CHAPTER VI LABYRINTHS OF BLOOD In which a detective attaches a pair of asses’ ears to his head—In which Julien De Medici removes for a moment a mask—In which a glimpse, incredible and disturbing, is caught of the soul of Florence Ballau—Who blew out the candle of the salamanders? A climax! Florence Ballau.... There had been innuendoes in the press. She arose—a figure out of the depths of melodrama. Her black attire, the tilted and somber hat that shadowed her face—the night-flower face that had captured Broadway.... “As beautiful and imperious as a somnambulist,” mused De Medici. He felt his heart move after her as she left her seat. “And now they will uncover their little traps.” His eyes turned fearfully to the silent and reddish Lieutenant Norton. “An amiable spider,” he shivered, “he waits for her. And she ... dear God ... she will walk slowly and aloofly into his hands.” The room was stirring with excitement. Murmurs arose around him. “Later ... later,” De Medici whispered to himself. A warm enervation was sweeping him. “My love makes a stranger out of me,” he went on. “Ah, Francesca mia. Cruel and beautiful Francesca....” He sat smiling furtively as the figure of Florence Ballau lowered itself gracefully into the witness chair. His eyes, narrowed and inscrutable, followed the vibrant line of her body. “We will not detain you long,” the coroner began, affecting a heavily cavalierly manner. “But it is necessary for the purposes of this record to learn from you again the story of your finding your father’s body. Do you wish to testify?” The young woman nodded once, answering in a soft contralto, “Yes.” The examination proceeded. Q. “You were engaged, at the time of your father’s death, to marry Mr. Julien De Medici, were you not?” A. “Yes.” Q. “And the party your father was giving was in the nature of a formal announcement of the engagement, I take it?” A. “Yes.” Q “When did you last see your father alive?” A. “In the morning.” Q. “How did he seem?” A “He was depressed ... and sad.” Q “What gave you that impression?” A. “We talked. He told me he was ruined. He said that he had been wiped out on the stock market and that we were penniless and would have to sell all we owned to meet our debts.” Q. “Your father was devoted to his collections—his antiques and books, was he not?” A. “Yes. They were his life.” Q. “Tell us, if you will, what else did your father say to you on the morning of April 10th?” A. “He said he was sorry to have brought this on just as my career was beginning. He said he had put his last money into the play in which I was acting and that it, too, seemed likely to fail him.” Q. “Do you recall what you said in reply, Miss Ballau?” A. “Yes. I told him it didn’t matter. But he refused to be consoled. He said it was not the money but the parting with the beautiful things he had loved all his life.”