“Yes,” continued Dr. Lytton, “the same hand that wrote ‘Floria.’ The script is identical.” He raised his voice. “I presume,” he inquired, “that you’ve established the fact this is Miss Ballau’s handwriting, lieutenant?” Norton nodded comfortably. “Yes,” he answered, “we’ve gone into that at some length. We’ve compared it with specimens of Miss Ballau’s normal handwriting. The similarity is obvious. Miss Ballau has two different handwritings. One of them a normal hand. The other—this. Our experts tell me that the writing here is indicative of a high emotional tension, almost fury, and that its resemblance to Miss Ballau’s normal hand is unmistakable. Dr. Greer is of the opinion that it’s the handwriting either of a drug addict or a person suffering from periodic insanity.” “Exactly,” murmured Dr. Lytton. De Medici raised his eyes suddenly. Framed in the doorway stood the pale, silent figure of Florence Ballau. De Medici sprang to his feet. “Florence!” he cried. She regarded him with an intent smile. He seized her hand and his eyes searched her face. An inscrutable pallor, a defiant and guarded gleam, these he observed instantly. But behind the unyielding pride of the young woman he perceived a confusion. “Not fear, not fear,” repeated itself swiftly in his thought. “Then she is innocent. It’s something else. Grief, apprehension....” He murmured her name again. “Florence, do you forgive me for the thing I said in the theater?” Her head moved imperceptibly. “Yes.” The dulled voice echoed miserably in his ears. Pity and love overcame his tongue. He continued to look at her in silence. “Suffering ... suffering,” whispered itself in his thought. He noted that she had turned her eyes to the detective. A bustling little matron in white stood behind her. “Good evening, Miss Ballau,” Norton addressed her. “Will you sit down, please?” She lowered herself into a chair, her gestures preoccupied as if her wits were sleeping. Dr. Lytton had neither moved nor spoken. He sat now facing her, his eyes gleaming with a curious avidity. “I have told Mr. De Medici,” began Norton. “He knows our whole story.” “Yes,” De Medici smiled at her, “a charming and impossible tale.” “Then you have changed your mind, Julien?” she murmured. “Yes,” he answered, “I have, as they say in the melodramas, unshaken faith in your innocence.” Again he took her hand and his voice grew deep with assurance. “For a reason, Florence,” he said softly, “for a perfect and impregnable reason. Because——” He paused, aware of Dr. Lytton’s restraining frown. He had been about to speak of the letter from Rollo. “Tell me as much or as little as you wish,” he added. “Lieutenant Norton’s theories....” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled politely toward the detective. “Preposterous,” he finished.