He pointed to the dead man and De Medici bent over the body. He stared with surprise. The fingers of Victor Ballau were clutched around a short, pointed false beard—a black Vandyke. “It was a man, then,” De Medici murmured. “You thought it might have been a woman?” Norton asked quietly. De Medici shrugged his shoulders. The lieutenant appeared to forget his question and continued, “There’s also this thing here.” He indicated a heavy brass candlestick whose body was ornamented with carved salamander figures twining toward its mouth. It contained an unlighted candle and stood to the left of the dead man’s head. “Was that lighted when you came in first?” Norton asked. “No,” said De Medici. “I would have noticed it.” “The top is still a little warm,” the detective explained, “and you’ll notice two or three tallow drippings on the rug there. It was burning less than a half hour ago.” “Have you any idea how the murderer escaped?” De Medici asked, raising his eyes to the detective. “I’m not certain yet,” Norton answered. “But I don’t think he has escaped.” De Medici nodded slowly. The man’s words had started a strange panic in his brain. He waited until his voice felt clear and then spoke. “Hadn’t we better search the house, then? He may have gotten away down the fire escape. It leads past the window.” Lieutenant Norton stared thoughtfully at the lean-faced, cold-spoken young man. “An odd fellow,” he repeated to himself, “nervous and high-strung as a woman. Frightened out of his wits. And yet calm—yes, calm as a dead fish.” Aloud he said: “I don’t think a search is necessary. Of course it’s too early to say anything definite, but my first impression—and they’re usually the best—is that there’s been no murder. Mr. Ballau committed suicide.” CHAPTER IV THE EMPTY WEB In which a detective weaves a theory—In which Julien De Medici stares at a clew—In which Pandora raises a warning finger to her lips—A table set for two, an initialed purse, an ancient theater program—but the story waits. De Medici could hear the murmur and exclamations of the arriving guests. They were gathering in the large reception hall—painters, men and women of the stage, poets, dilettantes—the charming crew of professionals who had formed a background for Victor Ballau’s fastidious existence. There was a sound of women beginning to weep, of men uttering cries of disbelief, of police ordering guests into the adjoining room to wait. De Medici sighed. This was to have been the gala night—raised wineglasses, toasts and laughter. He looked at the figure on the floor with the dagger protruding from its heart. Suicide!