The doctor looked at him a moment, as though studying him.
"What do you mean?" he asked, evasively. "What makes you say that?"
"But he was, wasn't he? At least, she was friendly with him?" Kennedy repeated, reversing the form of the question to see what effect it might have.
"I shouldn't say so," returned the doctor, slowly, though not frankly.
Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the sonnet which he had taken from Doyle back at the Wilford apartment.
"You will recognize the handwriting in that notation on the margin," he remarked, quietly. "It is Mrs. Wilford's. Her sentiment, taken from the poem, is interesting."
Lathrop read it and then reread it to gain time, for it was some moments before he could look up, as though he had to make up his mind just what to say.
"Very pretty thought." He nodded, scarcely committing himself.
Lathrop seemed a trifle uneasy.
"I thought it a rather strange coincidence, taken with the bit I learned of her dreams," remarked Kennedy.