“De Medici ... De Medici,” he murmured half aloud, and sprang to his feet. His face had become white. His eyes burned as if with fever. Florence and Jane, the housekeeper, were standing dumbly in the doorway. De Medici stared at them. “Who did it?” he asked. Florence shook her head and wept. Her hands were on her cheeks and the look of horror he had noticed as she stumbled out of the elevator had returned. He moved quickly to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders. “The police will be here in a minute,” he said. “What happened?” She answered still in tears, her eyes centered. “I don’t know. I came home early. I had a headache. Jane let me in.” Her weeping overcame her. “I opened the door,” she gasped, “and saw ... this. I screamed, and Jane came running from the kitchen. I don’t remember anything else until I saw you downstairs.” De Medici caressed her shoulder and turned to the housekeeper. “What happened?” he asked. The woman regarded him with terrified eyes. “I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was in the kitchen making sandwiches and I didn’t hear anything until Miss Ballau screamed and I came in here and saw him ... there....” She pointed to the body and began to weep. “Oh, he was such a good man.” Three policemen in uniform entered. De Medici turned to them. “Mr. Ballau has just been murdered,” he said quietly. “He’s in the library.” The three men nodded and walked to the open door of the disordered room. “Is there any other door to this place except here?” one of them asked. “No,” said De Medici. “The library faces on the street.” “There’s a fire escape.” Florence came forward. She pointed to the window. “It runs past there.” The policeman nodded. “We’ll take charge till the chief comes. Don’t allow anybody to leave the house and don’t touch anything.” Jane, the housekeeper, sat motionless in a chair, weeping softly, her apron to her eyes. De Medici stood regarding the woman he loved. Her tears had stopped. A question was in his mind. Who had telephoned? And what had brought her home so precipitously from the theater? But the question remained unspoken. He stood with his arm around her asking nothing, thinking nothing, and watching the door. It opened and a thick-set middle-aged man with reddish hair appeared. “Lieutenant Norton,” he announced himself. De Medici nodded and extended his hand. “I am Julien De Medici,” he said. “Mr. Ballau has just been murdered.” The lieutenant looked at him closely. Two detectives followed the lieutenant into the room. “Where is the body?” Norton asked. De Medici indicated the library. The lieutenant addressed his assistants. “Stay here, Jim,” he said. To the other he added, “And you come with me. Wait here, Mr. De Medici—with the ladies, if you please.” “Come, we’ll sit down,” De Medici whispered. Florence shook her head. “I feel as if I could go mad,” she muttered.