“The thing comes back,” he mused. “The creature in my bedroom, the creature that tried to murder me and that left a candle burning at my head and a crucifix on my chest, was not Florence. No, this creature was Julien De Medici. A crafty and insatiable maniac engaged in fooling himself. God, what a notion! Yet if there is another self to me, how easy and natural. This becomes almost too ludicrous to be mania. But why not? A heroic effort to establish an alibi in my own eyes. Rather clever, in a way. I see visions. I see the lady of the dagger. And I attack myself somewhat carefully but convincingly. And as a result I stand exonerated. It was not I who killed Ballau but this creature who tried the thing on me. Clever, yes. But twisted and absurd. But not if I am mad. That is, completely and intricately mad. Not if my sanity is a pose which I cunningly loan myself. But the letter from Rollo. Then I sent that to myself, too. Yet there was a postmark. Who saw the postmark? I or the doctor? I forget this point.” The smile on De Medici’s long face weakened. His thin fingers moved dreamily over his cheek. In the silence of the cab his musings resumed: “Then she knows it was I. And what she has done has been for my sake ... to protect me. There must be more to this than I have been able to remember. The night I called for her at the theater, the night it happened.... There must be innumerable things to remember. But I remember nothing. I can’t begin to understand, and I want to laugh. Yes, my reasoning arouses laughter in me. If I laugh it would mean, of course, that I am mad. Or, perhaps it would mean that I am sane. God knows! There is only one thing definite. Florence did not visit my room last night. Yes, and another thing. The phantoms still crawl around in me. My first emotion when I saw her at the train was again the sentence, ‘I am guilty.’ It sprang to life once more as it had the moment I leaned over the body....” The cab was stopping. De Medici sighed and opened the door. Furtively his eyes watched the half animate girl as Dr. Lytton helped her from the cab. She appeared indifferent to the situation. De Medici, overcome with anguish at the sight of her pallor and listlessness, took her hand and pressed its cold fingers. “Florence,” he whispered, “is there anything I can do?” Her dark eyes opened full on his face and an incredible intuition passed through him. She was acting! Her collapse, her manner, was entirely a pretense. Dr. Lytton returned from the chauffeur. “Come, hurry. We’ll have to take care of her first.” In the apartment the doctor became somewhat officious. He appeared to be treasuring dénouements, his manner toward De Medici growing condescending. De Medici, inwardly confused and victim again of the elaborate fears which had darkened his days since the murder of his friend, stood quietly against the wine-colored curtains and waited.