as 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.

At first she revolted against the unpleasant feature of the new dream
philoso