It was not one of his friends who told your husband--" Mrs.Caswell had paled.

"Is--is there a--detective ?" she faltered.
Constance nodded.
Mildred had collapsed completely.

She was sobbing in a chair, her head bowed in her hands, her little lace handkerchief soaked.

"What shall I do?
What shall I do ?" There was a sudden tap at the door.
"Quick--in there," whispered Constance, shoving her through the portieres into the drawing room.
It was Forest Caswell.
For a moment Constance stood irresolute, wondering just how to meet him, then she said, "Good evening, Mr.Caswell.I hope you will pardon me for asking you to call on me, but, as you know, I've come to know your wife--perhaps better than you do." "Not better," he corrected, seeming to see that it was directness that she was aiming at.

"It is bad enough to get mixed up badly in Wall Street, but what would you yourself say--you are a business woman--what would you say about getting into the clutches of a--a dream doctor--and worse ?" He had put Constance on the defensive in a sentence.
"Don't you ever dream ?" she asked quietly.
He looked at her a moment as if doubting even her mentality.
"Lord," he exclaimed in disgust, "you, too, defend it ?" "But, don't you dream ?" she persisted.
"Why, of course I dream," he answered somewhat petulantly.