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“When did you see him before?” went on Constance. “Did you have much invested with him already?”

Mrs. Caswell glanced up, startled. “My–you are positively uncanny, Constance. How did you know I had seen him before?”

“One seldom dreams,” said Constance, “about anything unless it has been suggested by an event of the day before. You saw him today. That would not have inspired the dream of last night. Therefore I concluded that you must have seen him and invested before. Madame Cassandra’s mention of him yesterday caused the dream of last night. The dream of last night probably influenced you to see him again to- day, and you invested in United Traction. That is the way dreams work. Probably more of conduct than we know is influenced by dream life. Now, if you should get fifteen or twenty points you would be in a fair way to join the ranks of those who believe that dreams do come true.”

Mrs. Caswell looked at her almost alarmed, then attempted to turn it off with a laugh, “And perhaps breakfast with him?”

“When I do set up as interpreter of dreams,” answered Constance simply, “I’ll tell you more.”

On one point she had made up her mind. That was to visit Mr. Davies herself the next day.

She found his office a typical bucket shop, even down to having a section partitioned off for women clients of the firm. She had not intended to risk anything, and so was prepared when Mr. Davies himself approached her courteously. Instinctively Constance distrusted him. He was too cordial, too polite. She could feel the claws hidden in his velvety paw, as it were. There was a debonnaire assurance about him, the air of a man who thought he understood women, and indeed did understand a certain type. But to Constance, who was essentially a man’s woman, Davies was only revolting.

She managed to talk without committing herself, and he in his complacency was glad to hope that he was making a new customer. She had to be careful not to betray any of the real and extensive knowledge about Wall Street which she actually possessed. But the glib misrepresentations about United Traction quite amazed her.

When she rose to go, Davies accompanied her to the door, then out into the hall to the elevator. As he bent over to shake hands, she noted that he held her hand just a little longer than was necessary.

“He’s a swindler of the first water,” she concluded as she was whisked down in the elevator. “I’m sure Mildred is in badly with this crowd, one urging her on in her trouble, the other making it worse and fleecing her into the bargain.”

At the entrance she paused, undecided which was the quickest route home. As by chance she turned just for a moment she thought she caught a fleeting glimpse of Drummond dodging behind a pillar. It was only for an instant but even that apparition was enough.

“I WILL get her out of this safely,” resolved Constance. “I WILL keep one more fly from his web.”

Constance felt as if, even now, she must see Mildred and, although she knew nothing, at least put her on her guard. She did not have long to wait for her chance. It was late in the afternoon when her door buzzer sounded.

“Constance, I’ve been looking for you all day,” sighed Mildred, dropping sobbing into a chair. “I am–distracted.”

“Why, my dear, what’s the matter?” asked Constance. “Let me make you a cup of coffee.”

Over the steaming little cups Mildred grew more calm.

“Forest has found out in some way that I am speculating in Wall Street,” she confided at length. “I suppose some of his friends–he has lots down there–told him.”

Momentarily the picture of Drummond back of the post in Davies’ building flashed over Constance.

“And he is awfully angry. Oh, I never knew him to be so angry–and sarcastic, too.”

“Was it wholly over your money?” asked Constance. “Was there nothing else?”