However, the purpose was accomplished, and Belle, with her human point of view, which one gets from seeing this corrupt old world from a newspaper office, saw it. Gradually, the conversation had drifted about to Freud.
I was glad that I had learned so much about him from Kennedy, for I was surprised at the knowledge that Zona really had of him. Was it superficial—as so much of that little world into which Kennedy had plunged me? I am not sure. At least, Zona posed as a Freudian interpreter. I was sorry Kennedy was not present, for I was inclined to accept her as such. The fact was that it set me thinking that perhaps she had educated in the theory many to whom a little knowledge is dynamite.
Belle's keen mind seemed to read my thoughts, even to leap ahead of me. She reached into her bag and drew forth some photographs.
"Oh, Zona, by the way," she rattled on, "that reminds me. Did you ever see this man here—or this woman?"
Zona took the photographs of Shattuck and Vina, and with just a glance answered, "Indeed I have!"
"Do you recall a night when there was a scene here—another woman?" went on Belle, producing the photograph of Honora.
"Yes—I remember her. I know them all. They're in this case that's in the papers now. The lawyer who was killed was that woman's husband," she added, pointing to Honora. "Why? Are you writing them into your column?"
"Yes," confessed Belle. "That is, if I can get a good enough story out of the incident here."
At once Zona's keen, practical mind leaped to the bait of publicity held out by Belle. What could be better advertising than for the celebrated case in the news to be connected with the tea-room? It would crowd the place.
"What is it you want to know?"