The voice of Foreman the old actor rose sonorously: “Yet Ballau wore the false beard. There was mucilage on his chin.” “Put there by the murderer after the crime,” Carvello exclaimed. “There’s a camouflage there right enough. But a cleverer one than Norton figured out. Yes, an unconvincing murder scene—carefully prepared by a murderer to enable the police to penetrate its pretense and arrive at the theory of suicide. No soils on his linen, no marks or rumples. Of course not. Ballau was killed by a man suddenly and without struggle. The camouflage followed.” De Medici shook his head. The discussion seemed curiously pointless to him. There was the telephone call at the theater—and there.... “He may have worn the beard,” De Medici spoke suddenly, “but there is more than one reason to explain that, and there are other ways that a man can get mucilage on his face than from a false beard.” He paused and stared tiredly around him. “I’m rather done up ... if you don’t mind, I’ll turn in.” Ballau’s friends looked at him with sympathy and nodded. As he passed from the room down the hallway he heard their voices continuing the monotonous discussion of the dead man’s virtues—and the clews. He had been waiting for this moment ever since Norton and his keen eyes had arrived at the apartment. The lieutenant was gone. Two dull-faced men in uniform were guarding the library. De Medici’s manner underwent a change. The listlessness dropped from his face. He moved quickly toward the door behind which he knew Florence was locked. Glancing furtively up and down the hallway, he knocked softly. A stranger’s voice asked: “Who is it?” “Mr. De Medici. Will you tell Miss Ballau I want to see her for a moment?” “Miss Ballau is asleep.” “Wake her up, please. Tell her it’s imperative. I must see her.” A pause during which De Medici heard muffled whisperings. Then Florence’s voice came faintly: “Please excuse me, Julien. I can’t see you.” He tried the door-knob desperately as he answered: “It’s important, Florence. Please ... I must tell you something.” The door was locked. De Medici rattled the knob again. “I can’t.... Julien. I can’t see you now.” The nurse’s voice added: “She’s too upset, sir. You’ll have to wait till morning.” Norton again.... He had foreseen an attempt to talk to her. He hesitated before the door. Yes, the man’s theory of suicide had been feigned. An elaborate web of sophistry to entrap him.... De Medici frowned. He stood staring at the locked door. Circumstances were repeating themselves in his head. His subtle brain trained in the adventure of finely spun ideas found the situation banal. Yet there was a background, an incomprehensible background as yet unrevealed. He repeated slowly to himself: