"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, [34] 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, [35] 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, [36] 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.

"But how do you think dreams arise in the first [37] place?" I asked, more sympathetically. "Surely, if they have a meaning that can be discovered by a scientist like yourself, they must come in some logical way—and that is the thing I can\'t understand, first of all."

"Not so difficult. The dream is not an absurd and senseless jumble, as you seem to think. Really, when it is properly understood, it is a perfect mechanism and has definite meaning in penetrating the mind."

He was drawing thoughtfully on a piece of paper, as he often did when his mind was working actively.

"It is as though we had two streams of thought," he explained, "one of which we allow to flow freely, the other of which we are constantly repressing, pushing back into the subconscious or the unconscious, as you will. This matter of the evolution of our individual mental life is much too long a story for me to go into just at present.

"But the resistances, as they are called, the psychic censors of our ideas, so to speak, are always active, except in sleep. It is then that the repressed material comes to the surface. Yet these resistances never entirely lose their power. The dream, therefore, shows the material distorted.

"Seldom does one recognize his own repressed thoughts or unattained wishes. The dream is really the guardian of sleep, to satisfy the activity of the unconscious and repressed mental processes that would otherwise disturb sleep by keeping the censor busy. That\'s why we don\'t recognize the [38] distortions. In the case of a nightmare the watchman, or censor, is aroused, finds himself over-powered, as it were, and calls for help. Consciousness must often come to the rescue—and we wake up."

"Very neat," I admitted, now more than half convinced. "But what sort of dreams are there? I don\'t see how you can classify them, study them."

"Easily enough. I should say that there are three kinds of dreams—those which represent an unrepressed wish as fulfilled, those that represent the realization of a repressed wish in an entirely concealed form, and those that represent the realization of a repressed wish, but in a form insufficiently or only partially concealed."

"But what about these dream doctors who profess to be able to tell you what is going to happen—the clairvoyants?"

Kennedy shrugged. "Cruel fakers, almost invariably," he replied. "This is something entirely different, on an entirely different plane. Dreams are not really of the future, even though they may seem to be. They are of the past—that is, their roots are in the past. Of course, they are of the future in the sense that they show striving after unfulfilled wishes. Whatever may be denied in reality, we can nevertheless realize in another way—in our dreams. It\'s a rather pretty thought."

He paused a moment. "Perhaps the dream doctors were not so fundamentally wrong as we think, even about the future," he added, thoughtfully, [39] "though for a different reason than they thought and a natural one. Probably more of our daily life, conduct, moods, beliefs, than we think could be traced to preceding dreams."

I began vaguely now to see what he was driving at and to feel the fascination of the idea.

"Then you think that you will be able to find out from Mrs. Wilford\'s dreams more than she\'ll ever tell you or any one else about the case?"

"Exactly."

"Well, that doesn\'t seem so unreasonable, after all," I admitted, going back in my mind over what we had learned so far. "Why did Doctor Lathrop say he dissented from the theory?"

Kennedy smiled. "Many doctors do that. There\'s a side of it all that is distasteful to them, I suppose. It grates on minds of a certain type."

"What\'s that?"

"The sex aspect. Sex life possesses, according to Freud, a far higher significance in our mental household than traditional psychology is willing to admit. And I don\'t know as I would say I\'d go the whole distance with Freud, either." He paused contemplatively. "Yet there is much that is true about his sex theories. Take an example. There\'s much about married life that can be learned from dreams. Thus, why John Doe doesn\'t get along with his wife has always been a matter of absorbing interest to the neighborhood. Conversation is taken up by it; yellow journalism is founded on it. Now, psychology—and mainly [40] dream analysis—can solve the question—often right things for both John and Jane Doe and set the neighborhood tongues at rest. Sex and sex relations play a big r?le in life, whether we like to admit it or not."

"I see," I nodded. "Then you think that that\'s what Lathrop meant when he said he strongly disagreed with the theory?"

"Without a doubt. That is perhaps the part of the theory from which he reacted—or said he did. You see, Freud says that as soon as you enter the intimate life of a patient you begin to find sex in some form. In fact, he says, the best indication of abnormality would be its absence.

"Sex is one of the strongest of human impulses," Craig continued, as impersonally as if he were classifying butterflies, "yet the one impulse subjected to the greatest repression. For that reason it is the weakest point in our cultural development. However, if everything is natural there ought to be no trouble. In a normal life, says Freud, there are no neuroses."

