His thought grew confused. She was acting, pretending a hypnoidal state and talking shrewdly, falling into the monotone familiar to the stage as denoting “trance condition.” De Medici felt convinced of this. Her monotone had betrayed her. At least, as her first words came he recalled instantly that this was the voice she had used in the part she had played a year ago. “But I may be wrong,” he thought swiftly. “If it was real, if she were actually under hypnosis, her subconscious would utilize an easy voice—a voice without inflections or nuances and easy for its unaccustomed energies to operate....” “Can’t you think of your name?” pressed Dr. Lytton. Her lips began again to move. “Flor ... Flor ...” they pronounced.... “Florence Ballau.” “A censorship operates,” murmured the pathologist. “The conscious mind lies on the threshold of this door and prevents it from opening. But she hesitated. A significant fact.” His eyes held the wide, centered eyes of his subject. “Do you remember the night your stepfather was killed?” he asked. The lips parted and answered slowly, “Yes.” “Will you tell the truth?” Dr. Lytton whispered. “The truth,” repeated itself from her lips. “Do you remember the murder of your stepfather?” She shuddered. Her eyes moved as if they were struggling. Her hands quivered in her lap. But her lips remained firm. “The truth,” Dr. Lytton whispered close to her. “Tell me the truth. There is nothing to fear. I’m your friend. I demand that you tell me what happened. Did you kill Victor Ballau?” “No,” the lips moaned. “I came ... I came in....” The girl swayed in the chair and the sentence remained unfinished. “Go on,” Dr. Lytton spoke gently. He paused. She continued silent. “Listen, then,” he said, “tell me, then, who is Floria? Come, I insist on it. Who is Floria?” The girl’s body shuddered. Her lips moved but made no sound. “Acting,” De Medici whispered miserably to himself. “She wants to tell us something but can’t think clearly what.... No, not that. She does just what she wishes. She confuses us, leaves us up in the air more than before....” He caught a glimpse of Norton’s intent and reddish face. “Who is Floria?” repeated Dr. Lytton. Florence stared at him with her pupil-centered eyes. “Floria,” she murmured. There was a pause. Suddenly a scream rose from her lips. She tumbled forward in her chair. De Medici sprang to her side and saved her from falling to the floor. “She wakened,” Dr. Lytton explained, mopping his heavy face. “And she’s unconscious now.” He summoned the startled-looking matron and ordered her to bring water and ammonia. Norton assisted them in reviving her. “Please let me go back to the cell,” she murmured as her eyes opened. “I feel so tired....” Norton shrugged his shoulders. “We can gain nothing by talking to her,” Dr. Lytton agreed. “She’s on the verge of a collapse.”