"I see," nodded Kennedy.

"In the dreams, you remember, she saw a half-human face on the animals. It was the face of Vance Shattuck."

"I gathered as much," prompted Kennedy.

"It seems that she was once engaged to him--that she broke the engagement because of reports she heard about his escapades. I do not say this to disparage Mr. Shattuck. Far from that. He is a fine fellow--an intimate friend of mine, fellow-clubmate, and all that sort of thing. That was all before he made his trips abroad--hunting, mostly, everywhere from the Arctic to Africa. The fact of the matter is, as I happen to know, that since he traveled abroad he has greatly settled down in his habits. And then, who of us has not sown his wild oats?"

The doctor smiled indulgently at the easy-going doctrine that is now so rapidly passing, especially among medical men.

"Well," he concluded, "that is the story. Make the most of it you can."

"Very strange--very," remarked Kennedy, then, changing the angle of the subject, asked, "You are acquainted with the recent work and the rather remarkable dream theories of Doctor Freud?"

Doctor Lathrop nodded. "Yes," he replied, slowly, "I am acquainted with them--and I dissent vigorously from most of Freud's conclusions."

Kennedy was about to reply to this rather sweeping categorical manner of settling the question, when, as we talked, it became evident that there was some one just outside the partly open doors of the inner office. I had seen a woman anxiously hovering about, but had said nothing.

"Is that you, Vina?" called Doctor Lathrop, also catching sight of her in the hall.

"Yes," she replied, parting the portières and nodding to us. "I beg pardon for interrupting. I was waiting for you to get through, Irvin, but I've an appointment down-town. I'm sure you won't mind?"

Vina Lathrop was indeed a striking woman; dark of hair, perhaps a bit artificial, but of the sort which is the more fascinating to study just because of that artificiality; perhaps not the type of woman most men might think of marrying, but one whom few would fail to be interested in. She seemed to be more of a man's woman than a woman's woman.

"You will excuse me a moment?" begged the doctor, rising. "So, you see," he finished with us, "when you asked me whether she was friendly with Shattuck, it is quite the opposite, I should--"

"You're talking of Honora?" interrupted the doctor's wife.

Doctor Lathrop introduced us, as there seemed to be nothing else to do, but I do not think he was quite at ease.

"I don't think I would have said that," she hastened, almost ignoring, except by an inclination of the head, the introduction in the eagerness to express an idea his words had suggested. "I don't think Honora is capable of either deep love or even deep hate."

"A sort of marble woman?" suggested the doctor, at first biting his lips at having her in the conversation, then affecting to be amused, as though at one woman's spontaneous estimate of another.

Vina shrugged her prettily rounded shoulders, but said no more on the subject.

"I sha'n't be gone long," she nodded back. "Just a bit of business."

She was gone before the doctor could say a word. Had the remark in some way been a shot at the doctor? All did not appear to be as serene between this couple as they might outwardly have us believe.

I saw that the interruption had not been lost on Kennedy. Had it been really an interest in our visit that had prompted it? Somehow, I wondered whether it might not have been this woman who had called up Shattuck while we were there. But why?

We left the doctor a few minutes later, more than ever convinced that the mystery in the strange death of Vail Wilford was not so simple as it seemed.

III

THE FREUD THEORY

"Until I receive those materials from Doctor Leslie to make the poison tests," considered Kennedy, as we walked slowly the few blocks to the laboratory, "I can't see that there is much I can do but wait."

In his laboratory, he paused before his well-stocked shelves with their miscellaneous collection of books on almost every conceivable subject.

Absently he selected a volume. I could see that it was one of the latest translated treatises on this new psychology from the pen of the eminent scientist, Dr. Sigmund Freud, and that it bore the significant title, _The Interpretation of Dreams_.

Craig glanced through it mechanically, then laid it aside. For a few moments he sat at his desk, hunched forward, staring straight ahead and drumming his fingers thoughtfully. I leaned over and my eye happened to fall on the following paragraphs:

"To him who is tortured by physical and mental sufferings the dream accords what has been denied him by reality, to wit, physical well-being and happiness; so the insane, too, see the bright pictures of happiness, greatness, sublimity, and riches. The supposed possession of estates and the imaginary fulfilment of wishes, the denial or destruction of which has just served as the psychic cause of the insanity, often form the main content of the delirium. The woman who has lost a dearly beloved child, in her delirium experiences maternal joys; the man who has suffered reverses of fortune sees himself immensely wealthy, and the jilted girl pictures herself in the bliss of tender love."

The above passage from Radestock reveals with the greatest clearness the wish-fulfilment as a characteristic of the imagination, common to the dream and the psychosis.

It is easy to show that the character of wish-fulfilment in dreams is often undisguised and recognizable, so that one may wonder why the language of dreams has not long since been understood.

I read this and more, but, as I merely skimmed it, I could not say that I understood it. I turned to Kennedy, still abstracted.

"Then you really regard the dreams as important?" I asked, all thought of finishing my own article on art abandoned for the present in the fascination of the mysterious possibilities opened up by the Wilford case.

"Important?" he repeated. "Immensely so--indispensable, as a matter of fact."

I could only stare at him. The mere thought that anything so freakish, so uncontrollable as a dream might have a serious importance in a murder case had never entered my mind.

"If I can get at the truth of the case," he explained, "it must be through these dreams."

"But how are you going to do that?" I asked, voicing the thought that had been forming. "To me, dreams seem to be just disconnected phantasmagoria of ideas--arising nowhere and getting nowhere, as far as I can see--interesting, perhaps, but--still, well, just chaotic."

"Quite the contrary, Walter," he corrected. "If you had kept abreast with the best recent work in psychology, you wouldn't say that."

"Well, what is this wonderful Freud theory, anyhow?" I asked, a bit nettled at his positive tone. "What do we know now that we didn't know before?"

"Very much," he replied, thoughtfully. "There's just this to be said about dreams to-day. A few years ago they were all but inexplicable. The accepted explanations, then, were positively misleading and productive of all sorts of misapprehension and downright charlatanry."

"All right," I argued. "That's just my idea of dreams. Tell me what it is that the modern dream-books have to say about them, then."

"Don't be frivolous, Walter," Craig frowned. "Dreams used to be treated very seriously, it is true, by the ancients. But, as I just said, until recently modern scientists, rejecting the beliefs of the dark ages, as they thought, scouted dreams as senseless jumbles of ideas, uncontrolled, in sleep. That's your class, Walter," he replied, witheringly, "with the scientists who thought that they had the last word, just because it was, to them, the latest."

Though I resented his correction, I said nothing, for I saw that he was serious. Mindful of many previous encounters with Craig in his own fields in which I had come off a bad second, I waited prudently.

"To-day, however," he continued, "we study dreams really scientifically. We believe that whatever is has a reason. Many students had had the idea that dreams meant something in mental life that was not just pure fake and nonsense. But until Freud came along with his theories little progress had been made in the scientific study of dreams."

"Granted," I replied, now rather interested. "Then what is his theory?"

"Not very difficult to explain, if you will listen carefully a moment," Craig went on. "Dreams, says Freud, are very important, instead of being mere nonsense. They give us the most reliable information concerning the individual. But that is possible only if the patient is in entire rapport with the investigator. Later, I may be able to give you a demonstration of what I mean by that. Now, however, I want you to understand just what it is that I am seeking to discover and the method it is my purpose to adopt to attain it."

The farther Kennedy proceeded, the more I found myself interested, in spite of my assumption of skepticism. In fact, I had assumed the part more because I wanted to learn from him than for any other reason.