The tragedy suddenly changed in his inner mind. The image of the evil Francesca which had confused itself with his memories of Florence seemed to evaporate from the recesses of his thought. He saw, in retrospect suddenly, the laughing-eyed, vivid young woman whom he had loved. Guilty of the murder of her father! Incredible! He had been playing viciously with a dangerous make-believe. Yes, there was something else. A mystery beckoned behind the inexplicable conduct of the girl. He had succumbed to a few obvious leads. Now, with his mind cleared of the phantoms that had seduced him, he remembered the dead man. Victor Ballau ... there had been something about him. Trembling fingers and averted eyes.... A secret pantomiming behind the fastidious exterior. Dr. Lytton was talking. De Medici’s ears again picked up the man’s excited ramblings. “In part the mystery lies with Ballau. A London theater program. You know he lived in London before he came here. I found out something about him. He was married in London. Have you ever talked to Florence about her mother, Julien? Never mind, we’ll come to that later. This purse fits in. I wanted only a peg to hang the thing on. Here it is....” Dr. Lytton waved the paper on which he had copied the names. “Names are mysteries in themselves....” He paused and glanced quickly around the room. “Someone’s knocking, Julien,” he exclaimed. A muffled sound was repeated. “It’s the door,” De Medici smiled at the doctor’s unexpected nerves. “Come in, Harding.” Harding, his bland-faced valet, entered. “A special-delivery letter,” he said. “Thanks.” De Medici took the proffered envelope. The valet stepped through the curtains. “Look out,” Dr. Lytton cried as De Medici’s fingers began to tear open the letter. “Postmarks are important.” He watched De Medici’s eyes grow narrow and an expression of horror slowly consume his shadowed face. He had removed a sheet of paper from the envelope. The thing lay in his fingers and cast a distorted shadow across the table. There followed a moment of silence. “Dear God!” the voice of De Medici came softly. He had become rigid. His face had grown into a somber and elongated mask. For the moment he stood motionless, his eyes staring. Terror, blank and wordless, gleamed in the look of his eyes. Dr. Lytton sprang to his side. De Medici had wavered and stumbled against the table edge. His hand shot out, fingers spread, in a gesture of horror toward the fluttering shadows on the curtains. “She ... she!” he cried. “From the thing with the dagger....” The doctor stooped and picked up the paper that had dropped from his hands. Holding it quickly under the rays of the candles he read: Prince Julien De Medici, I write to let you know that your meddlesome interest in my affairs is distasteful. You will allow the matter to drop or incur the anger of one who knows how to deal with a De Medici. I am,