"But how does that all apply in this case?" I asked. "You must mean that we have to deal with a life that is not normal, here in the Wilford case."

He nodded. "I was convinced of it, the moment Leslie called on me here. That was why I was interested. Before that I thought it was just an ordinary case that had stumped him and I was not going to pull his chestnuts out of the fire for him. [41] But what he said put it in a different light. So did what Doyle told me, especially that sonnet he found. They didn\'t know it—don\'t know it yet—won\'t know it until I tell them. That doesn\'t alter the fact that it promises to be a unique case."

He paced the floor a few moments, as though trying to piece together the fragments he possessed.

"Let me proceed now with a preliminary psychanalysis, as the Freudians call it," he resumed, still pacing thoughtfully, "the soul analysis of Honora Wilford, as it were. I do not claim that it is final. It is not. But on such information and belief, as the lawyers say, as we have already, we are warranted in drawing some preliminary conclusions. They will help us to go on. If any of them are wrong, all we need to do is throw them overboard. Later, I shall add to that stock of information, in one way or another, and it may very greatly modify those conclusions. But, until then, let\'s adopt them as a working hypothesis."

I could only wonder at him. It was startling in the extreme to consider the possibilities to which this new science of dreams might lead, as he proceeded to illustrate it by applying it directly to a concrete case which I had seen.

"You recall what Leslie told us, what Mrs. Wilford told us, and what Doctor Lathrop later confirmed—her dream of fear?" Craig went on. "At present, I should say that it was a dream of what we call the fulfilment of a repressed wish. Dreams of fear are always important. Just consider [42] fear for a moment. Fear in such a dream as this nearly always denotes a sexual idea underlying the dream. In fact, morbid anxiety means surely unsatisfied love. The old Greeks knew it. Their gods of fear were born of the goddess of love. Consequently, in her dream, she feared the death of her husband because, unconsciously, she wished it."

I was startled, to say the least. "But, Craig," I remonstrated, "the very idea is repulsive. I don\'t believe for a moment she is that kind of woman. It\'s impossible."

"Take this idea of dream-death of one who is living," ignored Kennedy. "If there is sorrow felt, then there is some other cause for the dream. But if there is no sorrow felt, then the dreamer really desires the death or absence of the person dreamed about. Perhaps I did put it a little too sweepingly," he modified; "but when all the circumstances are considered, as I have considered them in this case already, I feel sure that the rule will apply here."

"Better not tell that to Doyle," I remarked. "Judging by his attitude toward Honora Wilford, he\'d arrest her on sight, if he knew what you just said."

"I shall not tell Doyle. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing to Doyle. I haven\'t indicted her—yet."

Turning the thing over in my mind, I found it even more and more distasteful, and I could not [43] resist expressing myself rather strongly to that effect.

"I expected to have you quarrel with that conclusion," smiled Kennedy, calmly. "People always do, until they understand. Let me explain more fully what I mean. Remember, first, that in childhood death is synonymous with being away. And many of our dreams are only survivals of childhood, like the falling dreams. Take the night-shirt dream. I suppose that, in common with some other millions of mortals, you have dreamed of traveling on the Subway, we\'ll say, lightly clad. No one noticed it."

"Yes," I laughed. "Only, finally I knew it—and how I have sneaked back home by deserted streets, afraid to be seen. Yet, when I met any one, as you say, the person didn\'t seem to be embarrassed—not a tenth as much as I."

"It speaks well for you," nodded Kennedy, with mock gravity. "If you had felt that others saw and knew your shame, it would mean something entirely different. As it is, it is simply one of those survivals of childhood in which there is no sense of shame over nakedness. Other people don\'t show it, either. But, later in life, you learned shame. That\'s where your psychic censor comes in and makes you sneak home by the byways and hedges. And, still, others don\'t feel as you do about it in the dream. If they did, I\'m afraid it might show your moral sense a bit perverted. However, that\'s just an illustration of what I mean [44] when I say that the death-dream may often be a childhood survival."

I listened without comment, for Craig was interesting, now.

