De Medici nodded. He recalled there was to be an auction of the Ballau treasures. Money was needed to pay the dead man’s debts and provide his daughter with expenses. “Started yet?” he asked. “Yes.” Donovan’s eyes took in the vestibule. He came a step closer and added: “You know, Mr. De Medici, there’s been a lot of clews around here.” De Medici assumed an air of polite conspiratorial interest. “Yes,” went on Donovan, “and I didn’t tell all I knew to none of them, seeing it wasn’t anything that would help. But I’ll tell you, sir. Things weren’t all right in the Ballau apartment for some time. Many the time I’ve passed their door and heard screaming. A woman screaming and Mr. Ballau arguing with her....” The doorman straightened and resumed his doorman manner. A group of visitors to the auction had entered. “We’ll talk more about it later,” De Medici murmured and stepped toward the elevator. Voices came from behind the closed door of the Ballau apartment. De Medici pressed the bell and waited. The door opened slowly. A sound of chattering and laughter struck him. “Hello,” he bowed to the woman who had admitted him. Jane. He looked curiously at her. For a moment he had failed to recognize her. “In there, sir,” she said, indicating the crowded library. “Have they started yet, Jane?” “Yes, sir.” “And how have you been? I haven’t seen you since the inquest.” She shook her head. Tears lighted her haggard eyes. “They’re selling all his things,” she whispered; “all his nice things.” “Has Miss Ballau been here yet?” She stared at him. “Miss Ballau!” she repeated. “She ... she was arrested.” The old woman’s shoulders fell and tears rolled over her thin cheeks. “Miss Ballau was released last night,” De Medici said softly. “She’s quite all right now....” “Thank God!” Jane nodded. He walked toward the crowded room. He would talk to her later. Florence had induced her to perjure herself. He recalled Donovan ... a woman screaming and Ballau arguing with her. Yes, maybe Jane could help out.... In the library he took his place unobtrusively on the edge of the scene. His preoccupation filmed the excitement for him.... The visitor with the dagger. And, worse, her laugh as he lay presumably dying, stabbed to death.... Mania—no question of that. And Hugo had didactically pronounced her normal. He was thinking of Florence. His mind played deliberately with his emotions. “Florence, mad,” he stood thinking. “It’s interesting to think of someone I know and love being mad. It produces fear—delightful fear. Hm, love is the ornamental curtain behind which all the pathologies disport themselves clownishly.” He studied the scene. A throng of varied hats, chattering faces. The light was dim.