“Whatever he has found out,” he thought, “is valueless or at least of no value as a finale. For there is still the dagger lady who visited me last night to explain away.” He smiled cautiously, convinced anew that this creature was no more than a phantom evolved as an alibi by his own cunning madness. “Yet, I never felt more normal in my life,” he murmured to himself, “unless my madness or hallucinations are able to create a sense of normality in me. If I was mad last night, when the thing happened, then it is obvious that I am mad at this moment. For I am conscious of no different sense or state of mind. And it becomes obvious that I have been thoroughly mad ever since I can remember, and that what I consider my normality has been no more than a cunning pose with which I deceived myself.” Dr. Lytton turned to him. He had removed the girl’s wraps. “We will have to put her in bed,” he remarked. “She’s had a hard day.” De Medici nodded. His eyes avoided Florence now. The scientist spoke softly to the girl and, nodding her head listlessly, she arose. Dr. Lytton led her toward the bedroom. Left alone, De Medici stood contemplating the long folds of the curtains. He felt tired, and an inclination toward self-pity brought tears close to his eyes. “It would be easy to drop the whole thing and announce myself as mad,” he murmured, “easy and almost desirable. As it is—well, I’ll hear all about it in a few minutes. Florence, though ... she acts. Her manner is too perfect.... The Bandoux woman ... yes, what about her?...” He grinned vacuously. “I’ve given her some powders,” Dr. Lytton announced, reappearing. “I think she’ll be asleep soon. And, good Lord, she needs it!” “Yes,” De Medici answered, “she looks all done.” His attitude toward the scientist had become wary and amused. He had intended blurting out to the man the mystery of the night. Instead, he treasured the fact in silence. “If I announce that,” he thought, “he’ll at once suspect me. The phantom theory will occur to him. A ruse, an alibi.... Yes, he’s been suspicious of me from the first.” De Medici shuddered. Another idea had opened in his mind. He recalled his theorizings during the auction, his wrestling with the psychology of a criminal. Would a criminal return to the scene of his crime? Would the sense of insecurity lead him there, or the sense of morbidity? He remembered with a chill how cleverly he had debated the thing with himself, arguing the points pro and con. “Curious phenomenon,” he mused coolly, “it was I returning to the scene of my crime. And yet I seemed to be arguing aloofly....” Again the impulse to laugh seized him. The absurdity of his self-suspicion almost overcame him. He controlled his features and nodded calmly at his friend. “Go on,” he said. “What has happened?” Dr. Lytton had seated himself and lighted a cigar.