The detective walked out of the room. De Medici rose to follow. As he did an object fell out of the heavy upholstered chair in which he had been sitting. He stooped and picked it up. A woman’s purse. Norton had turned at the door and De Medici slipped it quickly into his pocket. “An old purse,” he murmured to himself, “and there were some faded silver initials in the corner.” The guests were waiting for him. They crowded around him, babbling questions, exclamations, condolences. “They’ve taken all our names,” one woman sobbed suddenly. “Oh, poor, dear Victor....” De Medici, his eyes narrowed, his lean face void of expression, moved from group to group assuring them that all was being done that could be done. He tried vainly to obtain a moment’s private talk with Florence. He had learned that she had retired to her bedroom and was locked in with a nurse summoned by Norton. “She’s in a rather bad condition,” the detective explained as he saw De Medici prowling in the hallway. “I think you’d better leave her alone for the time being.” “He’s watching me,” De Medici thought. “Every move I make. He’s been standing behind me as I talked. He was in the doorway of the bathroom as I washed my hands.” He paused in his thought and shivered as a word whimpered somewhere in the recesses of his brain ... “guilty ... guilty....” “I think I’ll leave,” Lieutenant Norton remarked suddenly at his side. “My men will remain here. And I’ll be back early in the morning.” De Medici watched the detective move through the crowded room to the door. He smiled tiredly after the man. A few of Ballau’s cronies were remaining. The others were departing in couples and groups. De Medici led the way into a small room Ballau had used as an office. Meyerson the antique dealer, Carvello the painter, and Foreman the retired Shakespearean actor followed him. They lighted cigars and began in measured tones to discuss the qualities of the man who lay dead in the adjoining room. They had learned of Lieutenant Norton’s theory and derided the detective’s conclusions. Carvello, a lean, nervous-mannered young man, shrugged his shoulders as De Medici finished relating Norton’s conclusions. “Suicide,” he repeated. “Hm. If Ballau put that beard on to disguise himself as a stranger and deceive Jane, why should he leave it on until he had stabbed himself?” “Because,” De Medici sighed, “in his confused and hysterical condition he forgot he was wearing the thing and remembered only after the dagger had entered. That’s Norton’s theory. His last act was to try to make the camouflage stand up by tearing the thing from his face.” “Absurd,” snorted Carvello. “The doctor said, I heard him myself, that death was almost instantaneous. How could he, after striking such a blow, have lived long enough to tear the thing from his face?” “Or to have placed a crucifix on his chest?” Meyerson took up the argument. “Or to have blown out the candle?”