She looked up from the writing and met his eyes directly in a perfectly innocent stare.
"The faces seemed to be human," she repeated, "but I did not recognize them."
What did it mean? I knew she was not telling the truth. Kennedy knew it. Did she know that he knew it? If she did, it had no outward effect on her.
"It is all very hazy to me," she insisted.
I wondered what had been the reason of her hesitation and her final decision not to tell us what she had evidently told Doctor Lathrop on the first telling of the dream. Surely, I reasoned, there must be some reason back of this concealment. I was forced to be content to wait in order to question Kennedy to learn what his own impressions were. Any betrayal now, before her, might entirely upset his nicely laid plans, whatever they were.
She seemed to expect a further quizzing and to steel herself in preparation for it. Evidently Doyle's manner and methods had taught her that.
"Are those all the dreams you can remember?" Craig asked.
I fancied that there was an air of relief in her manner, though she would not, for the world, have betrayed it before us. For a moment she thought, as if glad to get away from something that had troubled her greatly. When she spoke her voice and manner were subdued.
"There is one other," she replied.
"Will you write it?" asked Kennedy, before she had time to change her mind.