"Here, I'll read it, exactly. 'More of that Freud stuff, I guess, Honora, from what you've already told me. That may go all very well in a book—or in Greenwich Village. But it's a fake, I tell you. Don't believe it—too much.'"
"That's a remarkably reassuring statement," commented Kennedy. "Don't believe it—and then he takes it all back by adding, 'too much.'"
"Yes, sir," agreed McCabe, to whom this angle of the case was a mystery. "I don't know as he believed what he said himself. You see, he next asked her: 'Can't you see me? I must try to help you.' And he meant it, too."
"Did she say she would?" hastened Kennedy.
"Not directly. 'Vance, I'm so afraid—afraid to drag you into this thing. You know they're watching me so closely. I don't see them around—yet they seem to know so much.'"
"You don't suppose she suspects anything of this?" I interrupted, indicating the dictagraph and the tapped telephone.
"Hardly," answered McCabe. "She wouldn't talk at all over the wire, if she did, would she? Here's how it ended. Shattuck said, finally, 'Well, I'm going to see you very soon, anyhow, to have a heart-to-heart talk, Honora.' He seemed to be quite worried. And so did she over him."
"Have you told Doyle anything about it?" asked Craig.
"Haven't had a chance yet. It just happened."
Kennedy turned to go.