Yes, the detective whose keen blue eyes had covered the situation said that Victor Ballau, charming, easy-mannered connoisseur of wines, pictures and people, had suddenly ended his life. Preposterous! De Medici glanced at the lieutenant. A clumsy ruse, perhaps, to throw someone off guard. Yet the man seemed simple. His voice contained an unmistakable ring of sincerity. Lieutenant Norton was talking again. “Has that table usually been in this room?” he asked. He pointed to a walnut-topped card table standing beside the fireplace. De Medici shook his head. “I never saw that before,” he answered. “It looks as if two people might have been sitting at that table preparing to eat,” the detective smiled. De Medici noted the contents of the table top with surprise. It was a detail that had escaped him. There were two glasses and an opened wine bottle between them, several empty plates and a napkin. But he noticed neither cutlery nor sign of food. Norton rose as he studied this strange fact. “Hello, doctor.” A middle-aged, medical-looking man with a bald head had entered the room. Norton introduced him. “Dr. Greer,” he said. The doctor greeted De Medici with a nod and leaned over the body on the floor. His fingers felt around the imbedded dagger for a moment, and then slowly withdrew the weapon. He straightened, holding the dripping blade to the light. “Through the heart,” he commented briefly. “Death was almost instantaneous. An odd sort of knife.” “We’ll call Miss Ballau,” declared Norton. He gave a direction to his assistant who had remained silent and motionless near the wall. Florence arrived. De Medici, waiting nervously, his fists clenched on his knees, breathed deeply as she entered. Her vivid face was white. Her eyes were lowered. But behind the collapse of her manner De Medici sensed a tautness, a defiance. “She’ll talk quietly,” he thought, “and tell nothing. Beautiful, how beautiful she is!” The detective had started his questioning. “What time did you come home, Miss Ballau?” “About half-past ten,” she replied. “You’re playing in ‘The Dead Flower,’ aren’t you?” She nodded. “Then you must have left before the show was over.” “Yes,” she said, “I had a frightful headache. The day’s excitement, I suppose.” Her eyes turned to De Medici. “I proposed to Miss Ballau today,” he explained, “and our engagement was to have been announced tonight at the supper.” “Yes,” the girl went on, and De Medici caught a grateful glint in her eyes, “I couldn’t go on with the play. I felt I’d forget my lines and I asked the stage manager to let my understudy take my place. I came home.” “About ten-thirty,” repeated the detective. Florence nodded. “How did you get in?” he asked. “I rang the bell several times and Jane finally answered it.” “What did she say to you?” “Nothing. She’d been busy in the kitchen. She went right back to her work.” “Did she know that anything had happened?”