“Damn that imbecile,” De Medici muttered. He was thinking of his friend, his bald-headed, glittering-eyed, smug-spoken friend who had gone to Rollo and left his reason in New York. “There’s only that explanation,” his thought repeated, “a sudden mental collapse. Scientists have a way of collapsing. He has undoubtedly gone out of his wits.” He sat staring at his unfinished breakfast. The thing to do was to go to Norton, present his evidence in full, appeal to the detective to coöperate and put an end to the elusive turnings of the mystery. With Lytton out of the hunt, with Lytton bombinating crazily about Florias in Rollo, Maine, the detective was a last ally. De Medici left his rooms and walked slowly toward the police station. He felt weak and uncertain once more. A thought harassed him ... what if Lytton wasn’t mad? Yes, if the man were sane he was a formidable person to fool. But there could be no question about it. A fog settled in De Medici’s head, a fog which again obscured the certainties that had elated him a few hours ago. Cautiously he rehearsed his memories of the attack. A woman in a trailing gown had entered his bedroom around four o’clock in the morning and tried to murder him. She had left him for dead, first placing a crucifix on his chest and a lighted candle at his head. Yes, there was utterly no way in which one could avoid the conclusion ... the inevitable conclusion that this woman was the Floria who had murdered Victor Ballau. Unless ... he shuddered ... unless it was not Floria who had killed Ballau but someone else.... Unless Floria was one who knew the slayer of Ballau and for this reason.... Again he shuddered. The theory gave him a new headache.... Florence was secreting the mysterious Floria, not to save her, but to prevent her from falling into the hands of the police and telling what she knew.... Then it was Florence again.... De Medici entered Lieutenant Norton’s office, his face once more the expressionless mask which had irritated and confused the detective at the beginning. He waited several minutes before Norton appeared. “Good morning,” De Medici greeted him. The lieutenant nodded and, his brows puckered, sat down. Turning to his visitor his eyes widened with surprise. “Well, what’s the matter with you?” he exclaimed. “You look as if you’d seen the devil....” “Perhaps,” De Medici smiled faintly. His new fears had emptied him of the scene he had planned with the man—a casual and triumphant scene with Norton cringing and miserable. “I’ve had a rather bad night,” he added vaguely. “Well,” the lieutenant shrugged, “it’s been no worse a night than I’ve had.” Norton sighed and, leaning forward, placed his hand on De Medici’s knee. “Young man,” he continued, “I feel I owe you an apology.” “Yes,” De Medici agreed, “I was coming to that. How is Miss Ballau?” The lieutenant smiled tiredly. “Oh, don’t rub it in,” he answered. “Miss Ballau is quite well, I fancy. Have you seen her?”