“No,” Norton shook his head. “There are three items of evidence bearing on the point. One is the testimony of the telephone girl. Another is the fact that Cort, the stage manager, summoned Miss Ballau to the phone, and the third is the memorandum pad itself. The call appears listed in the column marked ‘Outgoing.’” Norton leaned back in his chair, his face grown serious and aloof. “We come now to the hour of the murder,” he resumed. “Ballau telephoned his stepdaughter. It was his last known act before his death. And the answer to our mystery lies in the answer to the question, ‘What did Victor Ballau say to his stepdaughter at half-past nine on the night of April 10th?’” The detective’s dramatic utterance irritated De Medici. He sat frowning and following in silence the man’s theory. “Well,” Norton was saying, “you’ll remember that a week or so before his death Ballau had made a new will leaving all his money to the girl. Why? Because he loved her. He had loved her for a long time. The will was made in her presence. It was a plea for her. But it failed. There’s no question but that he fought with her continually on this subject—his love for her. Yes, and her past love for him. He pleaded and threatened in turn. He was an old man and old men are sometimes given to strange passions. “Finally, when there was nothing else left, when the time had come to surrender her publicly to you, he lost his head. He called her up. Get this man Ballau, now, gentlemen, upset by his infatuation for the girl, preparing for the hour when he must surrender all hope of her, mixed up, crazy. And he telephones her. He can’t stand it any longer. He tells her over the phone that he must see her. She answers evasively, ‘Yes ... yes.’ And he goes on pleading. And finally he plays his trump card. He tells her unless she renounces De Medici he’ll expose the relations that have existed between them—between Ballau and his supposed daughter. Relations, let us say, before you entered her life, Mr. De Medici. “Well, he was going to do this thing publicly. It was a cowardly act. But, mind you, the sort of threat a man of his age driven to despair by his infatuation would make. And she rushed home. There were yet two hours to ward off the thing he threatened. She rushed home, beside herself, to appeal to his better side, to plead with him and weep and entreat him. The disgrace he had threatened her with on the eve of her engagement party was enough to make any young woman go wild. You can imagine what followed as easily as I can,” he concluded, “her pleading, his excitement, her tears, his offers, and, disgrace staring her in the face, her hysteria and the murder.” Dr. Lytton regarded De Medici. “What do you think of it?” he asked. De Medici’s head was lowered. His narrow eyes, half closed, were contemplating the floor. “Nothing,” he answered softly. “A persuasive cock and bull story.” Norton grew irritable.