"To get back to the case we have," he resumed. "Take, for example, a girl who sees in her dream that her mother is dead. It may mean many things. But perhaps it means only that she wishes her mother away so that she may enjoy some pleasure that her strict parent by her presence denies. That\'s a more or less parallel case, you see."

Even though I was now more willing than before to admit the interpretation as applied to Honora Wilford, I was not prepared to admit the theory. Though I said nothing about it, I was afraid that such dream analysis was pointing too strongly to Honora herself as one who unconsciously wished her husband out of the way. The idea repelled me at the same time that it fascinated. I realized what wide possibilities it opened.

"Of all dreams," continued Kennedy, "anxiety-dreams are among the most interesting and important. Anxiety may originate in psychosexual excitement—the repressed libido, or desire, as the Freudians call it. Neurotic fear has its origin in sexual life and corresponds to a libido, or desire, which has been turned away from its object and has not succeeded in being applied."

"That may be true," I admitted, "but don\'t you think it\'s a bit raw to accuse Honora of desiring [45] the death of Vail Wilford just because she didn\'t love him? I\'d hate to be a juryman in a case like that!"

"Raw? Is it?" repeated Kennedy. "That is, is it in a dream? Just dissociate dreams from facts, Walter. Take the case. You see, that fits splendidly so far with what we know of her—her secret regard for Shattuck surviving after the broken engagement; her apparent coldness; her very real lack of feeling for her husband; the superficiality of it all; love not really felt, but shown because the world must see and it was the proper thing for her to show—even if in her heart she did not feel it."

"I know all that," I insisted. "But, perhaps, after all, Lathrop may have some right on his side. Must one incriminate oneself by dreams?"

Kennedy shook his head. "Often dreams that are apparently most harmless turn out to be sinister, if we take the pains to interpret them. All have the mark of the beast. For instance, practically all so-called day dreams of women are erotic in their inception. Those of men may be so, but quite as often are likely to be dreams of ambition more than of love. One cannot say that this distinction will always be. It is hard to predict what may happen in the future. Perhaps modern social conditions may change the very nature of woman—perhaps her ambition for a \'career\' may submerge her emotional life. But—well, I doubt it. A few years don\'t wipe out the evolution and instincts of countless ages. Besides, Nature can [46] be trusted to take care of herself. Sexless women won\'t have children—then after whom will the next generation after them take?"

"But is that all there is to the dream theory?" I asked, nodding agreement on Kennedy\'s prediction.

"Not a bit of it. Even those brief dreams that she has told will bear hours of study and analysis. Building up her true, inward character is like laying mosaic. You add here a bit, there a bit, here a stone of one color, there of another. It takes patience and study. When the pieces are all fitted together the picture will be very different from what even an intimate friend thinks; yes, different from what she herself in her own inmost heart thinks herself to be."

He paused a moment, as though turning the dreams over in his mind to see whither they led.

"There\'s another feature of her dream I want to call your attention to," he went on, "and that is the crowd as she fled from the bull. Crowds in dreams usually denote a secret. Whatever her true feelings toward Shattuck, she believes them to be locked in her own heart. Again, when she was pursued across the field she said she could feel the hot breath of the beast as he pursued her. From that I would assume at least that she knows that Shattuck loves her. Then she stumbled and almost fell. That can have but one meaning—her fear of becoming a fallen woman. But she caught herself and ran on, in the dream. She escaped."
[47]

"What of the dream about Lathrop?" I asked.

"We\'ll take that up later and try to interpret it. I am not sure of that one, myself. As for the others, I don\'t mean to say that I\'ve put a final interpretation on them, either. Some things, such as I\'ve told you, I know. But there are others still to be discovered. Just now the important thing is to get an understanding of Honora herself."

He took a turn up and down the floor of the laboratory.

"Honora Wilford," he said, slowly, at last, "is what the specialists would call a consciously frigid, unconsciously passionate woman."

He paused significantly, then went on: "I suppose there have been many cases where an intellectual woman has found herself attracted almost without reason toward a purely physical man. You find it in literature continually—in the caveman school of fiction, you know. As an intellectual woman, Honora may suppress her nature. But sometimes, we believe, Nature will and does assert herself."

Kennedy considered the laboratory impatiently.

"No package from Leslie yet. I hardly know what to do—unless—yes—that is the thing, now that I have had time to think this all out. I must see Mrs. Wilford again—and alone."