“What of him?” suggested Kennedy.

“Of how the baby—­separated us—­and—­” She paused, almost in tears.

From what I knew of the method of psychanalysis, I recalled it was the gaps and hesitations which were most important in arriving at the truth regarding the cause of her trouble.

“Perhaps it was my fault; perhaps I was a better mother than wife.  I thought I was doing what he would want me to do.  Too late I see my mistake.”

It was easy to read into her story that there had been other women in his life.  It had wounded her deeply.  Yet it was equally plain that she still loved him.

“Go on,” urged Kennedy, gently.

“Oh yes,” she resumed, dreamily; “I am thinking about once, when I left him, I wandered through the country.  I remember little except that it was the country through which we had passed on an automobile trip on our honeymoon.  Once I thought I saw him, and I tried to get to him.  I longed for him, but each time, when I almost reached him, he would disappear.  I seemed to be so deserted and alone.  I tried to call him, but my tongue refused to say his name.  It must have been hours that I wandered about, for I recall nothing after that until I was found, disheveled and exhausted.”

She paused and closed her eyes, while I could see that Kennedy considered this gap very important.

“Don’t stop,” persisted Kennedy.  “Once we quarreled over one of his clients who was suing for a divorce.  I thought he was devoting too much time and attention to her.  While there might not have been anything wrong, still I was afraid.  In my anger and anxiety I accused him.  He retorted by slamming the door, and I did not see him for two or three days.  I realized my nervous condition, and one day a mutual friend of ours introduced me to Doctor Burr and advised me to take a rest-cure at his sanatorium.  By this time Roger and I were on speaking-terms again.  But the death of the baby and the quarrel left me still as nervous as before.  He seemed anxious to have me do something, and so I came here.”

“Do you remember anything that happened after that?” asked Craig, for the first time asking a mildly leading question.

“Yes; I recall everything that happened when I came here,” she went on.  “Roger came up with me to complete the necessary arrangements.  We were met at the station by Doctor Burr and this woman who has since been my nurse and companion.  On the way up from the station to the sanatorium Doctor Burr was very considerate of me, and I noticed that my husband seemed interested in Miss Giles and the care she was to take of me.”

Kennedy flashed a glance at me from a note-book in which he was apparently busily engaged in jotting down her answers.  I did not know just what interpretation to put on it, but surmised that it meant that he had struck what the new psychologists call a “complex,” in the entrance of Miss Giles into the case.