Florence looked at him, her eyes dulled. She seemed to hear vaguely what he said. Fatigue and anguish appeared to have reduced her to a condition of semiconsciousness. Yet, behind the ivory mask of her face, her emotions were tearing at her senses. Her fingers moved spasmodically in her lap, her lips twitched, and the taut posture of her shoulders seemed to hold a hidden scream. Dr. Lytton leaned slowly forward and took her hand. “I would like to talk to you,” he said in a low voice. She moved her hand tiredly over her eyes. “What do you want?” “Look at me,” the pathologist demanded quietly. “And sleep.” De Medici frowned. Hypnosis! The doctor was placing her under a sleep. His gleaming eyes were fastened unwaveringly on the face of the weary, anguish-ridden girl. Norton raised his hand to object. “A confession will be easy ... if there is one to be gotten,” Dr. Lytton anticipated him. Lowering his voice, he repeated the word, “sleep ... sleep....” The figure of Florence Ballau underwent a curious change. The tension of her body slowly relaxed. Her eyes that had veiled the wildness of her thought grew large, calm and centered. “Asleep,” murmured Dr. Lytton. The three men sat looking at her with amazement. “She’s in a hypnotic state,” continued the doctor. “It was easy to put her to sleep. Her consciousness was already almost spent and exhausted with the struggle in her. And now,” he continued, facing the detective, “we can put the dual personality theory to a test. Not an infallible one. But a convincing one. It is almost impossible to obtain admissions from a hypnotized subject concerning crimes or sins openly committed. Because the mind which conceived and enjoyed these crimes and sins is usually the conscious mind. And it is this conscious mind which now sleeps in Miss Ballau. “But,” he went on, still staring at her, “if the crime is committed by a usurper, if murder is done by the masked stranger, the subconscious mind, then it is sometimes simple. I’ll talk to her now. Not to Florence Ballau but to the other thing—the other personality, if there is one, that lives in the underworld of her soul. Miss Ballau is asleep. A door opens inside her and a furtive stranger steps out.” His hand rested on her shoulder. He had risen and was leaning over her. “Do you know who you are?” he asked softly. The rigid lips of the subject parted and moved as if operated by marionette strings. “Yes.” “Who? Tell us your name....” There was a pause. “Your name?” repeated Dr. Lytton tensely. “She hesitates,” he whispered. “You see. There’s another name to come.... She hesitates.... A wary creature, this thing....” The girl’s face swayed against the back of the chair. A moaning sound came from her. “Acting,” mused De Medici slowly as his eyes watched her. “She pretends. She is awake, alive. She hesitates, uncertain what to do, what course to follow. Why? Ah, something to confess.”